Snark and Spark

Chapter One: Snark and Spark

The Great Hall at breakfast was a symphony of scraping cutlery, fluttering owls, and murmured spells—but Harry Potter heard none of it. His eyes were fixed across the hall, locked onto a very specific platinum-blond head bent over a cup of tea.

Draco Malfoy.

Still perfectly dressed, still speaking in a voice like silk over daggers, and still managing to get under Harry’s skin with the ease of someone who had memorized every one of his buttons.

But things had changed.

There was no Voldemort. No prophecy. No war looming like a thundercloud over their heads. Tom Riddle had been caught decades ago, long before he ever became the Dark Lord. The Wizarding World had never erupted into war. Dumbledore was alive and tired but not battle-scarred. Hogwarts was safe, if not a bit overdramatic.

Harry still lived with the weight of his name—The Boy Who Lived, after a tragic house fire orphaned him as a baby. People whispered about him, but no one expected him to defeat a dark wizard anymore. His biggest challenge these days? Surviving N.E.W.T.s... and not strangling Draco Malfoy.

Harry bit into his toast as Draco laughed at something Pansy said. It wasn’t a loud laugh. Just a small smirk curling the corner of his mouth, like he knew something no one else did. Like he was in on a secret Harry desperately wanted to know.

Hermione glanced up from her Arithmancy notes. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Ron said through a mouthful of eggs. “You’ve got that look like you’re trying to set him on fire with your eyes.”

“Maybe I am.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Honestly, mate, either hex him or kiss him already. This tension is exhausting.”

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice.

Across the hall, Draco looked up. Their eyes met.

Draco smirked.

Harry scowled.

---

Later that afternoon, Dueling Club resumed in the Great Hall, with desks cleared and protective wards cast. Professor Flitwick stood on a stack of cushions, cheerful as ever.

“Remember, students: controlled magic, respectful conduct, and no aiming for the groin. Yes, Mr. Weasley, that includes you.”

Harry stood on one side of the platform, wand ready. He hadn’t planned on joining today, but when Draco stepped onto the opposite side, casually tossing his robe over his shoulder, something in Harry had said *challenge accepted*.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter. Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry smirked. “Figured someone had to teach you what a real duel looks like.”

“Charming,” Draco said, stepping into position. “Try not to cry when I disarm you.”

Their wands moved almost simultaneously.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!”

A flicker of light, a clash of spells. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two boys traded jinxes, charms, and insults with equal flair.

“Rictusempra!”

Draco dodged, hair falling slightly over one eye. “Oh please, Potter. Tickling spells? Are we twelve?”

“You’re the one who still throws tantrums in the hallway.”

“That armor *deserved* it.”

“You hexed a suit of armor.”

“It insulted my hair!”

“Didn’t know you talked to metal, Malfoy.”

Draco sent a stinging hex that barely missed Harry’s shoulder. “Better than talking to your reflection all day.”

Harry laughed, even as he blocked. “You wish I looked at *you* like I look at my reflection.”

There was a beat—a flicker in Draco’s eyes.

And then he smiled.

It was infuriatingly soft.

Their duel ended in a draw, according to Flitwick, but Harry walked away feeling like he’d just lost something and gained something all at once.

---

That night, the Gryffindor common room buzzed with the usual post-dinner chatter. Hermione was rewriting her entire Transfiguration essay because McGonagall had sighed too loudly while reading the first draft.

Ron was half-asleep on the couch, a Chocolate Frog hanging from one hand.

Harry sat near the fire, textbook open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading.

He was thinking about Draco’s eyes.

Grey. Cold, usually. But earlier today, for a second, they’d warmed. Just a bit.

Just enough to make Harry wonder what it would be like to see them soften again.

“Hey,” Ron mumbled. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, too quickly. “Just tired.”

Ron cracked one eye open. “Still thinking about the duel?”

Harry hesitated. “Something like that.”

Ron grinned. “You like him.”

“I do not.”

“You *do.*”

Harry sighed, sinking lower into the armchair. “Maybe. A little.”

Ron snorted. “A *little*?”

“I don’t know what to do about it.”

Hermione, still scribbling furiously, didn’t even look up. “Tell him. Before he tells you.”

Harry blinked. “You think he—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione said, finally looking up. “Harry, he flirted with you *during a duel.* He only does that with people he likes. Or people he’s plotting to kill. Either way, you’ve got his attention.”

“And you haven’t died yet,” Ron added helpfully.

Harry groaned.

He was doomed.

And possibly, incredibly, excited about it.

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