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.

The grudging truce born in the dungeons did not extend to the Great Hall. For the last six years, Gareth had actively avoided looking toward the Gryffindor table, keeping his attention fixed on his fellow Slytherins. He told himself it was because he couldn’t stand the sight of her, sitting there amidst her loud, boorish housemates. But if he were honest, it was because the memory of standing beside her was constantly too distinct, even after six years of proximity. The scent of citrus, the heat of her arm against his, the unnerving competence in her dark eyes—it was a distraction he couldn’t afford. He was a Malfoy. He did not get distracted by muggle-borns, no matter how infuriatingly adept they were at brewing.

The tension broke during breakfast on Friday. Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head table, his voice magically amplified to fill the vast hall, silencing the chatter of hundreds of students.

“Ahem. Your attention, please,” the Headmaster began, his eyes twinkling. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the return of a beloved Hogwarts tradition. This year, we will be hosting the annual Hogwarts Duelling Tournament!”

A wave of excited murmurs swept through the hall. Gareth’s head snapped up, his breakfast forgotten. His fork clattered against his plate. This was it. This was the true test. Potions was a science, an art form, but duelling… duelling was about power. It was about instinct, nerve, and the will to dominate. It was the purest expression of magical strength.

“The tournament is open to all students from fourth year and above,” Dumbledore continued. “A sign-up sheet will be posted in the Entrance Hall. The first round will commence in two weeks’ time. May the most skilled witch or wizard win!”

As Dumbledore sat down, the hall erupted. Gareth felt a cold, sharp thrill cut through him. He could feel the eyes of his housemates on him. They expected him to enter. They expected him to win. It was his birthright. He would dismantle his opponents with cold, elegant precision, reminding everyone of the power inherent in his bloodline. He pushed his chair back, his movements sharp and decisive.

Across the hall, Maya felt a similar surge, but hers was a white-hot fire. She had spent her life proving herself, working twice as hard to master concepts that pure-bloods took for granted. She was not just a bookworm. She was not just ‘bright for a muggle-born’. She had power thrumming under her skin, a fierce, creative magic that was tired of being confined to essays and exams. The Duelling Tournament was a stage, and she intended to command it. She would show them all—the sneering Slytherins, the condescending pure-bloods, even the well-meaning Gryffindors who praised her diligence but underestimated her fire.

She stood, ignoring the excited chatter of her friends. Her gaze scanned the hall, sweeping past the other tables until it landed on the Slytherins. He was already on his feet, his silver-blond hair catching the light from the enchanted ceiling. For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the cavernous space. The air between them seemed to hum, charged with the same electrifying ambition. There was no animosity in the look, not this time. It was something clearer, sharper. It was a challenge.

Without a word, Gareth turned and strode out of the Great Hall, his black robes billowing behind him. A moment later, Maya followed.

The sign-up sheet was already tacked to the stone wall beside the main staircase, a long roll of fresh parchment with a quill and inkpot floating beside it. A small crowd was already gathering, but they parted instinctively as Gareth approached. He took the quill, the feather cool against his fingers, and wrote his name in a clean, sharp script. Gareth Malfoy. The letters were a declaration.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and knew, without turning, who it was. The scent of citrus and soap reached him again, a faint but unmistakable trace. He stepped back from the parchment, turning slowly.

Maya stood there, her chin high, her dark eyes fixed on the sheet. She didn't look at him. She simply took the quill from the air where he had left it. Her own signature was bold and decisive, the ink a stark black against the cream of the parchment. Maya Vance. Her name sat just below his, an immediate and direct answer to his challenge.

She finally lifted her gaze to meet his. The crowd around them seemed to fade away, the noise of the Entrance Hall reduced to a dull hum. There was only the space between them, thick with unspoken promises of hexes and shields, of a rivalry that had just found its perfect arena. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, a silent acknowledgment of the battle to come. She answered with the barest tilt of her head, her expression one of fierce, unyielding resolve. The fight was on.

The next week was a blur of frantic energy. Maya spent every spare moment in the library, her nose buried in books on duelling theory and defensive magic. She practiced wand movements until her wrist ached, whispering incantations in empty classrooms between lessons. Sleep became a luxury she couldn't afford; her mind was a constant whirl of strategy, a chess match of hexes and counter-curses played out against a faceless opponent who, in her mind's eye, always had silver-blond hair and a condescending smirk.

