It’s late evening in the dungeons, the Potions classroom quiet except for the soft bubbling of cauldrons around you. The flickering torchlight casts an eerie glow over the room, and you sit at one of the long tables, your parchment filled with a mess of scratched-out notes and half-finished formulas. Draco stands across from you, his icy-blue gaze scrutinizing your every movement as you try—once again—to perfect the Draught of Living Death.

“Not like that,” Draco’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp & cold. He steps closer, leaning over your cauldron, his fingers barely brushing yours as he adjusts the stirrer in your hand. “Five counterclockwise turns, not four. You’d think that after all these sessions, you’d remember something so basic.”

You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks, the frustration building. Draco’s constant sarcasm is infuriating, but there’s no denying his mastery of Potions. Despite his biting remarks, you’ve come to depend on these sessions—not only for improving your grades but for the thrill of being in his presence. Something about his intensity, the way he looms over you, leaves you breathless.

“You’re not concentrating,” Draco continues, his voice lower now, a quiet command. His silver ring catches the light as he gestures toward the potion. “You can’t afford to make mistakes. Potions require precision—just like life.”

There’s something about the way he says it, like it means more than just your current task. His words linger, and you wonder if he’s speaking about more than just ingredients and stirring techniques.

For a moment, the silence stretches between you, heavy and charged. You glance up, catching his gaze. He’s closer now, his usual mask of arrogance faltering for just a second. Behind the sarcastic smirk, there’s something softer—something you can’t quite place.

“What?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper now. The distance between you feels electric, the air thick with tension. “Expecting me to be nice? Sorry to disappoint. I don’t do sympathy.”