His.

The Slytherin common room was a subterranean expanse of cold stone and emerald light, but for Draco Malfoy, the atmosphere had never felt more suffocating. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, his long legs stretched out toward the hearth, staring into the green flames with a scowl that would have intimidated a first-year. At twenty, Draco had cultivated an aura of untouchable sophistication, but today, that composure was fraying at the edges.

It was her. It was always her.

Clara Parker was currently sitting at one of the study tables across the room, surrounded by a group of laughing Hufflepuffs who had no business being in the snake’s den. She was leaning forward, her brown hair falling over her shoulder, listening to some mundane story with an expression of rapt, genuine interest. Her big, brown eyes were wide, and the faint dusting of freckles across her nose seemed to bridge the gap between her pale skin and the warmth of her smile.

"She’s doing it again," Draco muttered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrest of his chair.

"Doing what? Breathing?" Blaise Zabini asked, not looking up from his copy of *Advanced Rune Translation*. "You’ve been staring at her for twenty minutes, Draco. If you hate her that much, look at the wall."

"She’s being... accessible," Draco spat, the word sounding like a curse. "Look at them. Those idiots are practically drooling on her, and she’s just sitting there like a saint, offering them her notes. She’s a Slytherin, for Salazar’s sake. She should have some pride. Some bite."

"She’s nice, Draco. It’s a personality trait, not a crime," Blaise remarked dryly. "And she’s a Muggle-born who climbed her way into this house. That takes a different kind of grit than yours."

Draco didn't answer. He hated that she was here. He hated that the Sorting Hat had seen fit to place a girl who rescued spiders and apologized to inanimate objects into the house of the ambitious and the cunning. Most of all, he hated that he was the only one who seemed to notice how the shorter hemline of her university-standard skirt rode up when she crossed her legs, or how the light caught the gold in her hair.

The heavy oak doors of the common room swung open, and the cold, rhythmic clicking of boots announced the arrival of Professor Snape. The room went silent instantly. Snape didn't visit the common room often, and when he did, it usually involved a reprimand or a life-altering announcement.

"The Advanced Potions curriculum for this term requires a practical application of the Draught of Living Death, modified for long-term stasis," Snape announced, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "This project is worth forty percent of your final grade. Given the complexity, you will work in pairs."

Draco smirked. He would likely be paired with Blaise or perhaps Pansy. He was the top of the class, the only student Snape actually respected.

"I have already selected the pairings," Snape continued, pulling a piece of parchment from his robes. "To ensure a... balanced outcome, I have paired the highest-achieving students with those who are currently struggling to maintain a passing grade."

A cold pit formed in Draco’s stomach.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, his dark eyes flickering toward Draco. "You will be working with Miss Parker."

The silence that followed was deafening. Draco felt the blood rush to his face, a mix of fury and disbelief. Clara, on the other hand, looked like she had been struck by a Confundus Charm. She blinked her large eyes, her mouth parting in a small 'o' of surprise.

"Professor," Draco started, his voice strained. "I believe my time would be better spent—"

"Your belief is noted and discarded, Mr. Malfoy," Snape interrupted smoothly. "Miss Parker requires a tutor as much as a partner. You will provide both. You have three weeks to produce a perfect vial. I suggest you begin tonight."

With a sweep of his black robes, Snape exited the room, leaving a vacuum of tension in his wake.

Draco stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the stone floor. He marched over to the table where Clara sat. The Hufflepuffs scattered like mice before a cat. Clara looked up at him, her hands twisting the hem of her sweater. She looked so small from this height—barely five-foot-three—and her innocence felt like a physical affront to his temper.

"My room. Eight o’clock," Draco snapped, towering over her. "And don't bring that ridiculous flowery stationery. We’re brewing poison, Parker, not writing thank-you notes."

Clara swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. "I... I have my own cauldron, Draco. I don't have to come to your room. We could use the library?"

"The library is for people who want to be interrupted by prying eyes," Draco hissed, leaning down until he was inches from her face. He could smell her—vanilla and old parchment. It made his head swim. "My private quarters have a ventilated lab. You will be there at eight. Don't be late."

He turned on his heel and stroked away, feeling her eyes on his back.

***

At exactly eight o’clock, there was a tentative knock on Draco’s door. He opened it to find Clara standing there, clutching a heavy textbook to her chest as if it were a shield. She had changed into a simpler blouse, but she still looked too soft for the dark, masculine aesthetic of his living space.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside. "And take off your shoes. I don't want the dust of the corridors tracked into my workspace."

Clara nodded quickly, slipping off her shoes to reveal socks with tiny ducks on them. Draco stared at her feet for a second too long before turning away with a groan of frustration.

"Set your things there," he commanded, pointing to a long slate table covered in silver instruments and bubbling vials. "We are starting with the base of Valerian root. I’ve already prepared the infusion, so all you have to do is not ruin it."

Clara approached the table with the caution of someone walking through a minefield. "I’m really sorry about this, Draco. I know you’d rather work alone. I’m just... I find the stirring patterns very confusing. They seem so arbitrary."

"They aren't arbitrary, they’re mathematical," Draco snapped, picking up a silver knife. "If you stir clockwise three times instead of four, you change the molecular density of the liquid. It’s not a suggestion, Parker. It’s a law."

"I’ll try my best," she whispered, reaching for a bundle of Sopophorous beans.