One night, long after the Gryffindor common room had fallen silent, she gave up on trying to sleep. The need to practice, to do something, was a physical itch under her skin. Throwing her robes on over her pajamas, she crept out from behind the Fat Lady's portrait, her wand clutched in her hand. The castle was quiet, the corridors cast in long, deep shadows broken by shafts of moonlight. She intended to find an unused classroom, but an unfamiliar restlessness pulled her toward the third floor, a section of the castle she rarely visited.

It was there she heard it—a sharp crack that echoed in the stone passage, followed by the hiss of a spell dissipating against a wall. It wasn't the sound of a simple disarming charm. It was something faster, meaner. Her curiosity overriding her caution, Maya moved silently toward the sound, her soft-soled slippers making no noise on the flagstones.

She found him at the end of a long, narrow corridor, a stretch of hallway flanked by dusty suits of armor. Gareth. He was illuminated by the stark white light of the moon pouring through a massive arched window. He wasn't just practicing; he was training with a frightening intensity. His body moved with a fluid, deadly grace that was nothing like the stiff posture he affected in class. A flick of his wrist, sharp and economical, sent a bolt of purple light slamming into the stone wall, leaving a blackened scorch mark. He didn’t speak a single word. It was all non-verbal, a display of control she knew was years beyond their curriculum.

Maya shrank back into the darkness of a doorway, her heart pounding. This wasn't the arrogant, sneering boy from Potions. This was someone else entirely. She watched as he cast a leg-locker curse, then a full body-bind, his movements precise, his concentration absolute. There was a desperation in his focus, a ferocious need to perfect every single motion. He was pushing himself to the very edge of his abilities. She recognized the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw, the sheer, unadulterated ambition burning in his eyes. It was the same fire she felt in her own gut, the same relentless drive that kept her awake at night.

He must have felt her gaze. He stopped mid-motion, his arm frozen in the air. For a second, he remained perfectly still, listening to the silence of the castle. Then he spun around, his wand leveled directly at the shadows where she stood. His eyes, pale grey in the moonlight, were cold and lethal.

"Who's there?" His voice was low, cutting through the quiet.

Maya knew she couldn't stay hidden. Taking a slow breath, she stepped out into the corridor, her hands held open and away from her body to show she meant no threat. She hadn’t even brought her wand.

His eyes narrowed when he saw it was her. His entire body went rigid, his wand arm tight with suspicion. She expected the usual sneer, the biting insult. Spying on me, Vance? Trying to steal my moves? But the words never came.

They simply stood there, twenty feet of stone floor separating them, the silence stretching into a tangible thing. He was breathing hard from the exertion, his chest rising and falling beneath his dark shirt. She could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. In the stark moonlight, stripped of their school robes and their public personas, they were just two people, awake in the dead of night, consumed by the same all-encompassing goal.

He was seeing it too. She could tell by the way the aggressive line of his shoulders softened almost imperceptibly. He saw the exhaustion under her eyes, the same sleepless intensity that he surely saw in his own reflection. He saw a rival. Not a mudblood, not a Gryffindor know-it-all, but a genuine threat. An equal.

The unspoken truth of it hung between them, more powerful than any hex he could cast. They were the same. This burning need to win, to prove themselves, it was a language they both understood perfectly, without needing to speak a word.

Maya gave a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture of pure acknowledgment. I see you.

His wand lowered a fraction of an inch. He didn't nod back, but the piercing hostility in his gaze faded, replaced by something more complex, something guarded and grudging. After another long, silent moment, Maya turned and walked away, the sound of her own footsteps unnaturally loud in the corridor. She didn't look back, but she could feel his eyes on her until she rounded the corner, the image of his solitary, moonlit practice seared into her mind.

The encounter left an odd residue in its wake. Their bickering in Potions class lessened, replaced by a tense, hyper-aware silence. They worked with an unnerving efficiency, their hands moving in sync to chop ingredients and stir cauldrons, their shoulders occasionally brushing with an effect like a static shock. The unspoken acknowledgment in the moonlit corridor had changed the rules of their rivalry, though neither of them knew what the new rules were.

