Potter? || Draco Malfoy x Reader

» Chapter 1, Lessons in Faking «

I was sure of exactly three things.

1. Revenge is just another word for justice.

2. Money does buy happiness.

3. Stay away from Dylan McCarthy Williams or my brother will have me murdered in my sleep.

And how badly did I need this, really?

Technically, I was failing Statistics II—yes. And sure, Professor Shaw said this weekly tutoring thing would be the only way to get through his class, after the midterm I had "completely violated" (his words, not mine).

But let's face it. Perhaps college just wasn't my thing. Despite my mother's reputation, statistics certainly wasn't. And McCarthy certainly wasn't, either.

His tall frame hovered over a stack of papers, dark brows drawn together as he assessed one of them. Sitting in the small office chair, coffee-colored hair falling into his features, he hadn't acknowledged my presence in the doorway. Not after I'd knocked. Not after I'd opened the door. Not after I'd—

"Athalia Payton Pressley," he drawled, not looking up. My body deflated in sync with the sound of his voice, and he dropped the red pen used to scribble into his notes. Somehow, the gesture felt intentionally passive-aggressive. Like he was saying How dare you interrupt my work? without ever opening his mouth.

"Would you just sit?" he continued. "Or were you planning on staring at me for the entire hour?" His eyes found mine and his brows rose, with a prompting look on his face that made me want to run the other way, but instead, forced me into the chair opposite his. I crossed one leg over the other, holding the hem of my skirt in place, smoothing a hand down the wool fabric of my long sleeve.

Innocently, I blinked at him. "I was promised Shaw's best and brightest," I said, pulling a stack of notes out of my bag. "Have you seen them, by any chance?" With a loud thud, I maneuvered my papers onto the desk, and ignored that I had barely half as many as he did.

An unamused huff escaped him, and he reached for the passive-aggressive pen again. The smile on his face clearly said: I'm not here to bullshit back and forth with you, I'm here to ass-kiss for extra credit and a good reputation. It also said: I'd much rather kill you now and live with the consequences than do this. But any threat was hidden behind deep dimples and the words "You can't really be surprised, can you?"

He gestured to his own frame, down the plain black t-shirt, silver chain disappearing under its neckline. His outfit didn't necessarily scream Straight A Student! but McCarthy's reputation preceded him, and no, I wasn't surprised. He just didn't need to know that.

McCarthy was, if nothing else, what my brother hated most in this world. More than strawberry ice cream ("It's a sorry excuse of a flavor, Athalia! No, I'm not debating you on this.") More than Eric (my first boyfriend). More than our dead parents (for... dying?).

There were a few noteworthy reasons, and a couple of hundred less so.

1. McCarthy stole his jersey number.

2. McCarthy stole his spot as team captain.

3. McCarthy stole his girlfriend, Paula, three days after their break up.

Of course, it was pure coincidence McCarthy ended up with the number seven on his jersey, and in the end, their bickering had cost both of them their chance at captaining the Hall Beck soccer team. But Henry Parker Pressley was of the firm belief that McCarthy had been out to get him, from the moment they met three years ago.

I didn't know why, and I didn't particularly care, either. To Henry, all that mattered was that I stood in solidarity with him. So McCarthy was high up on my own metaphorical hit list simply because he was #1 on Henry's.