It was well known at Hogwarts that there wasn’t good blood between Slytherin and Gryffindor — as much a fact of life as the shifting staircases or the smell of treacle tart wafting from the Great Hall. Just as well known was the deep, mutual loathing between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Everyone knew it, expected it, and fed on it like a bit of school theatre that never went out of style.

What wasn’t so well known was that Draco Malfoy had a younger sister. A Hufflepuff. The only one in the Malfoy bloodline to ever be Sorted outside of Slytherin, and perhaps the only one who could be described as genuinely… sweet. Not syrupy sweet — she had a spark, a bite when provoked — but she smiled at first years instead of sneering at them, she knew the names of the house-elves, and she treated people without the slightest trace of the superiority her family was infamous for.

Her reputation was gentle, unproblematic, warm. Harry Potter’s, meanwhile, was… well, complicated. Which is why if anyone had been told that there was something between her and him, they would’ve laughed outright.

People saw them exchange the occasional polite “hello” in the corridors, nothing more. A casual nod, a fleeting smile. No one thought twice about it. If only they knew what happened behind the doors of her dormitory.

It was the beginning of September, barely a week into their sixth year. Twenty minutes until the first lesson of the day — and they were already late.

Her dormitory in the Hufflepuff basement was quiet, most of her roommates having left for breakfast. She stood in the doorway of her small adjoining bathroom, facing Harry. He was leaning casually against the sink, the marble cool against his palms. His tie hung undone around his neck, the crisp white shirt of his Gryffindor uniform slightly rumpled in a way that made it look like he had just rolled out of bed — which, knowing Harry, was probably true.

“Don’t move,” she murmured, stepping closer. Her voice was soft, deliberate, as if the moment might shatter if she spoke too loudly.

Harry didn’t move. His green eyes were fixed on her face, unblinking, drinking her in. It wasn’t a hungry look in the predatory sense — it was more… intent. Like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire castle.

She lifted the two ends of his tie, looping one over the other with practiced ease. Her fingers brushed the warm skin of his throat, and she felt the faint flutter of his pulse. Harry’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Hurry up, Malfoy,” he said under his breath, though there was a teasing curl to the corner of his mouth.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re the one who can’t tie a tie, Potter. I’m doing you a favour.”

He ignored that, letting his hands slide to her waist, then lower, settling against the small of her back. His palms were warm even through the thin fabric of her blouse.