It was two days later, as they were leaving Defense Against the Dark Arts, that their paths collided again. Maya was arguing with a fellow Gryffindor about the correct application of a shield charm, her hands gesturing emphatically as she walked. Gareth was a few paces ahead, walking alone as he often did, his posture rigid.

“It’s about intent, not just the incantation!” Maya insisted, taking a step backward for emphasis.

At that exact moment, two second-year Hufflepuffs who had been hiding in an alcove chose to spring their trap. A thin, shimmering thread had been strung across the corridor, intended for a group of older Slytherins who had been tormenting them. A tiny, enchanted bell tinkled as Maya’s foot snagged the tripwire.

A split second of chaos erupted. A jet of thick, goopy pink substance shot from a wand tip propped on a stack of books. Simultaneously, the heavy oak door of a long-forgotten classroom next to them flew open. Gareth, turning at the sound of the bell, was directly in the path of the open door. He sidestepped instinctively, his reflexes honed by hours of duelling practice, and collided squarely with Maya, who was stumbling backward from the tripwire.

The momentum sent them both staggering through the open doorway. Before either of them could regain their footing, the door slammed shut with a deafening BOOM that echoed like a thunderclap. A heavy, metallic clank followed it, the sound of a lock, magically and irrevocably, sliding into place.

They were plunged into near-total darkness. The only light was a single, dusty spear of afternoon sun cutting through a high, grimy window. It illuminated a blizzard of disturbed dust motes. The air was thick with the smell of decay and old parchment.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and loud in the enclosed space. Maya was pressed against Gareth’s chest, his hands having shot out to steady her, his fingers gripping her upper arms tightly. She could feel the hard muscle beneath his robes, the surprising warmth of his body. Her own hands were flat against his stomach, and she could feel the tension in his abdomen.

He let go of her as if her skin had burned him, taking a hasty step back and nearly tripping over a broken stool. "What in Salazar's name was that?" he demanded, his voice sharp with anger.

"Me?" Maya shot back, her own irritation flaring as she brushed dust from her robes. "You're the one who ran into me! Did you set this up?"

"Don't be a fool, Vance," he snapped, his silhouette a stiff, furious line against the dim light. "Why on earth would I want to be locked in a filthy broom cupboard with you?"

The insult was automatic, but it lacked its usual conviction. They both fell silent, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. They could hear the faint sound of panicked giggling and then the patter of running feet fading down the corridor. A stupid prank gone wrong.

Gareth moved to the door first, his hand closing around the cold, iron handle. He pulled. It didn’t budge. He rattled it fiercely, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Nothing. "It's sealed."

"Let me try," Maya said, pushing past him. The space was so cramped her shoulder brushed against his arm. She ignored the jolt that went through her and pointed her wand at the keyhole. "Alohomora!"

A faint blue spark fizzled and died. There wasn't even a click.

Gareth made a sound of impatient disgust. "Amateur. Move." He nudged her aside, his own wand tip glowing faintly. He muttered a series of complex unlocking charms, his voice a low, frustrated murmur. Each spell dissolved harmlessly against the ancient wood. Finally, he lowered his wand, striking the door with the side of his fist in a rare display of temper. "It's no use. It's been magically reinforced. We're trapped."

The finality of his words hung in the dusty air between them. Trapped. The room was barely larger than a storage closet, filled with leaning towers of old desks, broken quills, and forgotten, cobweb-draped artifacts. The floor space was minimal, forcing them to stand uncomfortably close. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The anger had evaporated, leaving behind a tense, awkward stillness. They were utterly alone, locked away from the rest of the castle, with nothing but the dust, the shadows, and each other.

“Well,” Maya said into the gloom, her voice startlingly clear. “This is a dignified turn of events.”

A beat of silence passed. She expected another sharp retort, but instead, the corner of Gareth’s mouth curved into a faint, humorless smile. It was a strange, unfamiliar sight on his face. “At least the company is so stimulating.”

The sarcasm was there, but it was dry, weary, not pointedly cruel. It was the kind of comment she might have made herself. A small, surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “I’m sure you’d rather be trapped with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Probably has better conversation.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, his pale eyes finding hers in the gloom. He leaned his shoulder against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture was defensive, but his anger seemed to have been replaced by a grudging resignation. “We’ll have to wait for a professor to do the rounds. Could be hours.”

