If anyone had ever tried to use you and Draco Malfoy as proof of that, you would’ve laughed in their face. Because whatever existed between the two of you wasn’t some harmless rivalry. It was war.

From the moment you first met at eleven years old, you seemed destined to clash. Your personalities were simply too large to coexist peacefully. Every conversation became an argument. Every disagreement became a competition. Every shared class became another opportunity to prove who was better.

You thought Draco Malfoy was arrogant beyond belief. Entitled. Smug. Completely insufferable.

Draco thought you were infuriatingly loud, impossibly stubborn, and had an irritating habit of always needing the last word.

Neither of you could remember how the rivalry started. Neither of you ever wanted it to end.

You argued so often that it became part of Hogwarts itself, as familiar as moving staircases and enchanted ceilings. If arguing had been a school subject, the two of you would’ve graduated with perfect marks and enough trophies to fill an entire cabinet.

Your friends certainly thought so. Blaise made a game out of taking bets over when the two of you would finally snap. He’d originally put his money on fourth year. Pansy and Daphne never stopped laughing whenever another blazing row erupted, insisting there was far too much tension between two people who supposedly despised each other. Astoria was the only one who consistently attempted to keep the peace, usually giving up after five minutes. Theo and Mattheo, meanwhile, never missed an opportunity to point out what everyone else seemed able to see.

Your rivalry followed you through every year at Hogwarts. Professors silently prayed they wouldn’t have to partner you together. The library became a battlefield of grades and achievements. Quidditch matches became personal vendettas. Even silence turned competitive, with each of you determined to outperform the other without speaking a single word.

It was never just about winning. It was about proving, once and for all, who stood above the other.

Then came your final night at Hogwarts.

The castle buzzed with the strange mixture of celebration and melancholy that only graduation could bring. Tomorrow everyone would leave. Childhood would be over. Friends would scatter across the country—and the world—to begin careers, apprenticeships, marriages and lives beyond the castle walls.

Naturally, the Slytherins dealt with the occasion the only way they knew how. By throwing a party.

Pansy and Blaise ensured it was nothing short of extravagant. The common room transformed into a sea of emerald and silver lit by floating candles. Music echoed against the stone walls. Students danced wherever there was space to stand. Firewhisky flowed almost endlessly, accompanied by expensive wines and enough alcohol to ensure nobody would remember every detail by morning.

Neither you nor Draco were particularly restrained.

By the time the night was nearing its end, the room had become hot, loud and overcrowded. A dancing student stumbled into you. You stumbled into Draco.

Predictably, another argument erupted.

Unable to hear yourselves over the music—and equally unwilling to let the other have the final word—you both stormed into the quieter dormitory corridor, still throwing insults with every step.

Years of frustration poured out. Every annoyance. Every rivalry. Every competition. Every stolen victory. Every infuriating glance across a classroom.

Alcohol loosened tongues. Tempers flared.

Then something shifted.

Perhaps it was the silence of the corridor. Perhaps it was the firewhisky. Perhaps it was seven years’ worth of tension finally snapping beneath the weight of everything left unsaid.

Whatever it was…

The next thing either of you knew, your lips had crashed together. Every insult dissolved into desperate kisses. Every ounce of frustration transformed into something neither of you had ever wanted to acknowledge.

Almost without thinking, you stumbled into Draco’s dormitory.

By morning, reality returned.

You woke beside the one person you had spent seven years claiming to hate. Panic won. Before Draco stirred, you slipped quietly from the room, convincing yourself it had meant nothing.

Moments later, Draco awoke to an empty bed and told himself exactly the same lie.

Neither of you spoke about it. Neither of you reached out. And within hours, Hogwarts was behind you.

Graduated. Finished. Over.

Life moved on.

You excelled during Auror training, quickly earning a reputation for your talent in Defence Against the Dark Arts and your determination in the field. An opportunity with the Italian Ministry was too good to refuse, so while most of your friends remained in London, you packed your life into suitcases and moved abroad.

It was everything you’d dreamed of.

Until, several weeks later, your world turned upside down.

You were pregnant.

There had only ever been one possibility. One night. One mistake. One wizard.

Draco Malfoy.

Because, apparently, fate possessed an exceptionally cruel sense of humour.

You considered writing to him countless times. You never did. Instead, you chose to raise the child yourself.

Months later, your son arrived.

Scorpius.

From the moment you held him, every uncertainty disappeared. He was perfect. Soft platinum-blonde hair. Bright silvery-grey eyes. The unmistakable Malfoy features staring back at you before he’d even opened them properly. If there had ever been room for denial, if you’d ever tried to lie to yourself before, it vanished the second you looked at his tiny face.

He was Draco’s son. There was no escaping it.

The following four years passed in a blur of Auror missions, sleepless nights, scraped knees, bedtime stories and countless moments that somehow made every sacrifice worthwhile.

Scorpius grew into the happiest little boy imaginable. He smiled at everyone. Trusted everyone. Loved everyone. He possessed an endless curiosity about the world, boundless energy, and a pair of dimples capable of melting even the coldest hearts without even realising.

But balancing life as both an Auror and a single mother became increasingly difficult. The Ministry wanted longer assignments. More travel. More time away from home.

More time away from your son.

Eventually, something had to give.

So you returned to Britain. You accepted a transfer to the London Ministry in a role that allowed you to be the mother Scorpius deserved, and for the first time in years, you found yourself back among familiar streets, familiar faces, and friends you’d desperately missed.

The first time Scorpius saw Diagon Alley, his entire world expanded.

His tiny hand remained wrapped around yours as his wide grey eyes darted between crooked shopfronts, enchanted displays and bustling witches and wizards. He gasped at every owl overhead, every broom in a shop window, every colourful explosion from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

You had arranged lunch with your closest friends at Accioffee! to celebrate your return. Pansy. Daphne. Astoria. Your honorary sisters. The women who had stood beside you through almost every important moment of your life.

The women who had absolutely no idea you had spent the last four years raising a son.

You couldn’t wait to introduce them to the little boy who had quietly become your entire world.

The café was warm and golden, tucked between a second-hand robe shop and a tiny apothecary, with steam curling from enchanted teacups outside the door. You pushed it open, letting the scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon wash over you.