My Slytherin Rival Kissed Me in the Middle of the Duelling Arena

The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express was a familiar, soothing sound to Gareth. He sat with his back straight, the plush velvet of the seat a comfortable luxury. His robes, a deep, forest green with silver trim he’d had specially tailored, were immaculate. Outside, the Scottish countryside blurred into a watercolor of greens and grays. He’d secured the compartment for himself, a small assertion of will that had been surprisingly easy. A simple, pointed stare had been enough to send a gaggle of chattering second-years scurrying further down the corridor. Now, he had peace.

He was tracing the crest on his signet ring when the compartment door slid open with a jarring scrape. A girl stood there, her trunk bumping against the doorframe. Her hair was a wild cloud of brown curls, hastily pulled back but already escaping in defiant tendrils around her face. Her robes were stark black, new and stiff, and her eyes—a sharp, intelligent brown—scanned the compartment with an unapologetic intensity.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice clear and without the slightest hint of deference.

Gareth let his gaze travel from her slightly scuffed shoes up to her determined face. He didn’t recognize her from any of the pure-blood family gatherings. A transfer? Unlikely. A mudblood, then. The thought soured his mood instantly.

“It is now, apparently,” he said, his tone clipped and cold. He made no move to help with her trunk, instead watching as she wrestled it onto the overhead rack with a grunt of effort.

She dusted her hands off and sat down opposite him, her back just as straight as his, her chin held high. She met his disdainful look with one of her own, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. “The rest of the train is full.”

“A pity,” Gareth murmured, turning his attention pointedly back to the window. He could feel her watching him. He could almost hear the whirring of her brain, cataloging him, judging him. It was an irritatingly Gryffindorish quality.

“I’m Maya,” she said, breaking the silence he had so carefully cultivated. It wasn’t an introduction; it was a statement of fact, a claim to her space in his compartment, in this world.

He didn’t grace her with a response, merely angled himself further towards the glass. The silence stretched again, heavier this time, thick with unspoken animosity. He was Gareth Malfoy, and he did not make idle chit-chat with muggle-borns on the train. It was a matter of principle.

Maya, for her part, seemed to take his silence as a victory. A small, knowing smirk touched her lips before she pulled a thick, well-worn book from her bag—Advanced Potion-Making. She opened it, and the crisp sound of the page turning was the only noise in the compartment for the next hour. Gareth found his eyes drifting from the rolling hills to the intense focus on her face, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. It was aggravating. It was… distracting. The air between them crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the train’s motion, a silent declaration of war before they even knew which banners they would be fighting under.

The Great Hall was an overwhelming spectacle of light and sound. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air below an enchanted ceiling that perfectly mirrored the star-dusted night sky outside. Four long tables, already crowded with students, buzzed with anticipation. Gareth stood among the other first-years, a head taller than most, his posture radiating an unshakeable confidence. He scanned the sea of faces at the Slytherin table, noting the familiar features of children from families his own had associated with for centuries. He belonged there. It was a foregone conclusion.

When his name was called—"Malfoy, Gareth"—a ripple of whispers followed him to the front. He settled onto the three-legged stool with practiced ease, barely registering the frayed brim of the Sorting Hat as it was lowered onto his head. It had barely grazed his hair when a voice, ancient and clear, echoed through the hall.

"SLYTHERIN!"

A roar of approval erupted from the table draped in green and silver. Gareth slid off the stool, a faint, self-satisfied smirk on his lips. He gave a curt nod to Professor McGonagall and strode toward his table, the applause of his new housemates washing over him. He took a seat next to another pure-blood he knew vaguely, ignoring the back-pats and handshakes. His gaze swept over the remaining first-years, a huddle of nervous anticipation. He found her almost immediately. Maya. She stood with her chin up, her expression unreadable as she watched the proceedings.

Names were called, students sorted. A Weasley to Gryffindor, predictable. A Finch-Fletchley to Hufflepuff. Then, "Vance, Maya."

A hush fell over her small section of the group. Gareth watched, a flicker of cruel amusement in his chest, as she walked to the stool. She moved with a purpose that belied any nervousness she might be feeling. She sat, and the Sorting Hat fell over her eyes, obscuring her face completely. For a long moment, there was only silence. Gareth leaned forward slightly. The Hat was taking its time with the mudblood. He could see the fabric twitching, as if in deep conversation. He imagined her pleading with it, trying to will her way into Ravenclaw, the typical house for clever bookworms who didn't belong anywhere else.

