Chapter 11

In the Slytherin common room, the tension was thick enough to cut with a blade. Marcus Flint was seething—and he was making sure everyone felt it.

"How the bloody hell does a first-year catch the Snitch before you?" he barked, gripping the front of Terence Higgs' robes. "You let a kid outmaneuver you—and the brat was dealing with a cursed broom!"

Felicia, seated nearby, let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. The dramatics were getting old fast.

Unfortunately, Marcus noticed.

His dark eyes snapped to her. Adrien, lounging in a chair across from her, subtly gripped the armrest—tense, ready to step in if needed.

"Something funny, Forester?" Marcus snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Draco, seated a few chairs away, glanced between them. He wasn't sure if he should be entertained or concerned.

Felicia didn't flinch. "Just funny how a fifth-year is losing his mind over a Quidditch match," she said coolly. "Higgs has talent—but he's built more like a Chaser than a Seeker."

Terence blinked, surprised.

Marcus scowled, whipping his glare back to Felicia. "And what the hell would you know? You don't know the first thing about Quidditch."

"No, not really," Felicia said, completely unfazed. "But I do know a thing or two about flying."

Her tone was pure confidence—measured, unshaken.

"Seekers need speed, yes, but more than that, they need precision and calm under pressure. Higgs is a good flyer, but not sharp enough for chasing the Snitch. Against other teams, he might do well. But Potter? He has instincts. Even with his broom cursed, he adapted."

Marcus stalked toward her, arms crossed, towering over her seat.

"Then why didn't you try out this year, Forester?" he sneered. "If you're so good at flying. Or do you only fly when it doesn't count for anything?"

A few scattered snickers rose around the room—more from discomfort than genuine amusement. Everyone knew Marcus's temper. Most just let him burn it out.

But Felicia didn't shrink back. She didn't look away. She didn't even blink.

She wasn't intimidated.

Draco leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

He knew Felicia well enough to recognize the look in her eyes.

Marcus Flint had just made a mistake.

When Felicia Forester turned ten, her father, Galdur, decided the best gift wasn't something to unwrap—but something to remember.

That winter, the Foresters traveled to Romania.

Officially, the trip was part of Galdur's ongoing research—a continuation of his study on dragon physiology and psychological behavior by breed. Unlike his colleague Charlie Weasley, who worked closely with dragons in the field as if they were wild comrades, Galdur's fascination ran deeper and more cerebral. He didn't study them for sport or spectacle. He approached dragons the way a paleontologist approached fossils—with reverence, precision, and a hunger for understanding the nuances buried beneath scale and flame.

Selene Forester, accompanied them as well. The visit doubled as her own professional opportunity: rare dragon saliva, fresh scale fragments, and raw shed tissue were nearly impossible to acquire without Ministry clearance—and a preserve like this made collection clean and legal. Efficient. Profitable.

Felicia had never left England before. The jagged Carpathian ranges surrounding the dragon sanctuary were like something out of a fairy tale—or a war zone. The sky above was a smoky gray, frequently broken by the swooping shadows of dragons overhead. The scent of smoke, wind, and ash clung to everything.

Felicia was in awe.

And Charlie Weasley was immediately taken with her, finding her knowledge impressive for someone so young.

She'd come prepared. She recited dragon classifications from memory, named obscure hybrids, and asked questions that made even the seasoned handlers raise brows. Charlie had grinned at her like she was a walking copy of Dragon Breeds of the Eastern Hemisphere, and spent hours showing her safely cordoned viewing areas, naming dragons by sight and sharing personal anecdotes from past rescues.

But for all her cleverness, Felicia was still ten.

And the preserve—despite its protections—was dangerous.

There had been a Horntail under observation that week. A female, recently sedated for an injury, and recovering in a high-security enclosure. Galdur had mentioned the dragon's mate had died the year before, and her aggression had heightened ever since. She was volatile—but stable, as long as her unhatched egg was nearby.

Felicia hadn't understood how close she was getting.

She'd wandered toward the perimeter of the enclosure—too curious, too quiet for anyone to notice right away.

The dragon saw her first.

What followed was chaos.

