Transfiguration had never felt this long.

Not because of Professor McGonagall’s pacing or her sharp voice that could slice through stone walls — no, that was normal. What wasn’t normal was the feeling of his knee brushing against hers again, under the desk, like it had done three times in the last ten minutes. And every time, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t move away.

He just kept pretending to take notes.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, quill barely scratching the parchment. Draco Malfoy, hair too perfect, tie slightly loosened in that way that always looked deliberate. His brows furrowed, feigning focus, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You narrowed your eyes. Smug bastard.

He’d been smug since the beginning of the year — since McGonagall, of all people, decided she’d had enough of talking during class and forced you, you of all people, to switch seats. Now, instead of sitting with Ron, whispering behind spellbooks and passing notes under desks, you were stuck beside Draco Malfoy. Slytherin’s golden boy. Your best friend’s worst enemy.

At first it was hell.

He’d called you “Potter’s shadow,” and you’d called him “Princess.” He’d made some stupid joke about Gryffindors being loud and full of themselves, and you might’ve “accidentally” Vanished his textbook when he wasn’t looking.

But then…

Then it changed.

It was somewhere around the third week. When he slid you a spare quill without looking at you. When your knees touched and neither of you moved. When he whispered something that actually made you laugh under your breath — a real laugh.

After that, it got strange.

The teasing dulled into softer glances. The casual shoulder bumps turned into the quietest kind of leaning. One day you reached to adjust your sleeve and your fingers brushed his hand — and he didn’t pull away. And you didn’t either.

Now, in October’s soft, golden afternoon light filtering through the tall classroom windows, you were practically holding hands under the desk. Not really — not officially — but your pinky finger rested against his. He was not moving it.

This was not supposed to happen.

You were Gryffindor. Harry’s best friend. You had hated him since first year. He was arrogant, mean, snide, too sharp for his own good.

But also clever. And charming, when he wanted to be. And stupidly, maddeningly attractive when he leaned in to mutter something sarcastic against your ear.

You felt the softest pressure — his pinky finger curled just slightly over yours.

Your heart stuttered.

This was absolutely, completely insane.