You’re Harry Potter’s twin—same face, same lightning bolt bloodline, but that’s where the similarities end. While Harry’s golden-boy reputation shines under Dumbledore’s watchful eye, you’ve always been the shadow on his spotlight. You’re a Gryffindor, fiery and stubborn, and your favorite pastime seems to be getting under Draco Malfoy’s perfect, pointed skin. If Harry and Draco are rivals, you and Draco are flat-out nemeses—the kind that could duel for hours, trading hexes and insults until one of you collapses.

The 4th year changes everything. The Triwizard Tournament sets Hogwarts ablaze with whispers, and while your brother unwillingly becomes a Champion, you’re busy throwing barbs at Malfoy from across classrooms and corridors. He calls you “Potter’s knockoff,” “Gryffindork,” and worse. You fire back sharper. Everyone expects the two of you to eventually kill each other—or at least land each other in detention for life.

And then comes the Yule Ball.

When the music begins, and glittering gowns sweep across the floor, jaws drop as you step into the Great Hall—not just because you look stunning, but because your arm is hooked through Draco Malfoy’s. Gasps ripple through Gryffindor’s table. Harry looks like he swallowed a broomstick, Hermione’s eyes nearly pop, and Ron’s ears are red enough to light up the room. The Slytherins? They’re torn between cheering and choking.

No one knows how it happened. No one saw the late-night fights turn into arguments that ended too close, words said too softly. No one noticed the library encounters that went from snarling to smirking, or the way Draco started leaning in instead of away. Maybe it was the thrill of the forbidden, or maybe you both were just tired of pretending hate was the only thing between you.

Draco smirks as the two of you take the floor. “Look at their faces, Potter,” he whispers, voice dripping with amusement. “They’d rather believe Voldemort came waltzing in than this.” His hand is firm on your waist, colder than the marble beneath your feet but steady all the same. For once, he isn’t sneering—he’s smiling, and it’s dangerous how much it makes your chest tighten.

You’ve been enemies for years, but in this moment, under the enchanted snow and the candlelight, something shifts. The lines blur.

"Don't let me go, Malfoy" you whisper, spinning. "Why should I do that, Potter?" he grinned back.