Then the Hat bellowed, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The table adorned in scarlet and gold exploded with cheers, louder and more boisterous than the Slytherin welcome had been. Maya pulled the Hat off, her face flushed with victory. A wide, genuine smile broke across her features as she handed it back to the professor. As she turned to join her new house, her eyes swept the Great Hall, a triumphant glint in them.

And then they found his.

Across the vast, candlelit space, their gazes locked. Gareth’s smirk had vanished, replaced by a cool, appraising stare. Her smile didn't falter, but it changed. The warmth vanished, replaced by something sharper, something that mirrored the challenge in his own eyes. It was not a look of hatred, not yet. It was an acknowledgment. A line had been drawn. The silent war declared in the confines of the train compartment now had its banners, its colors, its armies. He was Slytherin. She was Gryffindor. And in that one, charged look, they both understood that this was only the beginning.

The dungeons were as cold and damp as Gareth had expected. The air in the Potions classroom was thick with the lingering scent of bitter herbs and something metallic, a smell that clung to the back of the throat. Stone walls wept with condensation, and the low, arched ceiling made the room feel oppressive. He chose a workstation near the back with another Slytherin, setting his bag down with a definitive thud. The Gryffindors filed in moments later, loud and obnoxiously cheerful, their red-trimmed robes a jarring splash of color in the gloom. He saw Maya among them, her head bent in conversation with a red-haired Weasley. She didn’t look his way.

Professor Slughorn bustled in, his considerable stomach preceding him. He was all smiles and bonhomie, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed his new crop of students. “Welcome, welcome! To the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, his voice booming slightly in the stone chamber.

Gareth tuned most of it out. He’d read the textbook cover to cover over the summer. He knew the theory. He was here for the practice, to prove that his aptitude was not just theoretical.

“…and to foster a bit of inter-house unity, so prized by our Headmaster,” Slughorn was saying, clapping his hands together. “I shall be assigning you all partners for the term! No, no, don’t groan. A little collaboration is good for the soul! When I call your name, please find your new partner and a new workbench.”

A low murmur of discontent filled the room. Gareth felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. He had no interest in ‘inter-house unity’. He glanced at his Slytherin table-mate, assuming they’d be allowed to remain.

Slughorn began reading from a roll of parchment. “Abbott and Boot… Crabbe and Finnigan…” He droned on, pairing students from different houses with what seemed like gleeful abandon. Gareth waited, his posture rigid.

“Malfoy and Vance.”

The names hung in the damp air. For a moment, Gareth was certain he had misheard. He looked up, his grey eyes locking onto Slughorn, who simply beamed at him before moving on to the next pair. He felt a slow, cold burn of anger start in his chest. Across the room, he saw Maya’s head snap up. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated disbelief, which quickly hardened into grim resignation.

“Well, off you go, you two!” Slughorn prompted, gesturing towards an empty table in the center of the room.

Moving felt like wading through mud. Gareth pushed himself away from his table, grabbing his bag with a sharp, jerky motion. Maya met him halfway, their paths converging at the designated workstation. The table was smaller than the others, a cramped slab of stone scarred with old knife marks and potion stains. They stood on opposite sides, the heavy iron cauldron between them like a barricade.

“I’ll take this side,” he stated, his voice low and clipped. He placed his bag on the bench, claiming the right half of the table as his own.

Maya said nothing. She simply mirrored his actions, setting her own bag down on the left. The space was tight. When she reached for the box of ingredients on the shelf behind them, her arm brushed against his. Gareth flinched back as if he’d been burned. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of his sleeve, a fleeting contact that sent an unwelcome jolt through him. He smelled her soap, something clean and simple, like citrus and rain. It was infuriating.