“Wonderful,” Maya muttered. The single beam of light was beginning to fade as the sun sank lower, casting long, distorted shadows that made the junk-filled room feel even smaller. There was nowhere to sit except the dusty floor. With a sigh, she slid down the wall opposite him, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Gareth watched her for a moment before mirroring the action, settling against the door. The space was so narrow that their feet were only a few inches apart. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap underneath the layers of dust and decay. It was an intimate detail that felt jarringly out of place.

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the faint creaking of the old castle around them.

“Why were you practicing so late the other night?” The question left her mouth before she’d fully decided to ask it. It was too direct, too personal. She immediately braced for him to shut her down.

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor between them, his long fingers tracing patterns in the thick dust on the floorboards. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, devoid of its usual arrogance. “The same reason you were out of bed wandering the corridors, I imagine. Because second best isn’t an option.”

The simple, honest admission hung between them. It wasn't about her, or Gryffindor, or their rivalry. It was a statement of fact about himself.

“My family,” he continued, his voice hardening slightly, “doesn’t produce runners-up. There is an expectation of… excellence.” He said the word with a bitter twist, as if it tasted foul. “To be a Malfoy is to be seen as perfect. Anything less is a failure.”

Maya thought of her own parents, so proud and baffled by their magical daughter. The pressure she felt was entirely her own, a desperate need to prove she belonged in this world that was still so new to her. “I have to be twice as good,” she heard herself say, the words quiet in the small space. “To prove I’m not a mistake. That I deserve to be here as much as anyone else.”

He looked up, and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes that wasn’t disdain or competitive fire. It was a flicker of comprehension. He understood. He, the pure-blood prince of Slytherin, understood the weight of her Muggle-born insecurity.

“A ridiculous notion,” he said, his tone flat. “Your grasp of non-verbal spell-casting is… adequate. Better than most of the dunderheads in our year.”

It was the most grudging, backhanded compliment she had ever received, and yet it sent a strange warmth spreading through her chest. It was an acknowledgment from the one person whose opinion she had, against all logic, started to care about.

The last of the sunlight vanished from the high window, plunging them into near-complete darkness. They were just two silhouettes now, two disembodied voices in the dark, bound by a stupid prank and an ambition that was as much a part of them as their own blood. The silence returned, but it was different now. It wasn't empty or hostile. It was filled with the things they had just admitted, a shared secret that settled in the space between them, changing everything.

The week after being trapped in the storeroom was strange. A fragile, unspoken truce had settled between them. They still glared at each other across the Great Hall, and their bickering in Potions was as sharp as ever, but the venom was gone. It felt more like a habit than a genuine expression of dislike. Underneath the performance of their rivalry, something had shifted, tethering them together with the memory of whispered confessions in the dark.

The Duelling Tournament loomed, and Maya threw herself into preparation with a singular focus. It led her, inevitably, to the restricted section of the library late one Tuesday evening, a signed permission slip from Professor Flitwick clutched in her hand. The air here was different—colder, heavier, tasting of dust and powerful, sleeping magic. Chains rattled faintly as she passed the towering shelves, the books seeming to watch her with ancient, knowing spines.

She was searching for one text in particular, a notoriously difficult volume on counter-jinxes and shield variations: Quintessence: A Guide to Advanced Shield-Craft. After nearly twenty minutes of scanning titles in the dim wand-light, she finally saw it. Tucked away on a high shelf, its dark leather spine was unmarked but for a single, tarnished silver rune. It was perfect.

Standing on her toes, Maya stretched her arm up, her fingers just brushing against the rough, cool leather. As her fingertips made contact, another hand covered hers. It was larger, warmer, the fingers long and definite. She didn't need to look to know who it was. The clean, sharp scent of his soap and something else—something uniquely him, like crisp winter air—was unmistakable.

She snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned, her heart giving a sudden, hard thud against her ribs. Gareth Malfoy stood beside her, his expression a mask of cool indifference that didn’t quite reach his pale grey eyes. There was a flicker of surprise there, and something else she couldn’t name.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice a low hiss.

“Vance,” he returned, his voice an equally quiet murmur. His gaze dropped to the book, then back to her. He didn’t move away. Instead, he reached for it again.

Maya’s reflexes were faster. She shot her hand out, her palm slapping flat against the cover, claiming it. “I saw it first.”