"No! Don't cut them," Draco barked, reaching out to grab her wrist.

His hand closed around her skin, and he froze. Her wrist was tiny, her skin incredibly soft and warm. For a moment, the room felt significantly smaller. Clara looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching, her breath hitching in her chest.

"You... you crush them," Draco said, his voice losing some of its edge, though he didn't let go of her. "You use the flat of the blade. It releases the juices more effectively than cutting."

"Oh," she breathed. "I didn't know. The book says to cut."

"The book was written by someone who followed the rules, not someone who understood the soul of the craft," Draco said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. He realized he was still holding her hand and abruptly released it, stepping back as if burned. "Crush them. Now."

They worked in silence for the next hour. To Draco’s immense irritation, Clara was a diligent student. She followed every instruction he barked at her, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. She was slow, and her hands shook slightly when she had to add the powdered silver, but she didn't complain once.

As the potion turned a deep, shimmering lilac, Draco found himself watching her instead of the cauldron. She was leaning over the steam, her face flushed from the heat. A stray lock of hair fell across her eyes, and without thinking, she tried to blow it away.

"Stop moving," Draco said.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her forehead as he tucked the hair behind her ear. His touch lingered a second too long, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her temple. Clara went perfectly still, her gaze locking onto his.

"Why do you hate me so much?" she asked quietly.

The question caught him off guard. He pulled his hand back, his expression hardening. "I don’t hate you, Parker. You’re just... annoying."

"I try to be nice to everyone," she said, her voice small. "I know I’m not the best at magic, and I know I don't belong in a family like yours. But I’ve never done anything to hurt you."

"That’s exactly it!" Draco exploded, pacing the small length of the lab. "You’re so bloody nice! You walk around this school like the world is made of sunshine and sugar, even when people look at you like you’re a prize to be won. You let those idiots from other houses follow you around like lost puppies, and you don't even see it."

Clara frowned, looking genuinely confused. "What do you mean? They’re just being friendly."

Draco let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Friendly? Parker, they want to ruin you. They look at your 'innocence' and want to see how long it takes to break it. And you just smile and offer them your notes."

Clara stood her ground, her chin lifting. "Maybe I just prefer to believe the best in people. Is that so wrong?"

"In this world? Yes," Draco said, stepping into her space again. He was much taller than her, forcing her to look up at him. "It’s dangerous. You’re a Slytherin. You’re supposed to be the one doing the breaking, not the one being broken."

"I’m not as weak as you think I am," she whispered.

"Aren't you?" Draco challenged. He reached out, his hand hovering near her neck, his fingers ghosting over the collar of her blouse. "You’re trembling right now."

"Because you’re being mean," she countered, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I’m being honest," Draco said. He could see the pulse jumping in her neck. He felt a sudden, violent urge to protect her from the very things he was describing, and an equally violent urge to be the one who finally made her see the world for what it was.

He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing her. "If you’re going to survive this university, Clara, you need to stop looking at everyone with those big, trusting eyes. Especially me."

Clara didn't look away. "Why especially you?"

"Because I’m not a nice man," he growled. "And right now, I’m thinking about things that would make your 'sweet' little head spin."

Clara’s breath hitched, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she reached out, her small hand tentatively touching the sleeve of his expensive wool sweater. "I think you pretend to be a lot meaner than you are, Draco Malfoy. I think you’re just lonely."

Draco recoiled as if she had slapped him. "Lonely? I’m a Malfoy. I have everything."

"You have things," she corrected gently. "But you don't have friends. You have people who fear you or people who want something from you."

"And what do you want, Parker?" he sneered, trying to regain his footing.

"I just want to finish this potion," she said, turning back to the cauldron. "And maybe... I want you to stop being so angry all the time. It looks exhausting."

Draco stood there, stunned into silence. He watched her pick up the stirring rod, her movements slightly more confident now. She was infuriating. She was naive. She was a Muggle-born who had no right to be in his house or in his head.

"The potion is turning blue," he said, his voice thick. "That means it’s too hot. Move it off the flame."

"Oh! Right," she cried, scrambling to grab the potholders.

Draco moved instinctively, his hands covering hers on the handles of the cauldron to help her lift the heavy pewter pot. For a moment, they were locked together, their bodies pressed close, the heat of the potion and the heat of each other filling the space between them.

He looked down at the top of her head, at the neat part in her hair, and felt a strange, terrifying shift in his chest. He didn't want to hate her. He wanted to pick her up and hide her away from every other man in this castle. He wanted to be the only one she smiled at.

"We’re done for tonight," Draco said, his voice raspy as they set the cauldron on the cooling rack.

"Did we do okay?" she asked, looking up at him with hope.

Draco looked at the shimmering, perfect liquid. It was better than the batch he had brewed alone last week.

"It’s acceptable," he lied. "Go home, Parker. Before I change my mind about being 'nice'."

Clara gathered her things, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Goodnight, Draco. See you in class tomorrow?"

"Just go," he groaned.

As she slipped her shoes back on and headed for the door, she paused, looking back at him. "For what it’s worth, I like the way you talk about Potions. You make it sound like... like art."

Then, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Draco sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He smelled like Valerian, silver, and vanilla. He was the best student in Potions, a scion of one of the oldest wizarding families, and a man who prided himself on his control.

And he was completely, utterly screwed.