Detention, again.
The door shuts behind you with a dull click, the sound echoing just a little too loudly in the otherwise empty classroom. The torches along the stone walls burn low, casting long shadows across rows of unused desks. It smells faintly of ink and old parchment.
And, of course—he’s already here.
Malfoy sits near the front, sleeves rolled just enough to show ink smudged along his fingers, quill moving in smooth, precise strokes as he copies lines across a sheet of parchment. He doesn’t look up when you enter.
“Late,” he says flatly.
There’s no bite in it. Not really. Not like before.
You drop into the seat beside him anyway, dragging the chair just enough to make a point. “You’re early.”
“I prefer efficiency,” he replies, still not looking at you. “You should try it sometime.”
You roll your eyes, reaching for your own parchment. The familiar routine settles in—scratching quills, quiet sighs, the occasional muttered complaint when your hand cramps.
It wasn’t always like this.
The first few detentions had been unbearable—constant sniping, insults thrown back and forth like it was a competition neither of you intended to lose. He called you insufferable. You called him insufferable and spoiled. It escalated. It always did.
But somewhere along the way, it… shifted.
Now, the silence isn’t hostile.
Just… full.
Your quill catches suddenly, ink blotting across the page. “Great,” you mutter under your breath.
Before you can even reach for a spare, another quill slides into your field of vision.
You glance sideways.
Draco still hasn’t looked at you.
“…You press too hard,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “It ruins the tip.”
You take it, hesitating just a second. “…Thanks.”
He hums faintly—noncommittal—but doesn’t take it back.
Minutes pass. Maybe more.
At some point, you realize your lines have started to match his pace without thinking. That when you pause, he pauses too. That when you shift in your seat, he notices—just slightly, just enough.
It’s subtle.
Everything with him is.
The room feels quieter tonight.
He hasn’t made a single jab. Hasn’t muttered a single insult. It’s… off.
You glance at him again, properly this time.
His expression is focused, but not sharp like usual. There’s something else there—something more distant. Thoughtful, maybe. Or tired.
You don’t think. The question just slips out.
“…Why do you even talk to me?”
His quill stills.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
For a moment, you think he’s going to ignore you—brush it off with something cutting, something easy.
He doesn’t.
“…That’s a strange question,” he says quietly.
You shrug, trying to sound casual. “You don’t exactly like me.”
A pause.
Longer this time.
He sets the quill down.
Slowly.
Then, finally—he looks at you.
Not the quick, dismissive glances you’re used to. Not the sharp, assessing ones either.
This is different.
Steadier.
“…Because you don’t look at me like I’m already decided.”
The words land softer than you expect.
There’s no arrogance in them. No edge.
Just something honest. Careful.
Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
For once, he doesn’t look away immediately.
And the silence that follows feels… heavier than before.
Not uncomfortable.
Just real.
His gaze flickers briefly to your unfinished parchment, then back to your face.
“…Don’t let it go to your head,” he adds, quieter now, like he’s trying to take it back without actually taking it back.
But he doesn’t pick his quill up again.
He just sits there.
Waiting— not for a fight this time, but for you.