His lips twisted into a faint, condescending smirk, but it was a half-hearted expression. “A convenient fabrication. I’ve been looking for this copy all evening.” His own hand closed over the spine, his fingers brushing against the side of hers. A jolt, small but potent, shot up her arm. The space between them, thick with the library’s oppressive silence, suddenly felt charged and impossibly small.

“Your need can’t possibly be greater than mine,” she whispered fiercely, trying to pull the heavy volume from the shelf. He resisted, his grip firm. They were locked in a silent, ridiculous tug-of-war.

“And why is that?” he challenged, leaning in slightly. His breath ghosted over her temple. “Because you have to be twice as good to prove you belong?”

The words, her words, thrown back at her in that low, mocking tone, struck her with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just an insult. It was intimate. He had taken the secret she’d offered in a moment of vulnerability and was now wielding it against her. Heat flooded her cheeks, a mix of anger and humiliation.

“And you need it because your family doesn’t produce runners-up?” she shot back, her voice trembling with quiet fury.

The smirk vanished from his face. His eyes darkened, the flicker of surprise replaced by something raw and unguarded. He looked, for a split second, completely exposed. “You know nothing about it,” he said, his voice dropping so low she could barely hear it.

“I know you’re a conceited toerag who thinks he’s entitled to everything he wants,” she hissed, giving the book a sharp yank.

“And you’re an insufferable Gryffindor know-it-all,” he countered, his knuckles white as he held fast. “But you’re not stupid. You know as well as I do that this book is the key to winning.”

A sharp, percussive CRACK echoed through the aisle, making them both flinch violently and spring apart. Madam Pince stood at the end of the row, her face a thunderous mask of outrage. Her skeletal hand was raised, having just rapped her wand against a metal shelf. Her eyes, magnified behind her spectacles, pinned them both with a glare so potent it felt like it could curdle milk. She said nothing, merely pointing a long, demanding finger toward the exit of the restricted section.

Frozen in place, caught in the act, they both looked down at the book still resting on the shelf between them, the object of a battle that had suddenly become about so much more than just a duelling tournament.

Gareth was the first to break the spell of Madam Pince’s fury. With a movement so smooth it was almost imperceptible, he took a half-step back, inclining his head in a gesture of reluctant concession that was clearly meant for the librarian and not for her. His eyes, however, stayed locked on Maya’s. Without a word, he reached up, plucked the heavy book from the shelf, and tucked it under his arm. He gave her a sharp, almost imperceptible nod toward the main reading room before turning and walking away, his back straight and his stride measured.

Maya’s mind raced. He wasn’t just taking it. The nod had been an invitation. A summons. A challenge. Gritting her teeth, she followed him out of the restricted section, the librarian’s suspicious gaze burning a hole in the back of her robes.

He had chosen a table in a remote, shadowed alcove, far from the few other late-night students. He set the book down in the center of the dark wood with a heavy, definitive thud. The sound was loud in the cavernous silence of the library. He pulled out a chair and sat, looking at her expectantly, one pale eyebrow raised. He didn’t have to say it. Well? Are you going to stand there all night?

With a sigh of deep annoyance, Maya sat in the chair beside him. Not opposite, but beside. It was the only way they could both read the text. The ancient book was immense, its pages wide and filled with dense, spidery script and intricate diagrams of wand movements. He opened it to the first chapter, and the space between them vanished.

To see the page, she had to lean in. Her shoulder pressed against his. His was solid and warm through the layers of their robes. The contact was electric, a low, steady hum that vibrated through her entire body. She tried to ignore it, to focus on the complex theory of deflective shielding, but the awareness of him was a physical presence, more real than the ink on the page.

She could feel the heat of his arm alongside hers, a stark contrast to the library’s chill. She could smell that clean, crisp scent again, now mixed with the faint, pleasant aroma of old parchment and leather. She found herself holding her breath, listening to the soft, even sound of his. He seemed entirely unaffected, his grey eyes scanning the text with intense concentration, his brow furrowed slightly.

An hour passed in near-total silence. The only sounds were the rustle of the page as one of them turned it, and their quiet, synchronized breathing. The tension was a living thing, coiling in the space between them. It was no longer about the duel or their rivalry. It was something else entirely, something raw and unnamed that had been building since that night in the storeroom. Her focus kept drifting from the diagrams of parries and ripostes to the line of his jaw, the way a lock of his pale blond hair fell across his forehead.

