A.N.: Hi! I managed to update earlier than usual—yay!

This chapter is a bit short, but I hope you enjoy it!

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PART17

The moment Potions ended, I shoved my books into my bag and made for the door, my movements sharp, tense. My mind wasn't on class, nor on the usual nonsense that plagued my day.

It was on her.

On the fact that I needed to meet her.

Because what if I didn't get another chance? What if something happened before then? What if she—

I clenched my jaw.

"Look who it is," Weasley sneered from a few steps ahead, standing beside Potter and Granger like he was some kind of guard dog. "You bloody Malfoy."

I exhaled slowly. It was almost impressive—his ability to make every situation about him.

"Weasley," I drawled, lips curling into a smirk. "What's the rush? Trying to secure extra financial aid? I do pity your family—really, I do—but unfortunately, my philanthropic efforts don't extend to hopeless causes."

Weasley went red immediately, reaching for his wand. Predictable.

But before I could even raise mine—

"Expelliarmus!"

My wand ripped from my fingers.

And Granger—

Jumped.
Caught.
Smirked.

Something in my stomach twisted.

Weasley looked smug. Potter looked vaguely amused. But Granger—

She hesitated. Just for a moment.

It was barely anything—just the flicker of her gaze, something unreadable behind her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that same infuriating smirk.

"Don't even think about it, ferret," she said coolly, twirling my wand between her fingers. "He's ten times the man you are."

He?

My stomach twisted again.

Weasley?

What the hell was she talking about?

I wanted to scoff, to snap back with something cutting, but my mind was too caught up in everything else—the fact that she was standing right there, holding my wand, completely unaware of the danger pressing in around her.

Then, suddenly, she stepped closer.

My breath hitched.

I knew what was coming—she was going to return my wand, hand to hand. Close enough to touch.

I extended my palm, and as expected, she pressed my wand into it… along with something else.

Paper.

I didn't react.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look at her.

Just pocketed my wand and pretended like I wasn't about to snap from frustration.

She turned away before I could say anything, leaving with Potter and Weasley.

I watched them go, my pulse thrumming louder than I liked.

"Let's go," I muttered, already moving.

"Malfoy, wait—"

A loud crash.

I turned in time to see Goyle tripping over Crabbe's foot, both of them sprawling across the floor like absolute buffoons.

Idiots.

Taking my chance, I unfolded the note.

Her handwriting was as precise as ever:

Draco, I received your letter yesterday, of course. If you insist, then fine—How about tomorrow night? I have some things to sort out with Ron tonight. And for the record, I am going to heal you. Whether you like it or not. That's not up for debate. Unfortunately for you, that's how much I care.

My fingers curled around the parchment.

Tomorrow night.

Not tonight.

Because of Ron.

My pulse quickened, and I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.

Last night's dinner resurfaced in my mind—Granger leaning toward Weasley, my letter in her hands.

I had seen it.

She'd shown him.

And now she was spending the night with him instead of meeting me, when she had no idea how little time she might have left.

My throat tightened.

What if something happened before tomorrow? What if I didn't get another chance to warn her? What if I—

I bit my lip hard enough to sting.

Why was it always Ron?

"So that's how you always duel," Ron said, staring at Hermione like she had just performed a particularly illegal stunt in a Quidditch match. "That actually makes sense."

"What makes sense?" Hermione snapped, lowering her wand. "Oh—wait—I forgot to disarm you! I suppose you're still jealous of him for receiving my attack, huh?"

Ron recoiled slightly, his grip tightening on his wand. "No, I'm fine here," he said quickly, glancing at Harry as if to confirm that he wasn't, in fact, about to be hexed.

"Then never shout at me again," Hermione huffed, stuffing her wand back into her robes with unnecessary force.

Honestly, the nerve of Ron, acting as if he had any right to judge her dueling skills when he could barely hold his own wand without dropping it under pressure.

Ron blinked at her. "I didn't—" He caught himself, sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands. He clearly knew there was no winning this argument.

