Boxing Day was dead silent. A few earlier years were up and about, but the older students were only just starting to get some rest after the Yule Ball. Sunlight started to stream through the gaps in the blinds, but no one in the dorm took notice. Someone mumbled something and rolled over. Sally-Anne Perks had been snoring for an hour. Megan Jones and Susan Bones had fallen asleep in the same bed somehow.

Clara, faintly conscious, felt a small weight on her back, shifting around like tiny footsteps. Lilia purred behind her ear. She groaned and rolled onto her side, shifting Lilia onto the mattress, and peered up to check the clock on her bedside table.

"Shoot."

Clara leapt out of bed and carelessly threw on the first outfit she could find. Her hair was a mess, but she'd have to clip it up for now and hope it wasn't too hideous. She threw some miscellaneous items into her bookbag and sprinted out, slamming the door behind her.

She was quite used to being late. Nobody who knew her expected her to keep a tight schedule. But a whole hour? That would go down in history as the most humiliating tardiness to date. She had no excuse this time. She couldn't even rely on an experience with the Weasley twins to bail her out of this–

"You're going out without shoes? If you get a splinter, don't come crying to me."

Clara looked at Justin, looked at her bare feet, and sprinted back upstairs.

By the time she actually reached the library, she was out of breath. She knew she looked pretty awful, but she doubted anyone else looked better. She plucked a cluster of hair from her cardigan, popped a mint into her mouth hoping that it would draw attention away from her unbrushed teeth, flattened her clothes out with her palm.

Malfoy hadn't run late. Not at all. He was sitting at their usual desk in the Alchemy Section of the library, beside a growing pile of pieces of parchment, varying in size. It was safe to assume most of her work for today would be arranging his work together.

"You should really invest in a clock, Davies," he remarked, glancing at her in his peripheral vision.

On a normal day, Clara would've tried to come up with something sly to hypothetically say in response, but both the sight of Malfoy and the memories it brought back of the ball left her with nothing. She could never admit it to his face, but his small gesture had been the highlight of her night.

The chair nudged out. Malfoy had kicked it away from the desk for her, just enough for her to sit down. This time, it wasn't an act of kindness as much as it was impatience.

"Where were you by the way?" he demanded. Her lateness must've annoyed him more than she'd thought. "I checked the Great Hall and the entire library but I couldn't see you."

Clara knew honesty was all that could save her from this, so she replied, "Sleeping."

Malfoy snickered at her. She would've rathered he didn't dwell on her response and embarrass her further, but naturally he did.

"I suppose my incredible dancing abilities tired you out," he humoured.

They sure had. When he'd eventually walked her back to the Hufflepuff basement, she'd barely made it up the stairs to her dormitory before collapsing on her bed with a heavy sigh. Her hand had flitted to her waist where he'd held her, to the hand he'd held.

And then she'd hurried to the bathroom and showered before her obsessive subconscious could dwell on his scent that lingered on her.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was oblivious to how long she'd been silent for. "Still don't talk much, do you?" Malfoy mused.

Clara looked at him and shook her head.

"Why not?" he asked.

She busied herself with unpacking her stationary. "I don't like to talk–"

"So you've said," he interjected, "but it's one thing to dislike talking, but to refuse to speak altogether? Don't you realise how odd that is?"

Of course she did. That's why she didn't refuse to speak. She only made conversation when it was necessary. She didn't enjoy small talk, or friendly chatter, but if a conversation was needing to be had, then so be it.

"Come on," he pressed. He dropped his quill back into its ink pot. "There has to be some reason. Why don't you like to talk?"

"I don't see why you should care," Clara replied. She realised how sharp she must've come off, and tried to soften her tone. "I only speak to people I'm comfortable being around."

Now Malfoy was just offended. "You're not comfortable around me?"

"I am," she said quickly. And there was some truth to her words. "I speak less around most."

"But why are you so quiet all the time?" he asked again.

She hesitated. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, gesturing like this was obvious from his incessant questions. "Kind of."

Clara shrugged. She felt it was the best way to begin what was about to be a very difficult explanation.

"I've never really spoken much," she explained quietly. "This might come as a surprise to you, but I struggle making friends. I always have. People just don't want to talk to me, or . . . I guess they just don't listen to me either. I can be a bit much, I think. So I just . . . don't really bother. It's not like people want to listen anyway . . ."

Clara stopped there, otherwise she would've found herself explaining her diary. Especially in the midst of the Astoria situation, it was much safer to keep it confidential from everyone at Hogwarts, aside from Justin.

"Maybe I want to listen to you," Malfoy suggested.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't have to pity me."

"I'm not pitying you," he corrected her harshly. "I'm just saying that if you stop isolating yourself, you might find that making conversation is easier than you'd think."

There was an inerasable look of amused disbelief on Clara's face. Easier than she'd think. Like she hadn't crawled her way through this society for the last 15 years already. Like this was an idea she hadn't considered yet.

"How about this," Malfoy started. He nudged her chair around towards him. "You have normal conversations with me — no one-word answers, that doesn't count — and when your voice gets boring or I'm not listening, I'll tell you in advance."

She wasn't sure what was worse; the idea of chatting while no one was listening, or the idea of being told point-blank to shut up.

"Is this it now?" Clara remarked. "The Weasley twins are trying to get me to smile or laugh, and now you're going to force me to talk?"

"I'm having more success than they are," he said. "Besides, I've seen you smile before."

She shook her head, unbelieving. "No, you haven't."