His hand rested on the table, just inches from hers. His fingers were long and elegant, tapping a silent, restless rhythm against the wood. She watched the movement from the corner of her eye, mesmerized. She imagined what it would feel like if his fingers were to close over hers. The thought sent a jolt of heat straight through her, sharp and startling. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, chastising herself. This was Malfoy. The arrogant, condescending Slytherin who had made her life miserable since their first day.

He shifted, and his thigh brushed against hers under the table. The contact was brief, but it seared through her robes. She flinched, pulling her leg away, and her knee bumped the table leg with a dull thud.

Gareth finally looked at her. His concentration was broken, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His gaze wasn’t mocking or cold. It was searching, intense, as if he was seeing her for the first time. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a fraction of a second too long, and then flicked back up to meet hers. The air grew thick, heavy. The entire world seemed to shrink to the few inches of space between their faces. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then, Madam Pince’s voice echoed through the library, magically amplified.

“The library is closing in five minutes.”

The spell was broken. Gareth looked away first, snapping his attention back to the book as if he’d been caught doing something forbidden. He cleared his throat and closed the heavy volume with a soft whoosh of air. The sudden loss of his warmth as he leaned back in his chair left her side feeling cold and strangely empty. He stood, not looking at her, and slid the book back onto the returns cart. Without a word or a backward glance, he turned and walked out of the library, leaving Maya sitting alone at the table, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was a blur. Maya’s mind wasn’t on the moving staircases or the talking portraits; it was replaying the last hour in the library. The solid warmth of Gareth’s shoulder pressed against hers, the scent of his skin, the intense, searching look in his eyes just before Madam Pince had shattered the moment. She felt restless, her thoughts a tangled mess of annoyance and a strange, fluttering excitement she refused to name.

Sleep, when she finally got to her dormitory, was impossible. Her stomach grumbled, a hollow ache that echoed the emptiness she felt after he’d walked away. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face in the dim library light. After an hour of tossing and turning, she gave up. The castle was silent, wrapped in the deep stillness of night. Throwing her cloak over her pajamas, she slipped out of the portrait hole and made her way down through the deserted corridors, her destination the kitchens.

The familiar path was second nature, her soft-soled slippers making no sound on the cold stone floors. She found the portrait of the fruit bowl and tickled the pear, a wide grin spreading across her face as it giggled and swung open to reveal the passage. The warmth and savory smells of the kitchens washed over her, a comforting wave after the chill of the castle. House-elves bustled about, preparing for the next day's breakfast, their large eyes blinking in surprise as she entered.

She was about to ask a nearby elf for some toast when a voice, low and familiar, cut through the quiet chatter. "Just some tea."

Maya froze. She knew that voice. She would know it anywhere. Her head snapped toward the sound, and her stomach did a complicated flip. There, leaning against one of the large wooden worktables, was Gareth Malfoy.

He looked nothing like the polished, arrogant boy from their classes. His pale hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. He had shed his Slytherin robes and was just in his white school shirt, the top button undone and his tie loosened. In the warm, flickering light of the kitchen hearth, she could see the dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes. He looked completely worn out.

His head came up as he sensed her presence, and his grey eyes met hers across the room. The surprise on his face was genuine, his carefully constructed mask gone. For a moment, he just stared, and she stared back, the bustling kitchen fading into the background.

“Vance,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual sneer. It was just a statement of fact.

“Malfoy,” she replied, her own voice softer than she intended. The fight had gone out of her. Seeing him like this, so unguarded and tired, extinguished the last embers of her anger from the library. He just looked… human.

A tiny house-elf with ears like bat wings and wearing a clean tea towel toddled up to her, wringing its hands. “Can Pippy be getting something for Miss?”

Maya’s gaze flickered from the elf back to Gareth. “Could I have some treacle tart, please, Pippy?” she asked, her stomach giving another hopeful rumble.

Gareth pushed himself off the table, his movements slow. He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. The space between them felt charged, but differently than before. It wasn’t the sharp crackle of rivalry; it was something quieter, more uncertain.

