It’s almost routine at this point.
The way your voices cut across the classroom, sharp and deliberate. The way heads turn when one of you speaks, already expecting the argument that follows. It starts small—some offhand remark, a correction, a pointed comment—and escalates like it always does.
Effortless.
Predictable.
Convincing.
“You’ve managed to get it wrong again,” Draco drawls from across the room, not even bothering to look up from his work. “Impressive, really.”
You don’t miss a beat. “I’d explain it to you, but I’m not sure you’d understand.”
A few snickers ripple through the class.
His eyes flick up then—cool, sharp, fixed on you. “Careful. You might start to sound confident.”
“And you might start to sound original.”
That earns a reaction. Subtle—but there.
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
To anyone else, it looks like irritation. Another petty exchange. Nothing more.
But there’s something underneath it. Always has been.
The tension lingers long after class ends. You can feel it as you pack your things, as students filter out, whispering, glancing back. You don’t rush. Neither does he.
You don’t need to look to know he’s still there.
You step into the corridor anyway, adjusting your bag, already preparing to leave it behind—
A hand catches your wrist.
Firm.
Certain.
You’re pulled just slightly off course, into a quieter stretch of hallway where the torches burn lower and footsteps don’t echo as loudly.
The grip loosens, but doesn’t disappear.
You turn.
Draco stands too close.
Closer than he ever allows in public.
His expression is controlled, but there’s something sharper beneath it—something that didn’t quite fade after the argument.
“You enjoy that, don’t you?” he says.
His voice is lower now. Not meant for anyone else.
You tilt your chin up, refusing to step back. “Enjoy what?”
“This.” His gaze flicks over your face, searching, assessing. “The constant back and forth. The little performances.”
There’s an edge to it—but not quite anger.
You scoff lightly. “Watching you lose control?”
The words land.
You see it—the flicker in his expression, brief but real. His jaw tightens again, more noticeably this time.
And then—
He steps closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that you feel it.
The shift in the air, the narrowing space, the way the rest of the corridor seems to fall away just slightly.
“…Only when it’s you.”
It’s quieter than you expect.
Not thrown like an insult.
Not deflected.
Said like something he didn’t plan to admit.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The silence isn’t empty—it hums, stretched thin with everything unsaid.
Your wrist is still in his hand.
He hasn’t let go.
His thumb shifts—barely, absentmindedly—like he’s only just realizing he’s still holding on.
But he doesn’t pull away.
His gaze drops for half a second, to where his hand meets your skin, then back up again.
Something in his expression changes.
Less guarded.
More dangerous.
“You’re different when no one’s watching,” he says, quieter now.
It’s not a question.
You raise a brow. “So are you.”
That almost earns a smirk—but it doesn’t quite make it.
Instead, his grip loosens, just enough that you could pull away.
If you wanted to.
“…And yet,” he murmurs, eyes still on yours, “you keep coming back.”
There’s something deliberate in the way he says it.
Like he’s testing you.
Waiting.
Not for an argument this time—
but for an answer.