The Horntail shrieked—a sound that split the air like thunder—and reared, shattering its restraints in a single motion. The field around the enclosure ignited as fire spilled from its throat. Handlers screamed. Spells were shouted. Someone ran for the sleep potions that were made potent enough for dragons.

Felicia ran for a broom.

She didn't think. She didn't plan. She simply moved—and the next thing she knew, she was airborne, trailing smoke behind her like a comet.

The broom wasn't designed for speed, certainly not for a ten-year-old that only flown to race Draco in the safety of the grounds. But Felicia flew like instinct had taken over—her path sharp, coiled, impossibly serpentine, like she was mimicking the dragon's own movements.

She didn't dare go high—the Horntail would catch her. Instead, she skimmed low, threading through the jagged trenchwork below the preserve's cliffs. It was narrow. Too narrow. But she slipped through with centimeters to spare, banking hard, weaving, trusting the broom and her body to stay one step ahead of death.

Charlie was the one who found her.

He led the containment team, flying high and looping down into the trenches, shouting her name until she emerged—covered in soot, her cloak half-burned, and hands blistered from holding the overheated handle.

She was shaking.

But alive.

The Horntail had been recovered. The egg, miraculously untouched, was returned. The field team spent hours repairing damage

Galdur… he didn't scold her. He simply sat beside her by the fire that night, he was reeling the fact he almost lost his daughter, but it wasn't going to do any good to say so. He handed her a tin of hot tea and said, "Next time, you'll have your wand."

Selene had been riddled with panic, not the kind that had her screaming, but the kind that almost brought her to action against a dragon. Now that her daughter was safe, she came to terms with how impressive Felicia was. Selene had smiled at that. A rare, small smile. She said nothing, but later gave Felicia a vial—Horntail blood, collected from the scene, enchanted and preserved.

Felicia kept it.

She never wasn't to go on another dragon trip—not until she turned seventeen.

But everyone involved remembered what she did that day.

Charlie Weasley never forgot.

Because of that experience, Felicia looked at Marcus with a cool, razor-sharp gaze.
"Are you saying Quidditch is the only time flying counts?" she asked, her tone calm but cutting.

A slow smirk curved her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Tell me—how exactly would being a Chaser save you from death? You plan on tossing the Quaffle into its mouth for twenty points?"

Marcus's brow twitched, but Felicia didn't pause.

"I know how to fly when it matters," she said evenly. "What I'm not doing is broadcasting it to the world—unlike a certain sore loser grasping for someone to blame after the first loss of the season."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

"There's an entire year ahead to win the Cup. 'Undefeated' can mean a lot of things. But being stuck on one failure? That just drags your status lower."

The common room fell completely silent.

Then, after a beat, Adrien let out a low whistle, biting back a grin as he leaned against the couch.
"Well, you can't argue with that logic, Flint. I did hear from her parents that she survived flying against a dragon."

He said it casually, but the weight behind the words settled like a stone.

Several months ago, Galdur Forester had explained the incident to Adrien's father—Adrien had been in the room at the time. It was the reason Felicia hadn't been allowed to travel to Romania again.

Too dangerous.

Marcus's jaw clenched. His gaze darkened as murmurs rippled through the room. He hated being challenged—especially in front of the team.

Draco, silent but focused, absorbed every word. He hadn't known about the dragon. Suddenly, Felicia's precision in the air made a lot more sense.

Marcus scoffed, waving a hand dismissively.
"Whatever. You think you're too good for Quidditch? Fine. But don't sit there acting like you know what it takes to win a match."

With that, Marcus turned and stalked off, shoving past a few lingering first-years as he disappeared into the dormitories.

Adrien watched him go, shaking his head before chuckling as he stretched out lazily.
"Merlin's beard, Forester," he mused, glancing at her with a grin. "I almost feel bad for him… almost."

Draco said nothing.

But he felt it—a strange, quiet sense of relief.

He'd always known Felicia could hold her own against anyone. That was just who she was.

But now… everyone knew.

The entire common room had seen it—had heard it. Her composure, her words, the weight behind her name.

Felicia Forester wasn't just another first-year.