“Make that for two,” he said to the house-elf, his eyes never leaving Maya’s. Pippy squeaked in delight and scurried away toward the pantries. An awkward silence fell between them. Maya wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly very aware that she was in her pajamas under her cloak.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, breaking the quiet.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “My mind wouldn’t shut down. Kept replaying duelling sequences.” He gestured vaguely toward a small, round table set in a quiet corner near the fire. “We might as well sit.”

It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t quite a question, either. It was a simple, practical suggestion. Maya found herself nodding, her feet moving before her brain had fully processed the decision. She followed him to the table and sat down in one of the small wooden chairs. He took the one opposite her, the firelight casting dancing shadows across the sharp planes of his face, making him look older and far more serious than he ever did in the daylight.

Pippy returned moments later, levitating a tray that held a large slice of treacle tart, glistening under a dollop of cream, two forks, and two steaming mugs of tea. The house-elf set it carefully on the table between them and then vanished with a pop.

For a moment, they just looked at the tart, the silence stretching again. It was Gareth who broke it, picking up a fork and pushing the plate slightly toward the center of the table. "Help yourself," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the plate.

Maya took the other fork. The simple act of sharing food felt strangely intimate. She took a small bite. The tart was warm and sweet, a perfect comfort. She watched as Gareth ate his own portion, his movements precise and controlled, even when he was clearly exhausted. The silence felt different now, less tense and more thoughtful.

"Why are you pushing so hard for this tournament?" Maya asked quietly, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "You're already one of the best duellists in our year. What do you have to prove?"

Gareth paused, his fork hovering over the tart. He didn't look at her, but stared into the fire, his profile sharp and serious. The flames reflected in his grey eyes, making them glow like hot metal.

"It's not about proving anything to anyone here," he said, his voice low and tight. "It's for my father." He finally turned his head, and his gaze was so direct, so devoid of its usual arrogance, that it felt like a physical blow. "For people like my father, there is only winning. Coming in second is the same as losing. The Malfoy name… it comes with certain expectations. Anything less than first place is a failure. It’s a message to everyone that we are not what we once were."

He said it so plainly, with such a weight of finality, that Maya had no response. She had always seen his ambition as pure arrogance, a desire to lord his superiority over everyone else. She’d never considered it might be a cage. She saw him not as the preening Slytherin prince, but as a boy buckling under the weight of a crown he never asked for.

"I didn't know," she whispered.

He gave a slight, dismissive shrug, as if embarrassed by the admission. He turned his attention back to the tart, taking another bite. "Why would you?" He looked back at her, a flicker of the old challenge in his eyes, but it was tempered with genuine curiosity. "What about you? You fight like you've got something to prove, too. But it's not a name for you. What is it?"

It was her turn to look away, to feel the heat on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire. She traced the rim of her tea mug with her finger. "I just want to belong," she admitted, the words tasting strange and vulnerable on her tongue. "When you're muggle-born, you spend your whole life feeling like you're an imposter. Like you have to work twice as hard just to be considered half as good. Every A-plus, every successful spell, every duel I win… it feels like I'm carving out a place for myself here. Proving that I deserve to be in this world just as much as someone who was born into it."

She risked a glance at him. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. The judgment she expected to see in his eyes wasn't there. Instead, there was a quiet intensity, a look of profound understanding that startled her. He, the pure-blood prince, and she, the muggle-born upstart, were both trapped in cages of expectation, just of a different make.

"So we're not so different," he said, and it wasn't a question. "Both fighting to meet impossible standards."

"I suppose not," she said softly.

They finished the tart in a new kind of silence. The rivalry that had defined their every interaction felt distant and unimportant. Here, in the warm, quiet kitchen, they were just two tired students, stripped of their house colors and their public personas. When the plate was empty, Gareth stood.

"It's late," he said. "We should go before we fall asleep here."

Maya nodded, standing as well. They walked toward the portrait door together, the space between them comfortable, no longer charged with animosity. As he reached for the pear to tickle it, his hand brushed against hers. The contact was brief, a whisper of skin against skin, but it sent a shock straight up her arm. She pulled her hand back as if burned, her heart leaping into her throat.

Gareth froze, his fingers hovering over the painting. He looked at her, his eyes dark in the shadows, and for a breathless second, she thought he might say something—or do something. The air from the library was back, thick and heavy with unspoken words. Then he simply turned, tickled the pear, and held the door open for her, his face a perfect, unreadable mask once more.