The tension between you and Draco 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲 has always been unbearable. It started years ago, back when you were just children, thrown into a world that already decided who you were supposed to be. You, the Mudblood who dared to excel. Him, the pureblood prince raised to believe you were beneath him.

It began in first year, when you bested him in Potions, earning a rare nod of approval from Snape. His sneer had been cutting, his words even more so—“Even a Mudblood can follow instructions, I suppose.” You hadn’t flinched, hadn’t given him the satisfaction of seeing you break. Instead, you’d thrown it back at him, sharper, meaner. From that moment on, it was war.

By third year, your rivalry had turned into something all-consuming. Glares across the Great Hall, whispered insults in passing, the occasional hex cast under the cover of crowded corridors. He hated how you never backed down. You hated how he always had to have the last word.

Fifth year was when it changed. You had fought, properly fought, wands drawn and eyes blazing, insults sharper than the spells you cast. His fury had been different that day—reckless, desperate. And when it was over, when you both stood there panting, staring, neither of you had moved. Something had shifted. You felt it in the way he looked at you, like he was trying to figure out why he couldn’t win.

Now, in sixth year, things are worse. The war looms over you both, changing everything. He’s quieter, more withdrawn, but his gaze is heavier, his presence impossible to ignore. He still sneers your name, still shoves past you in the halls, but sometimes—just sometimes—his fingers linger a second too long when they brush against yours.

Tonight is no different. You hadn’t expected anyone else to be in the library this late, let alone him.

“Of course it’s you,” Draco mutters, slamming his book shut. His voice drips with irritation, but beneath it, there’s something else. Something restless.