Chapter Text
The first real cold snap of the season arrived overnight, icing over the windows of Hogwarts and turning the castle corridors into a warren of chilly stone and muffled footsteps. Students pulled their scarves higher and walked faster between classes, and Hagrid could be heard complaining loudly about the frost on the pumpkins. But the cold wasn’t what had the school buzzing that morning.
At breakfast, the Great Hall was alive with speculation. The enchanted ceiling was a swirl of pale grey clouds and drifting snow, but the real storm was brewing on the floor below.
“It’s an exchange programme,” Hermione explained, as if she’d organised the whole affair herself. “Durmstrang’s sending six students to spend the winter term here. Apparently, it’s part of some international magical education initiative. Very forward-thinking.”
Ron made a face. “Durmstrang? Isn’t that the place where all the students look like they wrestle bears for fun?”
"The whole point of this is not jumping to stereotyping," Hermione sighed. “And I'm sure the students are perfectly lovely.”
Before anyone could argue further, the great doors creaked open with a bit more theatre than strictly necessary, and in walked the Durmstrang students.
They entered in a wedge formation, red and black cloaks billowing dramatically, like someone had briefed them on how to make an entrance and they’d taken it very seriously indeed. At the head of the group was a boy who moved like the floor should feel honoured to be stepped on.
Tall, with impeccably neat black hair that looked offensively expensive and shone like it had been kissed by moonlight, he paused just long enough in the centre of the room for everyone to get a good look. Then, with all the arrogance of a boy who’d probably been told he was a prodigy since infancy, he made his way to the Slytherin table.
Draco Malfoy, who had up until that point been enjoying a particularly good crumpet, looked up in mild confusion as the Durmstrang boy slid into the seat directly across from him.
“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Ron muttered. “Of course, he goes straight for the snake pit.”
The rest of the Durmstrang delegation fluttered vaguely behind, taking spots dotted along the Slytherin table like elegant, silent ducks. There was a murmur around the hall, a mixture of admiration and thinly veiled judgment.
“I’ll say one thing,” Theo remarked from down the Slytherin table. “He’s giving Draco a run for his money with that hair. You reckon he triple conditions?”
Across the table, the Durmstrang boy turned his head slowly and assessed Draco with a look that was both calculating and casually dismissive. Then, to the surprise of absolutely everyone, he winked.
Draco blinked. Then blinked again, but with more disdain this time.
There was a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been the beginning of a horrified snarl. Instead, he very deliberately rolled his eyes, turned back to his plate, and picked up another crumpet with the weary air of someone refusing to engage with madness.
The Durmstrang boy looked vaguely put out. He was not, one imagined, used to being ignored.
That was where it all began.
They met again in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The Durmstrang boy- Aleksandr Vasiliev- had already gained a sort of mythic reputation by day two, mostly because he had corrected Professor Flitwick’s pronunciation of an obscure spell during Charms, and done it in the tone of someone genuinely trying to be helpful while still managing to sound devastatingly superior.
Draco had not taken it well.
So when they were placed in a group together, along with one poor Hufflepuff girl who looked like she was considering throwing herself out the window, the tension was immediate.
“I’ve already completed this section,” Aleksandr said, glancing over the worksheet. “It’s quite basic.”
“It’s introductory,” Draco said with a tight smile. “Because not everyone has had the benefit of being taught combat magic by Bulgarian psychopaths.”
“I wouldn’t call him a psychopath,” Aleksandr said, utterly calm. “He’s only tried to murder two students. Statistically, that’s very low for Durmstrang.”
Draco’s nostrils flared. “Well, here at Hogwarts, we don’t consider attempted murder part of the syllabus.”
Aleksandr raised a brow. “Is that not what you all spent fourth year doing?”
The Hufflepuff girl giggled nervously and slowly began inching her desk away.
By Thursday, it was war.
In Potions, they competed over who could produce the clearest Draught of Insight. (Aleksandr’s glowed faintly. Draco’s turned gold. Snape refused to comment and awarded them both top marks, which only made it worse.)
In Transfiguration, they spent twenty minutes passive-aggressively turning each other’s rat sculptures into increasingly complex materials- wood, glass, quartz, a functioning model of a rat made out of interlocking brass gears.
In Arithmancy, they both completed the final equation before Professor Vector had finished writing it on the board. Draco smirked. Aleksandr smiled thinly. Neither looked at the other, which meant they were absolutely looking at the other.
Harry watched all of this with increasing unease.
Not because he cared, obviously. Not because it mattered what Malfoy did, or who he glared at with that intense, furrowed-brow thing he usually reserved for Harry himself. No.
It was just...
Well, it was a bit off-putting, watching someone else be Draco’s enemy. Someone new. Someone with shiny hair and a slight accent and the gall to wink like that wasn’t a crime. He found himself staring more than was strictly reasonable. And the more he watched Aleksandr, the more bizarre, petty thoughts began to creep in.
Like how annoying it would be if someone accidentally hexed his eyebrows off. Or if a rogue hippogriff kicked him. Or if he tripped and got run over by the Knight Bus.
Hermione caught him glowering at the back of Aleksandr's head during lunch. “You all right?” she asked.
Harry started. “Fine.”
Ron squinted at him. “You look like you’re planning a murder.”
“I’m just… observing,” Harry muttered, still staring across the room. “He’s my enemy.”
“Er,” said Ron.
