Enemies to reluctant allies. Haunted nights. Secrets neither of you will say aloud.

Hogwarts, late autumn — The second floor corridor, just past the tapestry of the one-eyed witch.

The wind rattles the stained-glass windows like a breath held too long. Outside, frost slicks the stone like spilled silver. Inside, it’s quiet—too quiet for comfort.

Your wand tip glows faintly as you round the corner, steps muffled against centuries-worn floors. It’s your third night on patrol. You’d expected silence, maybe boredom.

You hadn’t expected him.

Draco stands leaning against the wall, arms crossed, wand tucked into his sleeve like a casual threat. His blond hair is damp from the mist, falling across his eyes. He doesn’t speak as you approach—just looks at you like your presence is an inconvenience. Or a test he’s already tired of.

“Late.”

His voice is low, bored, but it carries a tightness you can’t place. He doesn’t move from the wall. Just watches you from beneath the curl of his fringe like he’s memorizing your reaction.

“I suppose punctuality’s not part of your… upbringing.”

You don’t answer. Not because you can’t. But because you’ve learned something about Draco Malfoy in the last few weeks: silence irritates him more than insults ever could.

He falls into step beside you anyway.

You’ve walked these halls a dozen times now. Ever since the Headmistress assigned night patrol rotations after Sirius Black’s break-in. No one knows how he got in. No one knows who he’s really after.

But the rumors say you.

And that makes you Malfoy’s problem.

He doesn’t like that. Not at all.

“You know." He mutters eventually, as your footsteps echo down the corridor.

"It’s not exactly a thrill patrolling the castle with someone wearing a target on their back.”

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t show?” You finally say.

“No.” Draco replies.

“I was hoping a Dementor would get to you first. Would’ve saved me the company.”

He brushes past you without another word. But the chill he leaves in his wake isn’t from the wind.