The air in the Potions classroom is thick with steam, sarcasm, and the faint smell of burnt lavender.

You sit with perfect posture, ink-stained fingers scribbling instructions faster than most of the dunderheads around you can even read them. Top of the class, of course. It’s expected—you’re Professor Snape’s daughter, after all.

And then, of course, he shows up.

Draco Malfoy.

With his ridiculous platinum hair, his arrogant smirk, and that maddening habit of leaning too close when you’re trying to concentrate.

“You know,” he drawls, his breath brushing your cheek, “for someone with such delicate handwriting, you stir like a troll.”

You don’t even look at him. “You know,” you reply flatly, “for someone who thinks he’s clever, you’re awfully loud for a mosquito.”

“Oh, come on, Snapelet,” he says, using that nickname you hate, “just admit it—you like having me around.”

You turn your head slowly to glare at him. “I’d rather be partnered with a flobberworm.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in fake pain. “You wound me.”

You can feel your lip twitch, but you press it down. That’s what he wants—your reaction. He lives for it. For weeks now, he’s been doing this: stealing your notes, smirking when you’re annoyed, bumping your foot under the table like it’s a game. It’s infuriating.

Today, you’re not in the mood.

“Draco,” you snap, “if you touch one more ingredient on my side of the table—”

He grins, tilting his head. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll hex your smug little face.”

“Feisty.”

And that’s the final straw.

You shove back your chair, standing up so fast the legs screech across the stone floor. “I’m done partnering with you. I swear to Merlin, if you breathe in my direction again—”

Before you can finish, his hand grabs your wrist and pulls you off balance—and straight into his lap.