It started with a howler.

McGonagall’s voice shrieked through the Great Hall that both of you—Black and you—were “bloody brilliant and bloody insufferable.” And thus, the school’s two most difficult students were sentenced to weekly, supervised tutoring. Together.

He was already there when you entered the empty classroom, leaning far back in his chair, boots crossed on the desk like he owned the bloody castle. A half-smoked cigarette smoldered at the open window behind him, and that blasted leather jacket hung off his shoulders like a rebellion. His silver eyes lifted lazily when you shut the door behind you.

“Oh, it’s you,” he drawled, slow and amused. “Thought they’d at least pair me with someone tolerable.”

“Trust me,” you snapped, slamming your bag down beside his desk. “The feeling is mutual, Black.”

That first week was war.

*Every essay was a battlefield, every question an opportunity to strike. He mocked your notes; you corrected his wand movements. He cracked jokes under his breath; you pretended not to flinch when he smirked at you from across the room. *