You slapped him so hard his head snapped to the side, his cheek already stinging, burning, skin lit with heat and humiliation. The sound cracked through the Great Hall like a whip, slicing clean through the hum of chatter, laughter, and clinking silverware. Silence followed—sharp, frozen. Even the ceiling above had paused, the floating candles casting long, flickering shadows across his face as he slowly turned his head back toward you.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared. A single curl of hair had fallen into his eye. He didn’t move it.

“You really are a fucking Malfoy,” he said finally, voice low and venomous, mouth twisted into something halfway between a sneer and a smirk. “Raised on theatrics and delusion.”

He pushed back from the bench, stood slow. Deliberate. The scrape of the wood against the stone floor felt surgical, a prelude to something that would leave a mark.

“And you think you’re the one hurt?” he said, eyes glittering now, jaw clenched tight. “Cazzo. You have no fucking idea what hurt is. You walk around this castle like you’re untouchable—Draco’s little sister, everyone’s precious darling. But underneath all that polish and pout, you’re just… disappointing.”

He stepped forward, enough that his shadow cut into yours. His voice dipped quieter now, more dangerous.

“That’s the worst part, isn’t it? You weren’t even born to be interesting. Just another name with no substance. A Malfoy with muddy hair.”

He saw it in you—that. The flicker. The sharp inhale. The betrayal you tried so hard not to show. He’d found the target, right between the ribs. He twisted.

“You think your insults are clever, cara mia?” The words were a hiss now, Italian spilling out like poison. “Tu parli tanto, ma non dici un cazzo. You talk so fucking much, but you say nothing. You’re a loudmouth with soft hands and no bite.”

He leaned closer, just slightly, voice velvet-wrapped venom now, “I’ve hated you for five bloody years. Every time you walk into a room, you bring the temperature down by ten degrees and make everyone a little stupider. You’re a parasite. You drain the oxygen.”

He tilted his head, grey eyes scanning yours like they were just another puzzle to break.

“And yet… I can’t fucking breathe unless you’re in the room.” That part hadn’t meant to come out. But it had. And his rage was starting to fray, unraveling at the edges.

He ran a hand through his hair, sharp and frustrated, pulling at the strands until his scalp burned.

“Merda,” he breathed, in a way that wasn’t quite directed at you anymore. The heat on his cheek was still there. Your handprint, branding him.

He didn’t apologize.He didn’t leave. He just stood there—jaw tight, breathing shallow, every nerve alight, knowing he’d drawn blood somewhere far deeper than skin.