And now, every single person in Slytherin knew it.

"Are you going home for Christmas?" Felicia asked Draco casually the following month. It was already December, and the snowfall had grown heavier in recent days.

They were seated in the Slytherin common room, and Felicia had grown accustomed to the large, shadowed windows. She found a quiet sort of peace in watching the soft light filter through the lake water, illuminating the gentle sway of aquatic plants. It was almost therapeutic.

Draco glanced up from where he was idly flipping through Quidditch Through the Ages, one brow arching at her question.

"Of course," he said, as if the notion of staying was laughable. "My mother would throw a fit if I didn't."

He closed the book with a soft thud and leaned back slightly. "Why? Are you planning to stay?" His smirk was lazy, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his expression. "Didn't peg you as the type to spend Christmas away from your family."

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting long shadows across the dark wood paneling and the green-and-silver accents that decorated the room.

"My parents will be out of town this year," Felicia said, not looking at Draco. Her gaze remained fixed on the window, where a small school of fish drifted lazily past. After a moment, she turned to him. "Father's going to Romania. Dragons, of course. And Mother's visiting the Magical Congress of the United States for work."

She hated to admit it aloud, but it would be her first Christmas alone.

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. "Huh," he muttered, tilting his head slightly. "So… you're really staying, then."

His smirk returned, but it had lost some of its usual edge. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You could always come to the Manor," he said, the words slipping out more casually than he likely intended. "My mother would be more than happy to see you. She could talk Father into it."

Felicia raised a brow at his comment.

Then, as if realizing what he'd just said, Draco quickly added, "Not that I care if you stay, obviously. Just saying—it's better than spending Christmas alone, especially with most of Slytherin gone."

He picked his book back up, flipping it open again to avoid meeting her gaze.

Felicia smirked, though her eyes softened. "Oh, I'm quite sure my company wouldn't be all that valuable," she said, her tone light and deliberately dismissive, waiting to see how he'd react.

Draco's fingers twitched slightly against the book cover, but he didn't look up right away. "Obviously," he muttered, affecting his usual disinterest. "I'd barely notice you were there."

But the slight falter in his smirk gave him away.

After a beat, he glanced up, meeting her knowing expression. His eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat behind it. "You are insufferable, you know that?"

Felicia let out a soft laugh.

Adrien strolled over and immediately picked up on the tension. "Are we flirting over here?" he asked with a grin, knowing full well how to get under Draco's skin.

Draco shot him a glare. "Shut up, Queensbury."

Adrien's grin only widened. "Mmm… I'll take that as a yes."

Draco's cheeks colored slightly, and he buried himself back in the same page he hadn't turned in ten minutes. "Whatever…"

As the fire crackled beside them, he refused to look at Felicia again. A faint flush had crept into his ears.

Felicia glanced at Adrien and shook her head, silently telling him to give Draco a break.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" she asked, shifting the focus. "Your family always seems to have some ridiculous story, so I'm guessing it'll be somewhere entertaining."

Adrien caught the cue, gracefully sliding into the nearby chair. He stretched out with a satisfied sigh. "Oh, you know how it is," he said lazily. "Queensburys don't do quiet holidays."

He leaned back, propping his feet on the table despite Draco's disapproving glance. "We're off to France this year. Some fancy thing in Versailles. My mother's convinced I need to 'expand my social connections.'"

He rolled his eyes. "Which, obviously, means 'stand around in itchy dress robes while ancient wizards talk politics over overpriced wine.'"

Draco scoffed without looking up. "Sounds tragic," he said dryly.

Adrien grinned. "Oh, it is. But there'll be top-tier food, absurdly expensive gifts, and probably a scandal or two before the night's out."

He waggled his eyebrows. "So, you know, not a total loss."

He turned back to Felicia, his smirk still in place, though his gaze had softened. "Sure you don't want to drop by? I'd love to see you outclass a bunch of stuck-up French purebloods. Could be fun."

Felicia gave a soft laugh. "As fun as that sounds, I'd rather not get myself banned from ever entering France."

