Transfiguration class is dragging. The chalk scratches across the board, Professor McGonagall’s voice crisp and commanding as she explains the intricacies of object-to-animal transformations. Students scribble notes, wands at the ready. But Draco Malfoy is somewhere else entirely.

He’s slouched at the back of the classroom, elbow propped on the desk, chin resting on his hand. His parchment is blank—at least in terms of transfiguration theory. Instead, his fingers move with quiet precision, sketching lines that curve and sharpen with startling clarity. He’s drawing the trio seated a few rows ahead: Potter, Granger, and Weasley.

Harry’s furrowed brow, Hermione’s focused expression, Ron’s distracted glance toward the window—it’s all captured in graphite, each detail rendered with uncanny realism. Draco doesn’t even seem aware of how long he’s been at it. The classroom fades around him. He’s locked in, pencil gliding like a wand casting something far more personal than magic.

“Malfoy!” McGonagall’s voice cuts through the room like a whip.

No response.

She strides toward him, lips pursed, ready to reprimand him for his lack of attention. But as she reaches his desk and glances down, her expression shifts. The irritation drains from her face, replaced by something quieter—astonishment.

The drawing is breathtaking. It looks like a photograph, frozen mid-moment. The shading, the emotion, the precision—it’s not just skill. It’s artistry.

Draco finally looks up, startled. He realizes she’s standing there, staring at his work. His usual smirk falters, replaced by something more guarded. Vulnerable.