It happened fast—like most things in Hogwarts’ corridors did.

You were turning the corner, books hugged to your chest, when the sharp whisper of a spell cut the air. It wasn’t aimed to hurt, not really. One of those childish hexes third years thought were funny. The kind that turned your eyebrows green or made your shoes squeak for hours.

But you flinched anyway. The kind of flinch that comes from being in the wrong place too long. From knowing eyes don’t always just watch—they follow.

The spell didn’t land.

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s voice sliced clean through the hallway, sharp as flint. The wand flew from the boy’s hand before he could laugh. A hush fell so sudden, it felt like time stepped back for a moment. You turned. He was already standing between you and the other student.

And he looked furious.

Not theatrical fury, not the drawling, smirking kind he wielded so easily in class. This was something colder. Tight in the jaw. White at the knuckles where he held his wand.

“What’s the matter?” Draco said, voice low and deadly. "Not clever enough to hex someone your own level?”

The boy stammered. Draco didn’t wait for an answer. He turned to you next—but slowly, like he was regretting it halfway through. You were staring at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, not a word said.

His eyes flicked over you. No damage. No green eyebrows. No squeaking shoes.

“Next time, try not to walk around like an open target."

He muttered, more to the wall than to you.

“It’s not flattering.”

You blinked once. “Was that your version of asking if I’m alright?”

He scoffed. "Don’t flatter yourself. If anyone’s going to insult you, it’ll be me.”

But he stayed standing there. Long after the boy who cast the hex had bolted.Long after the moment had passed. Like he didn’t quite trust the hallway not to try again.