Harry, who had been watching this exchange with an expression of growing exasperation, finally groaned. "Guys, stop. We need to talk tonight, remember? The whole 'figuring out who's behind everything' plan? If you two keep bickering like this, we're just wasting time."

Hermione folded her arms. "Fine."

"Fine," Ron echoed, though he still looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"And," Harry continued, jabbing a finger at both of them, "I have a Quidditch meeting, so while I'm gone, you two are going to talk nicely."

"Yes," Hermione muttered.

"Yes," Ron grumbled.

Harry squinted at them. "That didn't sound convincing at all."

"We promise," Hermione said, voice dripping with forced sweetness.

Harry sighed. "Whatever. Just try." He turned to leave, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait, Harry—" she frowned. "We haven't actually sorted out any ideas yet. What if we're missing something crucial? Who even knows what to do at this point?"

Ron exhaled loudly, stretching his arms behind his head. "Oh, come on. I already have a pretty solid idea."

Harry smirked. "Me too."

Hermione blinked. Wait—what?

She stared at them. Since when did they get ahead of me? And more importantly, who could they possibly be thinking of?

She looked at Ron, whose idea of problem-solving usually involved either food or running. And Harry, whose plans tended to include "winging it" with dangerous results.

Oh, this is going to be ridiculous, isn't it?

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And when exactly did you two develop this supposedly 'solid' idea?"

Ron hesitated. "Uh—"

"Last night in the common room," Harry supplied cheerfully.

Hermione's eyes narrowed even further. "While you were playing wizard's chess and throwing chocolate frogs at each other?"

Ron frowned. "Okay, one frog was thrown. Let's not be dramatic."

Harry grinned. "It wasn't even that melted."

Hermione dragged her hands down her face.

Ron clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, Hermione. We've got this."

She swatted his hand away. "That's exactly what worries me."

I stared out the window, pen in hand, doing absolutely nothing. The ink had dried at the tip. My grip was loose. An hour had passed—maybe more.

I glanced at the parchment. Blank. Still.

Mocking.

Brilliant.

What the hell was I even supposed to write?

Report him? Tell the truth?

Yeah, right. Because that would go over well.

I tapped the pen against the desk, jaw clenched. The whole thing was complete nonsense—but if I dared say so, I'd suffer for it. We all would.

I exhaled slowly. All right, Draco. You've got this.

My knee bounced under the desk.

No. I absolutely do not got this.

What was I supposed to say? "Dear Father, everything is fine, aside from the fact that your curse is tearing me apart. Oh, and by the way, I've developed an unfortunate attachment to the one person you'd Avada on sight."

Yeah. That'd go over fantastically.

I leaned back, running a hand through my hair, and let my thoughts spiral into the absolute disaster that was my reality.

If I were honest—properly honest—this is what I'd have to tell him:

That my wound wasn't healing, and I was running out of excuses.

That I had met a Gryffindor girl I couldn't stop thinking about.

That she was a Mudblood.

That she was the person who made him furious.

That she despised everything I was supposed to stand for.

That she kissed me.

That I let her.

That I cared about her.

That I was going to warn her, even though I wasn't supposed to.

That I was going to fight against his curse, whether he liked it or not.

I inhaled sharply, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. That was an excellent way to die.

I dropped my hands, staring up at the ceiling, trying—really trying—not to feel like my chest was caving in.

And why was I such a mess over this?

I was a Malfoy. We didn't get emotional. We didn't get attached.

And yet, here I was. Sitting in my bed, inside the Slytherin dormitory, letting my breath shake while my eyes burned.

There was no warm hand on my shoulder like yesterday.

No one to tell me it would be all right.

No one at all.

I swallowed, glaring at the empty parchment like it was its fault I was in this position.

I had no idea what I was going to write.

But whatever it was, it had to be a lie.

A.N.: Poor Draco…You know who Ron and Harry are talking about, right? Well, guess we'll find out soon! See you in the next chapter!