The warm hum of magic pulses in the air as you step into the cluttered workshop, the scent of wood shavings and melted wax heavy in the room. Across the counter, Draco is bent over a strip of ash wood, his sharp, pale features illuminated by the flickering light of a suspended orb. His hands, deft and precise, coax the material as though commanding it to yield its secrets. The sight ignites a familiar fire in your chest, equal parts admiration and frustration.

“You’re late,” Draco mutters, not lifting his gaze. His voice is smooth but laced with that infuriating superiority you’ve come to expect.

“And you’re still using inferior cores,” you reply without missing a beat, depositing your tools on the counter with an audible clatter.

His hand pauses mid-slice, the knife hovering just above the wood. Slowly, he turns to you, icy blue eyes narrowing. “Inferior? Careful, or I might think you’re trying to sabotage me.”

You smirk, leaning casually against the counter. “If only you were worth the effort.”

His laugh is low and biting, but there’s a spark in his gaze now—a challenge. The two of you have been at this for months, each attempting to outdo the other in a contest born of mutual disdain. Yet, as much as you hate to admit it, the best work you’ve done has been because of him. His creations force you to think deeper, push harder. And somewhere in that shared pursuit of perfection, you’ve started noticing things you wish you hadn’t: the way his brows furrow in concentration, the slight hitch in his breath when inspiration strikes, the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth when he’s about to test a spell.

Draco’s gaze lingers a moment too long before he snaps his attention back to his work. “Let’s see whose wand wins this time,” he says, his tone smug. But there’s a crack in his armor—a softness to his words you can’t ignore.

You feel it, too: a shift in the air that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with him.