She cast a glance toward Draco, noting how he'd stiffened slightly—no doubt wondering if she was about to accept Adrien's invitation instead of his. She looked back at Adrien with a faint smile.

"I don't think I'll go, though. My mother would probably kill me if she found out I went to something like that without her. She has a thing about milestones."

Selene Forester insisted on being present for all of Felicia's "firsts"—first time in each country, first meetings with key figures, first appearances in high society circles. Sentiment was rare among the elite, but Selene made a point of weaving it into places where there was otherwise little room for it.

Adrien chuckled. "Didn't peg Mrs. Forester as one of those mums. Wants to make the introductions herself, huh?"

He smirked. "Fair enough. Wouldn't want to rob her of the honor."

Draco, still feigning disinterest, turned a page in his book—though he hadn't read a word of it since the conversation started.

Adrien stretched again, his gaze shifting between the two of them. "Well, I suppose that means I'm suffering through the fancy French nonsense alone." He sighed dramatically. "Unless Malfoy here decides to crash the party."

Draco scoffed. "Absolutely not."

Adrien grinned, clearly amused. "Didn't think so. The Manor doesn't do socializing—unless it's meticulously curated and bloodline-approved."

He shot a knowing look at Draco before rising to his feet. "Anyway, I should probably start pretending I care about packing. If I don't, my mother will send a Howler."

As he walked off, he threw a glance back at Felicia, his smirk shifting into something just a touch more genuine. "Enjoy your milestone-free holiday, Forester."

Draco exhaled sharply, finally looking up from his book and over at Felicia. "You really dodged a nightmare with that one," he muttered, shaking his head.

Felicia covered her mouth, trying to suppress a laugh. The whole thing was comical.

When she looked at Draco again, her golden eyes seemed warmer than usual. She wanted to accept his invitation—his mother truly was a remarkable witch, and Felicia had always liked her. But Lucius was another matter entirely. He had never treated her poorly, exactly, but there was something unsettling about the way Draco changed in his presence.

Draco seemed smaller around his father. Diminished. And Felicia knew she wouldn't last an entire holiday watching that happen without eventually saying something.

"Oh—right. Since I won't be seeing you," she said, reaching into her robe pocket and pulling out a small, wrapped gift. She set it gently on the armrest nearest him. "Don't open it until Christmas… and I'll know if you do. There's a spell on it."

Draco's eyes flicked to the little package, then back up to her. For a moment, his expression was unreadable.

"You put a spell on my present?" he scoffed, picking it up with deliberate care. "That's so like you, Forester."

Despite the teasing, there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something softer he didn't want to name.

His fingers brushed over the wrapping as if testing for hidden enchantments, but he didn't try to open it. Instead, he gave a crooked smirk, tilting his head just slightly.

"Guess I'll wait, then," he said smoothly. "Though if it explodes when I open it, I will hex you."

"Mm… an exploding present does sound like a fabulous idea for your birthday," she said with a smirk. "I suppose I could start working on the spells to make that plausible."

"Brilliant," Draco scoffed. "Now I've got that to look forward to." He muttered it like a complaint, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. "Just try not to blow up the common room in the process. I happen to like my things uncharred."

He tucked the small package into his robe pocket, leaning back again with practiced nonchalance. "You know," he mused, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, "I could have sent you something, too. But since you insist on staying here, I suppose you'll never know."

His smirk deepened, though it didn't quite mask the way his fingers lingered on the gift a bit too carefully, turning it over in his hand like he was memorizing the shape of it.

"I suppose I won't," Felicia said evenly. She knew he didn't have anything for her—not really. Still, she tilted her head in thought. "I'll probably be working on spellwork I'm not technically supposed to know."

Draco shook his head, already imagining returning to a more dangerous version of her. Typical Forester.

Felicia rose to her feet, a spark of excitement already lighting in her amber eyes. She was clearly slipping into planning mode, her mind racing ahead.

Draco leaned back, feigning disinterest as she walked away. But his fingers drummed idly against his knee, and when he was sure no one was looking, he slipped his hand into his pocket again, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the wrapped gift.

Maybe, just maybe, Christmas wouldn't be so intolerable this year after all.