┏ ೋღ : 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂. ೋღ ┓

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊:
𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔰

┗━━━ ೋღ : ©-fictophilic : ೋღ ━━━━┛

𝕿HE CLASSROOM HUMMED WITH CONVERSATION AS STUDENTS FILTERED IN, taking their seats at the wooden desks that lined the room. Professor Flitwick stood at the front, flipping through his notes, a stack of textbooks balanced beside him. The scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the sun streaming through the windows.

You found your usual seat beside Adrian. It was a spot you were worried about at the beginning of the year, but Adrian had proven to be an easygoing desk partner — attentive in lessons, but willing to chat when the time allowed.

"Did you manage to finish the essay Flitwick assigned?" Adrian asked, tilting his head as he set his textbook on the desk.

"Barely," you admitted, a lopsided grin playing on your lips. "I don't think I can stretch out the importance of Nonverbals Spells any more than I already have."

Adrian chuckled, a relaxed sound that eased the lingering weight of unfinished work. "I think most of us just repeated what was in the textbook. Nonverbal Spells are... nonverbal. Not much else to it."

"That's what I thought," you replied, the corners of your mouth quirking upward. Adrian's easygoing presence had a way of making Charms lessons more tolerable.

As you spoke, a sensation crept over you — the distinct, prickling awareness of being watched. You glanced around, searching for the source, but the room was a flurry of students settling in. You caught sight of Fred and George approaching their seats at the desk in front of yours, Fred's gaze flicking briefly in your direction before he grinned and waved. Your heart stuttered at the sight of his playful, carefree expression.

Fred nudged George, whose attention had been momentarily captured by the lively conversation between Lee and Angelina. "Oi, (Y/n)!" Fred called, his grin widening.

You watched them sit down in their seats in front of you, a smile already in place. "Hey, Fred, George," you greeted warmly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

George leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on the back of his chair as he glanced over his shoulder at you. "So, (Y/n), we saw you in the hallways the other day," he began, a playful gleam in his eyes.

"Completely dodged us, I'd say," Fred added, mirroring his twin's smirk.

"Maybe because you two were setting something by in Filch's office," you countered, arching an eyebrow. The memory of them crouched near the caretaker's office, whispering in hushed tones, had been amusing but unsurprising.

Fred clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes wide with mock betrayal. "Wounded, (Y/n), truly. And here I thought we were building a foundation of trust."

George leaned in, his voice a stage whisper. "You make it sound like we were up to no good."

You gave him a pointed look, fighting the urge to laugh. "Aren't you always?"

"Unfair accusations," Fred protested, though his smirk remained. "We could have been helping poor old Filch clean out his dreadful cabinet of confiscated goods."

"Yes, I'm sure the dungbombs in your pockets were purely coincidental," you retorted dryly.

George's grin widened. "A simple case of preparedness, (Y/n). You never know when you might need a well-timed escape plan."

Fred tilted his head thoughtfully. "Exactly. We consider it a public service, really."

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head. "Public service, sure, until I'm dragged down with you two."

Fred leaned closer, his eyes bright. "Oh, come on. If that ever happened, we'd smuggle you out before Filch could say 'detention.'"

"Promise," George added, his grin sincere.

You laughed softly, your gaze lingering on Fred a heartbeat longer than necessary. There was an undeniable magnetism to his energy, the ease with which he commanded a room's attention. Your stomach twisted with the weight of your quiet, unspoken crush — a secret safely locked away.

Before you could dwell too long on it, Oliver appeared beside the twins, a casual smile on his face. "All right, (Y/n)?" Oliver greeted, his Scottish accent sounding warm. "Surviving Flitwick's essays, I hope?"

"Just barely," you admitted, smiling up at him. "I think my brain might be permanently charmed to think about Nonverbal Spells now."

Oliver chuckled, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Could be worse. Could be Snape's essays."

"Touché," you conceded, the memory of late-night, stress-filled attempts to write coherent Potions essays still fresh.

Oliver's gaze lingered a second longer than you expected, his expression briefly unreadable before he glanced back at Fred and George, their playful banter resuming without pause. You hadn't noticed, but Meredith had taken a seat one row over, her attention fixed — not on the conversation, but on Roger.

Meredith's eyes followed Roger as he took his seat at the front of the room, his dark hair falling effortlessly into place. The intensity of her focus was obvious, a mix of admiration and nerves evident in her gaze.

Oblivious, Roger flipped open his Charms textbook, conversing easily with his friends. You watched as Meredith shifted, smoothing out a non-existent crease on her skirt, her posture stiff but hopeful. A gentle, knowing smile crossed your face. Meredith's crush was no secret to anyone except the object of her affections himself.

Your attention drifted toward the other side of the classroom, where a group of Slytherins had settled. Several Slytherins were clustered together — a few of them being Cassius Warrington, Miles Bletchley, and Graham Montague — their heads bowed in low conversation. There was an air of sharp confidence about them, a kind of practiced indifference that seemed inherent to so many of their housemates.

