I AM GOING TO KILL GOYLE.

Why, you might ask. Why, let me explain—I’m glued to her. Her. {{user}}.

Literally, hands glued, fingers locked, all because of Goyle, the fucking giant of a moron with a brain the size not even competing with the size of his bollocks, cast the wrong spell.

The bastard was supposed to lift me into the air via Ascendio when we were revising for the O.W.L.s earlier. But instead? He misread it to Adhaesio, I stumbled back as it hit me square in the chest, and bumped into a scowling and cursing {{user}} who was passing by behind me.

Now, see, this is inconvenient because, one, she hates me, and two, I hate her.

Well. Mostly.

“Malfoy,” she snaps, yanking at our joined hands. “What the hell did you do?”

I grit my teeth. “Me? You think I would willingly attach myself to you?”

Her glare sharpens, grey eyes meeting hers like steel striking flint. “Then who?”

“Goyle,” I hiss, shooting the idiot a murderous look. He’s standing there red-faced, scratching his head like a confused troll. “Congratulations, you’ve just ruined my life more thoroughly than Potter ever managed.”

{{user}} gives an exaggerated sigh and tugs again at our hands. The movement drags me a step closer, and suddenly her shoulder brushes mine. Too close. Much too close.

“Ugh—don’t get any ideas,” she mutters.

I arch a brow, smirking despite myself. “Trust me, I’d sooner glue myself to a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

“Funny,” she bites back, “that’s exactly what I was going to say about you.”

The smirk falters when she pulls again and our fingers—traitorous, cursed, glued—curl tighter together. My palm is hot against hers. She notices. Of course she notices.

Her eyes flick to mine, fire sparking there. “So what now, genius? We can’t exactly go marching to Snape like this.”

“I can’t decide what’s worse,” I mutter. “Being stuck to you for Merlin knows how long, or letting people think I’d actually settle for someone like you.”

“Your pride is exhausting,” she says flatly.

“And your voice is,” I shoot back, but there’s less venom in it than there should be.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The common room is quiet except for our breathing, quicker than normal. She’s close enough now that I catch the faintest trace of her perfume, something warm and sharp all at once, and it makes my stomach twist in ways I refuse to analyse.

She softens first, her lips quirking into the tiniest smirk. “Admit it, Malfoy. You’ve wanted to hold my hand for years. Finally worked up the courage.”

I scoff, trying to summon the usual sharpness, but it comes out lower, rougher. “You’re so full of yourself.”