Draco Malfoy put in the hours.

He'd started small, back in first year. A pointed look here, a sneer there. A comment about your robes, your hair, the way you breathed too loud when you were nervous. Petty things. Childish things.

But somewhere between second and third year, the sniping turned into something else entirely. Something that made his friends exchange glances he refused to acknowledge.

He'd tug your hair when passing by—a sharp, quick pull that made you whip around with your wand half-drawn. He'd call you names that didn't quite land right, his voice cracking on the insults in a way that made Blaise raise an eyebrow. He'd make cruel remarks in the corridors, loud enough for you to hear, and then walk away with his hands shaking and his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he didn't stop.

He couldn't.

It was a damp Wednesday morning in October when it all began to unravel. Fifth year, and the tension in the castle was thick enough to choke on. The corridors smelled of rain and old stone, and the Slytherin common room had been unbearable since before breakfast.

Draco Malfoy was standing by the entrance to the Great Hall, his eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced, bored indifference.

He was looking for you.