Graham's eyes flicked up and caught yours briefly, his gaze shifting over to the Slytherin boy next to you before he returned to his whispered conversation. Miles leaned back in his seat, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth as Cassius muttered something under his breath.

The lesson began, Professor Flitwick's voice enthusiastic as always. You tried to focus, but your mind wandered between glances at Fred's broad shoulders, Oliver's easy smile, and the lingering, prickling sensation that someone's gaze was still on you.

By the end of the lesson, your notes were sparse and scattered, a collection of half-finished sentences and half-hearted doodles. Professor Flitwick's voice had faded to background noise somewhere in the middle of discussing the finer points of Summoning Charms, your mind wandering despite your best efforts. The soft rustle of parchment and the clattering of quills pulling away from desks signaled the end of the lesson, snapping you out of your thoughts.

As students began to pack up, Adrian nudged you gently, his shoulder brushing yours. You glanced up, meeting his easygoing smile. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, catching the edges of his dark hair and the silver accents of his Slytherin tie.

"Need to borrow my notes?" He offered, his voice light yet carrying a hint of sincerity.

You glanced at the messy scrawl of your own notes — half of which you couldn't decipher — and let out a small, resigned laugh. "Maybe," you admitted, a sheepish smile surfacing. "I think my brain's a bit... scattered today."

Adrian chuckled, the sound warm. "Can't imagine why," he teased, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Isn't Flitwick's lecture on the theory of intent and incantation just thrilling?"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened. "Riveting. I just couldn't contain myself."

He leaned against the edge of the desk, his arms loosely crossed before he slid his notes toward you. "Don't worry. I wrote down all the thrilling parts."

Glancing at him, you were surprised by the thoughtful gesture beneath his playful tone. "Thanks, Adrian. Really."

"Anytime. Can't have you accidentally summoning half the classroom next time, right?" He shrugged, but the smile that lingered on his face was genuine. 

Your gaze drifted briefly back to the Weasley twins, to Oliver's retreating form, to Meredith glancing forlornly after Roger. The Slytherins remained gathered until they began to stand and leave the classroom.

Adrian glanced over his shoulder, watching his Slytherin friends drift out of the classroom in a loose, confident cluster. The emerald and silver of their ties caught the light, glimmering briefly as they laughed and exchanged murmurs just outside the doorway.

"Well, then," Adrian began, his gaze lingering on the group before turning back to you. A lopsided smile pulled at his lips. "I'll see you later, (Y/n)."

"Yeah, see you," you replied, a gentle warmth in your voice. As Adrian stepped away, you watched him approach his friends — the way they immediately welcomed him back into their group.

Your eyes trailed after him for a moment longer, caught in a thoughtful haze. That's when you noticed it — a lingering figure at the edge of the group. Someone whose gaze was sharp and unwavering, drilling into you from a distance. The moment you tried to discern who it was, they vanished into the flurry of green and silver, swallowed by the tide of Slytherins disappearing down the corridor.

The Transfiguration classroom was alive with the shuffle of students settling into their seats, the scrape of wooden chairs against the stone floor blending with the hum of conversation. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting rays across the desks. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, her eyes sharp as she organized a stack of parchment.

You slipped into your seat, adjusting your bag at your feet. A few moments later, Draco sat beside you.

He wasn't exactly a stranger, but you couldn't quite call him a friend either. An acquaintance, perhaps. Someone you passed in the corridors, whose reputation preceded him. Someone you only really knew through Lorenzo and Pansy. The Malfoy heir, sharp-tongued and cutting, a Slytherin known for his pride and influence.

Draco sat with a practiced ease, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. His expression was blank but edged with boredom. He glanced briefly in your direction, his gaze assessing before flicking away dismissively. You could feel your pulse quicken, your nerves tangled in the pit of your stomach.

McGonagall's voice cut through the ambient noise, commanding and firm.

"Today, we will be practicing Conjuration," she announced, her tone leaving no room for distraction. "You'll be working with your desk partner for the remainder of class, refining your technique."

Her gaze swept the room, a silent dare for anyone to defy her. Your eyes fell instinctively to the desk, your heart thumping with a mixture of relief and apprehension. You and Draco had to be working together.

Beside you, Draco's posture stiffened just slightly, a brief flare of irritation crossing his face. He exhaled softly, the sound of someone resigned to their fate.

"Well," he drawled, voice as cool as ever. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."

You offered a tentative, nervous smile. "Seems so."

Draco's eyes lingered on you for a moment, unreadable, before he reached for his wand. "Let's get this over with, then."

The two of you began the exercise — attempting to conjure a simple, inanimate object from thin air. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by hesitant mutters and half-formed questions. You glanced sideways at Draco, catching his profile — sharp and defined, his brow faintly furrowed.

