The Slytherin common room was quiet when Draco returned after dinner, still fuming from the embarrassment of Potions.
He hadn't meant to stare. And he definitely hadn't meant to drop the stirring rod into the cauldron like some lovestruck Hufflepuff. But Emma knew—she saw the hesitation in his eyes and the way he tensed every time she spoke. She saw straight through him, and that infuriated him more than anything else.
The green glow of the enchanted lanterns flickered across the stone walls. Shadows danced over the black leather couches and ancient bookcases. The Black Lake's murky waters outside the windows rippled, casting shimmering patterns across the ceiling. It was usually his favorite place—his domain.
But not tonight.
Because Emma was already there.
She sat in the far corner of the room in one of the high-backed chairs, curled up with a book on her lap, a steaming cup of tea in her hand, and an unreadable expression on her face.
She looked up as he entered. "Still sulking about Potions?"
Draco halted mid-step. "I don't sulk."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Brooding, then."
He glared at her, his fists clenching. "You think you're clever, don't you?"
She closed the book with a soft thump and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "No. I know I'm clever. You just don't like that I'm not afraid of you."
He took a step closer. "I'm not trying to scare you."
"Could've fooled me." Her voice lowered, almost teasing. "Is that why you've been watching me since term started? Throwing insults like it's first year again? You think if you're cruel enough, I won't notice you're actually—"
"Don't say it," he snapped.
Emma stood now, the book sliding off her lap and onto the floor. "Why not? Because it's true?"
The room crackled with tension. His heart thundered against his ribs. She was standing inches from him now, her blue eyes locked on his like they were daring him to deny it.
"You've been different," he said quietly. "Since the summer."
Her brow furrowed. "So have you."
He scoffed and looked away. "Yeah, well, it's none of your business."
"It became my business when you started throwing words like knives every time I walked past."
Silence.
"You don't get it, do you?" Draco finally muttered, his voice low and raw. "You walk in looking like—like that—and suddenly the whole castle can't stop staring. And I'm just supposed to ignore it? Pretend you're still the same fire-mouthed brat who used to put doxy eggs in my satchel?"
Emma tilted her head. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just taller."
Draco exhaled a short laugh. "You're impossible."
"And you're a coward."
His gaze snapped to hers.
She didn't back down.
"You think if you hurt me enough, whatever you're feeling will go away. But it won't, Draco. That's not how this works."
He looked at her then—really looked at her. She wasn't just beautiful. She was terrifying. Brilliant. Bold. Unyielding.
And she saw him in ways no one else ever dared.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But all that came out was: "I don't like you."
Emma stepped even closer, her voice a whisper. "Liar."
His breath caught. The air between them felt electric, thick with years of hate and something new—something fragile and dangerously close to blooming.
But then the common room door creaked open, and a group of second-years tumbled in, laughing.
Emma stepped back, the moment shattered.
Draco's mask fell back into place.
She bent to pick up her book, turning toward the girls' staircase without looking at him.
Before she disappeared, she paused and said without turning around:
"You should figure out what you actually feel, Malfoy. Before someone else figures it out first."
And then she was gone.
Draco stood alone beneath the flickering green light, his heart racing, throat dry.
He hated her.
He did.
Didn't he?