They set up their equipment in a tense, pointed silence. The clink of glass vials and the thud of knives on the wooden cutting board were the only sounds they made. Every movement was precise, economical, a silent contest of efficiency. When their hands brushed again as they both reached for the same silver knife, their fingers tangled for a fraction of a second. Maya pulled her hand back, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table. Gareth’s jaw was set so tight it ached. He could feel the heat rising in his face, a mixture of anger and something else, something he refused to name. They stood side-by-side, staring straight ahead at the blackboard as Slughorn began writing out the instructions for their first potion, the air between them thick enough to cut with one of their shared knives.

The potion was the Draught of Living Death. Gareth felt a cruel smile touch his lips. Slughorn was starting with one of the most complex potions in the sixth-year curriculum. Excellent. He would prove his superiority from the very first lesson.

“I’ll handle the Valerian roots,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled the cutting board closer to his side of the table.

“Fine,” Maya clipped out. “But you’re slicing them too thick. You’ll bruise the fibers.”

Gareth paused, his knife hovering over the gnarled root. “The instructions say to chop them. It doesn’t specify the thickness.”

“And a good potioneer knows how to interpret instructions,” she shot back in a fierce whisper. “You need to release the soporific oils slowly. Slice them thin. It’s more effective.”

He wanted to argue, to tell her that as a Malfoy, his instincts were inherently superior to those of some muggle-born who’d probably just memorized the textbook. But he couldn’t deny the logic in her words. With a low sound of irritation, he adjusted his grip and began to slice the root into nearly translucent slivers. The precision of his knife work was something he prided himself on; each piece was identical, perfect. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching his hands, her expression unreadable.

Their silent battle continued with the Sopophorous bean. The textbook clearly stated to cut it. Gareth reached for the silver knife again, but Maya’s hand shot out, covering the bean. “Don’t,” she said, her voice firm. “You have to crush it with the flat of the blade. It’s the only way to release all the juice.”

“The book—” he started, his voice tight with anger.

“The book is wrong,” she interrupted. “Trust me.”

He stared at her, at the absolute certainty in her dark eyes. He hated it. He hated her for being right, because he knew, deep down, that she was. He had read a footnote about this very thing in a supplementary text. Relinquishing the knife felt like a surrender. He slid it across the table toward her. She didn’t gloat. She simply took the blade, turned it on its side, and pressed down firmly on the shimmering bean. A wealth of silvery liquid, far more than a simple cut would have yielded, pooled on the board.

They fell into a tense, charged rhythm. The space was too small, their proximity unavoidable. When he leaned forward to stir the cauldron—seven times, counter-clockwise—his shoulder pressed against hers. She didn’t pull away, her body held rigid as she focused on measuring powdered root of asphodel. He could feel the warmth of her through their robes, a solid, living presence that was both a distraction and a strange anchor in the bubbling chaos of the potion.

Their bickering had ceased, replaced by a clipped, functional shorthand. “Heat,” he would command, and her hand would already be on the dial. “Infusion of wormwood,” she’d state, and he would pass her the vial without a word. They moved around each other with an efficiency born of necessity, their hands brushing as they reached for ingredients, their bodies twisting to avoid collision in a way that felt less like an argument and more like a dance. He found himself watching the steady, competent movements of her hands, the way she added ingredients with an unerring sense of timing that couldn't be taught from a book.

The potion began to change, shifting from a smooth black to a deep indigo, and finally, to the pale, perfect lilac that signified success. A plume of light violet steam curled up from the surface. It was flawless.

“Oh, my stars!” Slughorn’s voice boomed from behind them, making them both jump. He peered into their cauldron, his eyes wide with delight. “Magnificent! Simply magnificent! A perfect Draught of Living Death on the first attempt! I knew you two would make a brilliant team!” He beamed, oblivious to the rigid tension between them. “Ten points to Slytherin! And ten to Gryffindor!”

He bustled away to inspect a potion that was smoking an alarming shade of green. Gareth and Maya stood over their cauldron, the quiet bubbling of their success filling the silence. He looked from the shimmering lilac liquid to her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the steam, and a stray curl had escaped her tightly bound hair. She was looking at him, and the open hostility was gone from her eyes. In its place was something else, something that mirrored the grudging acknowledgment he felt taking root in his own chest. He was an arrogant prick, yes, but he was a damn good potioneer. And she… she was more than just an insufferable know-it-all. She was brilliant. And that, Gareth realized with a jolt, was far more dangerous.