𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙

30

Hogwarts had always been a place of opposites—light and shadow, courage and ambition, loyalty and pride. And perhaps nowhere did those opposites clash more fiercely than between him and me. Draco Malfoy was everything I was meant to despise. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. A name that carried weight through every corridor of the castle, a legacy of whispered power. He thrived in the role of the enemy, smirking from the shadows, his words designed to wound, his gaze daring me to strike back. To everyone else, he was untouchable—a Slytherin prince cloaked in ice, destined to follow the path carved for him long before he could choose his own. And yet, the cracks were there if one looked closely enough. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his posture stiffened whenever his father’s name was mentioned, the fleeting moments where his storm-gray eyes revealed something rawer, something unguarded. Moments he never intended anyone to see. It began with arguments, of course. Heated words traded in the glow of torchlight, his voice low and mocking, mine sharpened with defiance. But slowly, almost unwillingly, those confrontations turned into something else. A glance that lingered too long. A silence that carried weight. A night beneath the stars where neither of us could walk away. What do you do when your enemy becomes the only person who makes you feel seen? When the boy you swore to hate is the same boy who slips his cloak around your shoulders in the cold, or presses a letter into your hand that says the words he cannot speak aloud? I never meant to care. He never meant to change. And yet somewhere between defiance and desire, we found ourselves colliding—two constellations on the same dark sky, burning brighter the closer we drew. This is not the story of how we stopped fighting. It is the story of how we fell, despite it.

𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕷𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝕭𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

12

The corridors of Hogwarts always whispered about him. Dark brown, wavy hair fell in loose strands over his deep brown eyes. A faint scar cut down the bridge of his nose, another slashed through his brow—marks that only heightened his dangerous allure. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform with effortless defiance: white shirt, green-and-silver tie, beige cardigan, and a long, deep-green Slytherin coat with the serpent crest. His presence was magnetic and unnerving. He spoke in clipped, cutting tones, smirked like he knew every secret, and made enemies as easily as breathing. Unfortunately, I was his favorite target, since I often got in his way and stood up for others. After our latest argument—loud enough to make even a ghost pause—Dumbledore decided we needed to “learn to work together.” His solution? A joint mission. Professor Sprout required a rare plant from the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid warned us of the dangers, Fang trotting alongside as if his wagging tail could soften them. But the real test was Dumbledore’s riddle: I grow where others cannot breathe, deep beneath mirrors, by waves received. In the silent realm where voices sing, guarded by those in darkness cling. I do not glow, yet heal in need— what am I, and where do I lead? The clues led us to a lake, black as ink beneath the moon. Without hesitation, Mattheo stepped in, ignoring my protest, and vanished beneath the surface. Then I saw it—a dark silhouette gliding below. Merfolk. Dangerous, territorial, rumored guardians of the plant we sought. My pulse raced. I scanned the surface, but he didn’t reappear. Panic gripped me. No one at Hogwarts knew why water tightened my chest, why lakes churned my stomach—why my best friend in the Muggle world had drowned, and I had been too late. Tonight, none of that mattered. I had a choice: stay on shore and let him drown… or step into the water to save him.