Your mother, Eris L/N, and Narcissa Malfoy had been thick as thieves since their own Hogwarts days. So when you came along—squalling, red-faced, and utterly unimpressed with the world—it was only natural that Narcissa would sweep into St Mungo’s with a bouquet of white lilies and a three-year-old Draco in tow.

This is Y/n, she’d said, nudging Draco forward. Your new best friend.

You were four months old. Draco was eight months old. You had no say in the matter.

And so the arrangement began.

They’re already holding hands, your mother had cooed, and Narcissa had dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

Destined, Eris. Simply destined.

And so you were.

Playdates every Tuesday and Thursday. Shared holidays at the L/N cottage in Cornwall. Pottering about the Manor gardens with Draco pointing at things and demanding to know their names. You learned to walk holding onto his sleeve. You learned to talk by repeating his words.

When you were five, he gave you a clump of daisies tied with a grass blade. Pretty for you, he’d said, chest puffed out with importance.

When you were seven, he pushed you into a muddy puddle because you’d picked up his favourite toy broom without asking.

You’d cried. He’d cried. Your mothers had laughed, wiped you both off, and sat you down for tea with cucumber sandwiches cut into stars.

They’re just so close, they’d sigh, watching you sit side by side in your respective high chairs, kicking each other under the table.

Inseparable.

But here’s the thing nobody ever said aloud.

You never liked him. Not really. Not in the way they meant.

And Draco? He never liked you either.