"Detention. Both of you."
Professor McGonagall's lips were pinched tighter than ever. "Midnight. Trophy Room. I expect absolute silence."
Draco and Emma didn't speak as she turned on her heel and stormed away, her tartan robes billowing.
But the silence didn't last long.
"Nice going, Hawthorne," Draco drawled, his arms crossed. "Who hexes a fake spider in Transfiguration?"
Emma shoved a strand of red hair out of her eyes, unbothered. "It looked real. And screamed like your fan club when I hit it."
Draco gave a low laugh. "You're completely unhinged."
She smirked. "And you love it."
He hated that she might be right.
⸻
Midnight came too quickly.
The Trophy Room was bathed in flickering torchlight. Shadows danced across golden plaques, dusty Quidditch cups, and long-forgotten honors. The heavy oak door groaned shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the chamber.
"Professor Filch left the list," Emma said, picking it up from the display table. "Polish every trophy. No magic."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course. Manual labor. How barbaric."
Emma already had a rag in hand and was leaning lazily against the far wall. "Don't strain yourself, Malfoy. Wouldn't want you chipping a nail."
He stalked toward her, standing tall until she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. "Careful," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You're already in enough trouble. Keep running your mouth and I'll find creative ways to shut you up."
Emma raised an eyebrow, smug. "Promises, promises."
Draco's jaw ticked. He took a step closer—close enough to count the freckles on her nose. "You don't get it, do you?"
"I get that you like to throw your weight around when things don't go your way."
"I get that you like provoking me."
Emma's lips curled into a slow smile. "That's because it's fun watching you pretend you're still in control."
His hand slammed against the wall beside her head, caging her in. "You think I'm pretending?"
Her heart jumped—but she didn't let it show. "If you were in control, you wouldn't be this close."
His eyes flicked down to her lips for the briefest second.
She saw it.
Felt it.
And loved it.
Draco leaned in, voice like velvet and threat. "You don't know what you're playing with, Hawthorne."
Emma's voice was breathy but defiant. "Then show me."
A thick silence filled the space between them, electric and dangerous.
Draco held her gaze for a long moment. Then, with maddening restraint, he pushed away and turned his back to her.
"Get to work," he said coldly, tossing her a rag. "Unless you want another week of this."
Emma caught it, eyes narrowed.
"Coward," she muttered under her breath.
He heard it.
He liked it.
But he didn't give her the satisfaction.
Not yet.
Emma polished the same golden plaque for the fifth time—mostly to keep her hands busy. Her pulse was still a little too loud in her ears.
Draco hadn't looked at her since backing away. But she felt him. Every time he moved behind her. Every time he exhaled. Every time his shadow stretched across the glass cases beside her, commanding the room like it was built for him.
Arrogant. Cold. Controlled.
Until she pushed him too far.
And he liked it.
She glanced at him through the glass reflection as he cleaned the House Cup from four years ago. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, muscles tense, jaw sharp. The torchlight kissed his features, highlighting the Malfoy marble cheekbones and that carefully controlled scowl.
"You missed a spot," she said casually.
Draco didn't glance up. "I'll polish you next if you keep talking."
Emma smirked. "Tempting offer. Think Filch would mind?"
That made him pause.
He set the cup down slowly, deliberately. Then turned.
"Do you want another detention?" he asked, walking toward her again, slow and measured like a predator playing with its prey.
"I think you want a reason to keep me here," she said, not backing down. "At your mercy. Alone."
Draco's hand caught her wrist before she could set down her rag. Not harsh, but firm. Intentional.
"You think this is my mercy?" he whispered, stepping into her space again. "You think I'm the one breaking?"
Emma's chin lifted, defiant despite the quickening in her chest. "I think you've been breaking since the first night you saw me this term and didn't know how to handle it."
Draco's fingers flexed around her wrist, then slowly slid away—up her arm, past her shoulder, until he was gripping the collar of her robe.
"I handle everything," he murmured, but the strain in his voice betrayed him. "You're just... loud."
Emma leaned in, lips near his ear. "I think you like me loud."
The breath he let out wasn't a laugh—it was something darker. Rougher. His hand dropped, and suddenly he grabbed her waist, pulling her just enough that her body brushed against his.
"You're going to get yourself in trouble," he warned, his voice low and deadly calm.
Emma whispered, "Then stop me."
Silence.
Thick. Charged. Brittle.
But instead of kissing her, instead of losing control like she dared him to, Draco released her.
He took a slow step back. Then another.
His control returned like a shield snapping into place.
"Get out," he said, voice tight.
Emma blinked, surprised. "Excuse me?"
"I'm finishing this myself. You're done."
"Malfoy—"
"I said get out."
She stared at him, furious and flustered all at once. But she saw it—the flush at his throat, the fire in his eyes. The control cracking.
He wanted her.
But he refused to give in.
So, she turned.
With deliberate calm, she sauntered toward the door and paused, hand on the handle.
Without looking back, she said sweetly:
"Next time, don't pull me close if you're too scared to do anything about it."
The door clicked shut behind her.
And Draco was left in the trophy room, fists clenched, heart pounding, and one truth ringing louder than any curse he could conjure:
Emma Hawthorne was going to ruin him.
And part of him wanted her to.