"I think the incantation is more about intent than the exact pronunciation," you ventured softly, watching Draco's spell form something incomplete. "Professor McGonagall mentioned it last week."

Draco's gaze flicked to you, assessing. His lips quirked, a smirk threatening to break through. "I know that," he replied, his tone just shy of condescending.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, realizing you were treating him like how you tutored Theodore. "Right. Sorry."

He exhaled, more controlled this time. "No, it's fine. I'll just try it again." Draco's brows furrowed in concentration as he focused on the incantation. His wand moved with precision, and the air shimmered before a polished glass orb appeared on the desk, smooth and flawless.

Satisfied, he glanced at you, a hint of smugness in his expression. You met his gaze with a small, amused smile before lifting your own wand. With a steady voice and deliberate movement, you cast the spell. The air rippled, and an identical glass orb materialized beside his. Clear and precise with no imperfections.

Draco's smirk widened slightly. "Not bad."

You raised an eyebrow as you muttered, "I'd say the same to you."

There was a moment of unspoken acknowledgment, the competitive tension lingering between you but tempered by a shared sense of accomplishment.

The two of you continued, slowly finding a tentative rhythm. You corrected each other from time to time, making you realize that Draco was actually quite skilled in Transfigurations. Each time you had corrected each other, he gave a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment that carried more weight than you'd expected.

Your nerves began to settle, the initial tension easing into something tolerable, even almost productive. There were glances from other students — some curious, some judgmental — but most were too preoccupied with their own struggles to pay much attention.

As the lesson wore on, you found yourself slipping more comfortably into the dynamic — a subtle, unspoken competition. Draco's competitiveness was unmistakable, but it wasn't the same antagonistic edge you'd braced for. It felt more like a challenge, a push to keep up, to prove yourself just as capable.

At one point, your wand swished cleanly through the air, conjuring a silver chalice. The intricate details of vines wrapped around its stem caught the light. Draco's eyes flicked to the chalice, his brows lifting in brief surprise before he muttered, "Show-off."

You let out a quiet laugh, the tension in your chest loosening. "Says the one who's been muttering under his breath every time I get something right."

Draco scoffed, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm just impressed you can keep up."

The banter felt... surprisingly natural. The guardedness that usually accompanied your interactions with Draco seemed to wane. Each time your spells aligned, it was like a silent acknowledgment — a truce shared through mutual skill and for the fact you were on friendly terms with his cousin and his... Pansy.

Eventually, the assignment shifted to a more complex conjuration — creating a functioning compass out of thin air. You studied the space in front of you, envisioning the intricate details necessary for a working object. Draco was already muttering the incantation under his breath, his eyes narrowed in focus.

His first attempt conjured a brass circle, roughly the size of a Galleon, with a shaky, half-formed needle floating uncertainly inside. It wobbled for a moment before clattering to the desk, incomplete. Draco's jaw tightened, and he glanced at you, the challenge evident in his expression.

"Think you can do better?" He quipped, a hint of defensiveness edging his voice.

You met his gaze, your own wand steady as you took a breath. The incantation flowed smoothly, the tip of your wand tracing an intentional, practiced arc. In a shimmer of silver light, a polished compass materialized in the air. Its casing was detailed and seamless, the needle inside gliding smoothly to point north.

Draco blinked, caught off guard for just a heartbeat before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Not bad at all, (L/n)."

You smirked back, your heart still quickened by the successful conjuration. "Right back at you, Malfoy."

Around you, a couple of Gryffindors muttered something about "show-offs," but it barely registered. The air between you and Draco was had with an unspoken understanding — a mutual respect.

McGonagall began calling for the end of the exercise, and the room slowly settled as students packed away their things. Draco stood, gathering his books with a practiced efficiency. You hesitated, the impulse to thank him for his help being held back by the uncertainty of how he would take it.

Before you could decide, Draco glanced your way, a brow arched. "You did all right," he mentioned simply, his voice just low enough to feel like something personal.

"Thanks," you managed softly. "You too."

He nodded, a brief, almost imperceptible dip of his head, before he turned and strode toward the exit. As he left, the weight of the day began to settle in. The experience felt surreal — a moment caught between your nerves and Draco's guarded indifference.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the grounds. The breeze off the Black Lake rippled the water's surface, carrying the scent of grass and the sound of laughter from students. Most were finishing up their leisure time before heading to dinner, but you and Fred had wandered further away, seeking a quieter spot along the shore.

It was one of those moments that felt suspended in time — the kind where you couldn't quite believe it was happening, like a dream you were cautious not to wake from. Sitting on the soft grass beside Fred, your knees pulled to your chest, you tried to steady the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Fred had always been a contradiction in your mind — effortlessly charming and yet impossibly kind. His infectious laughter, mischievous grins, and boundless confidence had always seemed untouchable. To share a quiet moment like this, away from the usual chaos of his friends and siblings,