He doesn’t need help. Not really.

That’s what he tells himself when Professor McGonagall hands him the parchment, with her glasses lowered on her nose and her mouth set in that firm little line of disapproval. “You’re more than capable, Mr Malfoy. But you’re not applying yourself. Starting next week, you’ll be working with a tutor. Dumbledore approved it.”

He rolls his eyes the second he leaves her office. A tutor. As if he were some idiot who couldn’t figure out how to vanish a rat. It’s not that he can’t. It’s that he doesn’t care. Transfiguration is boring, full of precise rules and dull, twitchy wand movements — the kind of thing that demands patience and humility. Draco is not particularly known for either.

He doesn’t expect it to be you.

You — top of the class, golden student, absurdly smug and maddeningly clever. You, with your perfect notes and perfect posture and that little look of triumph every time you answer something he doesn’t. He thought you hated him. Honestly? The feeling was mutual.

Until now.

You’re sitting in the empty Transfiguration classroom after hours when he walks in, late on purpose, dragging his feet with exaggerated disinterest. You’re already set up, parchments and ink bottles lined up like soldiers, wand in hand, eyes already rolling.

“Of course it’s you,” he mutters, dropping into the desk like it personally offended him. “Dumbledore’s revenge.”

You don’t look at him. “Believe me, I’m not thrilled either. But we’re stuck with each other, so try to be less… you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Less me?”

You sigh, not even looking up. “Less loud. Less rude. Less annoying. More wandwork.”

The first few sessions are hell.

He interrupts you constantly, smirks when you get flustered, and deliberately gets things wrong just to see the vein in your forehead twitch. You correct him with gritted teeth, clearly wondering how you ended up saddled with the human equivalent of a paper cut.

But somewhere along the way, something shifts.

Maybe it’s the way you don’t back down. Not like the others. Maybe it’s how sharp your mind is, how you challenge him, call him out, make him actually think. You insult him, sure — but your feedback is precise, brutal in a way that makes him better.

One evening, he casts the spell correctly before you even open your mouth. The quill turns to a sleek silver needle in one smooth motion.

You blink. “That was… perfect.”

He leans back, smirking. “Careful. Praise might kill you.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t get used to it.”

After that, things change.

The insults are still there, but they’re lighter now — teasing, not cruel. He stops being late. Starts actually listening. You start laughing more — not because he’s funny, but because you don’t expect his comments to be so cutting and clever and weirdly charming.

He notices the way you chew your lip when you’re reading. How your voice gets softer when you’re explaining something complicated. How your hair curls at the ends when it rains.

One night, you stay longer than usual, and neither of you mentions it.

You’re leaning over his shoulder, pointing something out in his notes, and for once, he doesn’t have a snarky comment ready. He can feel your breath on his neck, and it’s… distracting.

“I’m surprised,” you murmur.

“About what?” he says, not looking up.

“That you’re actually good at this. When you try.”

He glances at you, then away again quickly. “Don’t go spreading that around.”

You smile.

He hates that he likes it so much.

Later that week, you walk into the classroom, find him already there, for once, and sit beside him instead of across.

“You’re early,” you say, raising a brow.

Draco shrugs.