"Yes, I have," he insisted. "Last night in the corridor. Really? I made you smile?"

He took on an intentionally sweet tone, the kind that was obviously mocking her. Her embarrassment was obvious, and this time her hair wouldn't cover it.

Malfoy tauntingly laughed beneath his breath.

December 26th 1994

Dear diary,

I don't know if I love or hate being around Malfoy.

On the one hand he has a way of making me feel weirdly comfortable around him. He treats me like a human, and as pathetic as that sounds, I genuinely appreciate it. To most I'm a fly on the wall, or to Stanmore a toy to wind up.

But on the other hand I don't get comfortable around anyone. I inherited my dad's lack of verbal filter, so I think it's probably for the best. I got too comfortable around Hannah once and made her cry. I think that's why she avoids me so much nowadays. I doubt she ever got over it.

She should've just taken my advice and asked Pomfrey for some Bubotuber Pus rather than get upset, because that pimple really was hideous. I thought I was doing her a favour. If I didn't say something, someone else would!

Today Malfoy forced me to explain why I don't talk much. It's nothing particularly interesting, but it was really difficult to phrase. I think my St Mungos psychiatric healer used a term to describe me, but I can't remember what it was, just that I don't want the entire school to know I'm clinically insane.

I have no idea why Malfoy's being so nice. I've seen the way he speaks to Harry Potter, any of the Weasleys, and even Hermione Granger. In second year, I heard he even called her a filthy little slur no one should say.

It just feels wrong coming out of Malfoy's mouth. It's like he's a whole different person when he's around me, and I don't know how I feel about it. Has he completely forgotten the water incident just a few months ago? Or the awkwardness before Snape made us work together? Or the way he'd talk behind my back when I was clearly in earshot?

It just makes me wonder, what changed?

And I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that I've been seeing less of Astoria Greengrass recently. I know they were at the Yule Ball together, but apart from that she spends more time around her usual group of friends than her boyfriend. I wonder if the novelty of having all the attention from the popular boy in the year has worn off from her.

I also wonder if I'll ever get my diary back.

The Great Hall was just as busy as it was during term time this year. Clara ate her breakfast early in an empty space on the Hufflepuff table. She spooned herself some peach yoghurt — they ran out of strawberry — and sprinkled some oats on top.

"Davies."

Clara inwardly sighed.

Fred appeared opposite her. He gulped a spoonful of mango slices from the little bowl in his hand. The juice rolled down his chin. She offered him a tissue, but apparently his sleeve would suffice.

"Wanna hear another joke then?" he said brightly. "I have a few this time, and I think they should do the trick."

"Sure," she relented quietly, lowering her spoon.

"Why is Garrick Ollivander never home? . . . Because he's a wanderer!"

Clara was reaching the end of her patience with these. She no longer cared about his feelings of disappointment when she didn't laugh. Neither he nor his twin deserved a reaction for those godawful attempts at comedy.

"Fine," Fred huffed. "So, a muggle walks into the Three Broomsticks with a frog on its shoulder, right?"

She creased her brows. "Okay . . .?"

"And someone says, 'That's pretty cool, where did you get it?' and the frog says, 'London, they've got millions of them'!"

Fred guffawed at his own joke. His pale, freckled face turned bright red in his fit of hysterics. He wiped tears from his eyes.

Tears.

"That was terrible," Clara said bluntly.

Fred snatched his breakfast back and stalked off towards his brother. "You're no fun, Davies."

The moment his back was turned, she concealed a soft laugh behind her hand.

For the first time, Clara was the first to arrive. She navigated to their usual nook of the library and idly flicked through her copy of Magical Drafts and Potions while she waited for Malfoy to arrive.

A minute passed. Then ten. Then twenty. She started to wonder whether Malfoy was running late on purpose as an act of retribution for her tardiness earlier. It would've been so petty, and yet so believable.

"Davies."

Malfoy didn't address the time. He unceremoniously collapsed into the empty chair and placed a bottle of pearl-coloured liquid down in front of her. He was so smug.

"You're welcome," he said.

She glanced between the unlabelled bottle and his self-gratified face. "What is it?"

"'What is it?' — This," He picked up the bottle by its cap and shook around the contents, "is a weakened version of Amortentia. Snape gave us permission to use some but threatened to poison us if we misuse it. I decided we're willing to take that risk."

Clara couldn't even be annoyed. Snape was probably plotting ways to poison her already, Amortentia or not. Especially after the disaster that had been her last mock test. She'd never seen the man so exasperated.

Malfoy handed her the bottle, the cap already removed. "Give it a sniff," he encouraged her. She raised an eyebrow. "They say it takes on the aroma of whatever the person finds most attractive."

Shooting him a sceptical look, she delicately lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled the rose-tinted spiralling fumes. She let the scent linger at the back of her nose for a moment, and then inhaled once again.

There were several layers to the smell. The musky scent of pages of a book. The air after rain. Something floral. Another layer was a little harder to pinpoint, all heavy in a way that had clung to her skin, to her gown, had made her feel dizzy–

She grabbed the cap and quickly screwed it over the top.

"Books, rain, and flowers," Clara said.

Malfoy nodded. He didn't press it further.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Author's note: I haven't decided how Malfoy smells yet. It's really distinct, but hard to describe. I remember that one time in 2020 when everyone was convinced that this one Yankee candle smelled like him (I've given it a sniff, and it absolutely does not, the internet was talking out of its arse).

[Edited 23/06/2024]