“No, listen. Malfoy is my enemy. It’s basically official at this point. You don’t just- just get a new one halfway through our last year.”
Hermione closed her book slowly. “Are you feeling... territorial?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Harry snapped. “You can’t abandon years of perfectly functional antagonism for some flashy new rival from overseas. It’s rude.”
Ron burst into laughter.
Hermione rubbed her temples. “Harry, are you sure this isn’t just... jealousy?”
Harry blinked. “Of what?”
“Of who, maybe,” she said dryly.
Ron snorted. “Mate, you’ve got it bad. Do you want Malfoy to hate you best?”
“Yes!"
By Friday, Hogwarts was abuzz, and it wasn’t about Quidditch or a troll in the dungeons this time.
It was about Malfoy and Aleksandr.
"Did you hear they both got detention for hexing each other outside Charms?"
“I heard Aleksandr sent Malfoy a Howler in Bulgarian and threatened his life. Or asked for his hand in marriage.”
“Did you see them in the corridor yesterday? They were practically nose to nose. Honestly, the tension.”
Harry was sick of it.
Sick of the whispering, sick of the watching, sick of pretending he didn’t know why he was so bothered by any of it.
And the worst part? Draco hadn’t even been being particularly mean to him lately. Barely acknowledged him at all. He’d even skipped their usual post-Transfiguration corridor collision, where Draco usually “accidentally” shoulder-barged him and Harry pretended not to like it.
He felt like chopped liver. But angrier.
By lunchtime, he'd pretty much had enough and walked with a scowl on his face and eyes firmly on the ground to avoid risking a glance at Aleksandr's stupid shiny hair, which is precisely how he ended up bumping directly into Draco.
"Shit, sorry," A splatter of thick gravy landed right on Malfoy's polished black shoe. Harry winced. Here it comes, he thought, heart doing that weird, unpleasant-yet-excited flutter.
Malfoy looked down at his shoe. His jaw twitched. Then- “Tergeo,” he muttered, casually swishing his wand at his foot before turning back to Blaise beside him. “-and then he said I was being overly dramatic, can you believe the absolute nerve? The boy’s got a persecution complex the size of-”
Harry stood frozen, tray still in hand, gravy dribbling over the edge. That was it? No insult? No dramatic flourish of indignation? No Potter, you cretinous trollspawn, look what you've done?
He stared after Draco, the burn of humiliation mingling with something far pettier. He dumped his plate onto the Gryffindor table with a loud clatter, turned on his heel, and stormed after him. “Hey!” he snapped.
Draco barely turned, looking vaguely annoyed until Harry grabbed a fistful of his sweater and yanked. “What the-?”
“I spilt gravy on your shoe,” Harry said tightly.
Draco blinked at him. “Yes, I noticed, you stupid numbskull. I had to clean it up.”
That should have made Harry angrier. It really should have. But the insult was so perfectly Malfoy, so familiar, that something inexplicably warm twisted in his chest.
He grinned.
Actually grinned.
Draco scowled. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“You think I’m a stupid numbskull.”
Draco squinted at him like he was trying to work out whether Harry had taken a Bludger to the brain. “Yes?”
“So you still hate me.”
There was a pause. Blaise, now standing a few feet away, had gone conspicuously silent, arms folded with the world’s most interested expression. Draco tried to tug his jumper out of Harry’s grip, unsuccessfully. “What are we even talking about right now?”
Harry stepped a little closer. “Do you hate me more or less than Aleksandr?”
Draco’s eyes widened slightly, and, yes, definitely, his ears went a little pink. “What?”
Harry tilted his head, watching him with infuriating curiosity. “It’s a simple question. More or less?”
“Is this a joke? Have you finally gone mental?”
Harry leaned in, close enough that Blaise took a slow, delighted step backwards, clearly planning to repeat every detail of this to Pansy later. “I just want to know where I stand,” Harry said.
Draco opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again, like a fish gasping for air- or maybe for the will to live- and his face was rapidly approaching the colour of a well-boiled beetroot. His eyes flicked up to Harry’s, then down again, as though whatever he was looking at directly in front of him was more dangerous than eye contact.
Harry, confused and a little bit dizzy from the whole thing, couldn’t work out what Draco kept glancing at. His mouth? His chin? His... was there something on his jumper?
Then suddenly, “Where you’re standing is far too fucking close to me, back off, Potter.” Draco shoved him. Not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to knock Harry a step back and his sense of dignity a few more.
Then he turned and stalked off down the aisle, jumper tugged into place, shoulders rigid, ears still pink, muttering something that definitely included the word dickhead.
Harry stood there for a beat, slightly dishevelled, and then-
Grinned. Again.
Like an idiot who’d just been insulted and shoved but had still somehow won something deeply stupid and deeply important.
He turned around, ignoring the way half the Hall was staring at him now (and Blaise looked like he was about to physically combust with delight), and made his way back to Gryffindor table, tray swinging jauntily in one hand.
Hermione looked at him over her goblet of pumpkin juice with the wide, alarmed eyes of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.
“What on earth was that?” she demanded.
Harry dropped into his seat, still grinning like he’d just stolen Christmas. “Nothing,” he said airily. “I’m still his enemy. Don’t worry about it.”
Ron, halfway through a sausage roll, muttered, “Felt more like a lovers’ quarrel to me.”
“Shut up,” Harry said cheerfully, and reached for the gravy.