Slytherin Boys - ONE SHOTS

Draco Malfoy - Through the Hoops

Context: Draco POV.

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Hogsmeade is nothing but a snow globe today, all shook up by some careless hand. And the sky? It's a dead, dull grey; the static hiss of an ancient TV set.

The air reeks of wet wool. Ground's a treacherous sheet of ice—feels like walking on a frozen lake, crunching with every step. Umbridge's idea of a treat, letting us out before the O.W.L.s slaughter.

Normally, my weekends in Hogsmeade tread a well-worn path. But today, I'm deviating from the script. Why? Simple: Mother dearest decided I needed to "broaden my horizons," which is pureblood for "find someone suitable to marry before you embarrass us all."

Crabbe and Goyle flanking me, their brains working as hard as a pair of over-boiled eggs. I'm in this shop that's the definition of claustrophobic. It's being inside a troll's nostril. Full of things I don't want to see. I could count the patrons on one hand, if I cared to; and still have fingers left to flick off the shopkeeper.

I'm rummaging through some overpriced trinkets, wondering if there's anything here less appealing than Goyle's table manners, when it happens. A tap on my bottom, unplanned brush against reality. I turn, ready with a sneer, and it's you.

A Slytherin like myself, but up until now, practically a ghost to me. We've shared classes, but never words. Pureblood, poised, and probably as surprised as I am. You're crouching, your eyes widening slightly, looking like you just accidentally poked a dragon and wondering whether it's going to breathe fire or just bite your head off. Probably both.

"Watch it," I snap, but it comes out less sharp than I intend.

"You're in the way," you snap back, and it's like music. Your voice is steady, confident. It's rare to find someone in this snake pit who doesn't either cower or fawn.

I smirk, playing my part. "In the way? I am the way in these halls," I drawl. But it's all for show, the arrogance, the swagger. Inside, I'm replaying every moment I've seen you in the corridors, trying to remember you.

You roll your eyes, I know you enjoy this banter as much as I do. "Sure. I'll be sure to bring a measuring tape next time," you fire back.

Beneath it all, there's a vibe. Respect? No, that's jumping the gun. More like recognition, perhaps.

And it makes me think. You remember that time in Potions, don't you? When Snape humiliated me for a botched Draught of Peace. I saw you smirking from your bench. But it wasn't the usual Malfoy-hating glee. You knew the humiliation, knew it deep in your bones. Like you'd been there too, in your own way.

We're still talking. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but I'm a terrible liar," I spit out, my sneer not making it to my eyes.

Your laugh catches me off-guard, authentic, heartfelt, like a slap in the face. "Likewise, Malfoy. Keep out of trouble, will you?"

Watching you strut off, robes catching the wind. And as you vanish into Hogsmeade's snowy blur, I realise I'm grinning like an idiot. Something way off-brand for a Malfoy, Slytherin royalty.

Maybe.

Respect?

Could be.

That was the first time I actually talked to you. Before that, you were one of those subtle background colours that don't catch the eye until you realise the whole picture would fall apart without it.

Why hadn't I noticed you before? Probably the same reason I don't notice the house-elves cleaning my shoes. You were a pureblood, sure, but not on my radar. My mistake, apparently.

But now, I can't unsee you. It's infuriating. I see you in the Great Hall, in the corridors, the few times you speak in class; speaking when it's tactful, listening when it's advantageous. Clever girl.