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His.

The Weight of Mercury

The morning after was not the clean break Draco Malfoy had hoped for. He had spent the remaining hours of the night staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed, the scent of lavender and wormwood seemingly etched into his very skin. He had told himself the kiss was a moment of weakness, a chemical reaction triggered by the fumes of the Draught of Living Death and the sharp bite of firewhisky. He had convinced himself that by sunrise, he would be the cold, untouchable prince of Slytherin once more.

He was wrong.

When he entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the high enchanted ceiling was a dull, stormy grey, reflecting his mood with irritating accuracy. He took his seat at the Slytherin table, flanked by Blaise and Theo, and pointedly ignored the looks of confusion from Pansy. He reached for the black coffee, his movements stiff.

Then, she walked in.

Clara was tucked between two Hufflepuff girls she’d likely helped with an essay the night before. She looked exactly as she always did—small, slightly disheveled, and radiating a quiet warmth. But as she passed the Slytherin table, her eyes found his. She didn’t blush. She didn’t look away. She gave him a tiny, knowing nod and a smile so soft it felt like a physical blow to his ribs.

"Malfoy, you’re crushing that toast," Blaise remarked, leaning back with a smirk. "Did the Muggle-born finally break your brain during your study session?"

Draco dropped the mangled bread and wiped his hands on a silk napkin. "Don't be tedious, Blaise. The project is simply taxing. Dealing with incompetence is an exhausting endeavor."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Theo chimed in, his eyes darting between Draco and Clara's retreating back. "Exhaustion? You look like you’ve been hit by a Bludger and liked the sensation."

Draco didn't deign to respond. He stood up, grabbing his leather satchel. "I have Advanced Arithmancy. Try not to fail your morning lectures in my absence."

He walked away, but he could feel her gaze on him until he cleared the double oak doors. It was maddening. He was used to being the hunter, the one who dictated the terms of every social interaction. Now, he felt like a man walking a tightrope, and Clara Parker was the only one holding the line.

***

The Potions lab felt different that afternoon. The tension was no longer just the product of Draco’s simmering resentment; it was thick, electric, and heavy, like the air before a lightning strike.

Professor Snape moved between the stations, his presence a dark cloud. "Today," he announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "you will finalize the filtration of your Draughts. One mistake in the separation process will result in a liquid that is not a sleeping potion, but a permanent poison. Begin."

Draco set to work immediately, his movements surgical. He set up the silver mesh and the crystal vials, focusing entirely on the task at hand. He didn't look at Clara. He couldn't. If he looked at her, he would remember the way she had felt in his arms, and he would lose the rhythmic precision required for the filtration.

Clara, however, seemed to have other ideas.

"Draco," she whispered, leaning over the table. "The heat on the burner is a bit high, isn't it? The edges are starting to turn amber."

"I know what I’m doing, Parker," he snapped, though he immediately adjusted the dial. He hadn't noticed the color shift. He had been too busy counting his own heartbeats.

"You're doing that thing again," she said softly, reaching out to steady a glass rod that was vibrating under his tense grip.

"What 'thing'?"

"The thing where you pretend you’re a statue," she murmured. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand—just a graze, but enough to make his breath hitch. "You don't have to be perfect today. The potion is already beautiful."

"The potion is a grade, Clara," he hissed, using her first name for the first time in a setting that wasn't a dark corridor. He caught himself and cleared his throat. "It’s a requirement for my mastery. It isn't 'beautiful.' It’s functional."

Clara smiled, that infuriatingly kind smile that made him want to kiss her and yell at her simultaneously. "It can be both. Just like you."

"If you don't stop talking, I will transfigure your tongue into a slug," he muttered, though there was no heat in the threat.

Across the room, Snape’s eyes narrowed as he watched them. He didn't say a word, but the way he lingered near their station suggested he was seeing far more than just a successful brew.

As the class ended, Draco began packing his scales with unnecessary force. He wanted to leave before the silence between them became a conversation.

"Draco, wait," Clara said, catching his sleeve as he turned to go.

He stopped, looking down at her hand on his expensive wool robes. "What now, Parker? I have things to do. Places to be."

"I left my notebook in the library last night," she said, her large brown eyes looking up at him through her lashes. "When I... when I ran after you. I went back this morning, but Madam Pince said a student had picked it up. She wouldn't tell me who."

Draco felt a cold prickle of unease. Clara’s notebook was filled with her messy scrawls, her "intuitive" notes on potions, and, he suspected, her private thoughts. If a Slytherin like Montague or Goyle had found it, they would use it to humiliate her.

"I’ll find out who has it," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

"You don't have to do that," she said, her brow furrowing. "I just thought maybe you saw someone near the table when you left."

"I wasn't looking at the tables when I left, Clara," he said, his silver eyes boring into hers. "I was a bit preoccupied with the fact that you were following me."

She flushed a deep, rosy pink, her freckles standing out against her skin. "Right. Well. If you hear anything..."

"I’ll handle it," he interrupted. "Go to your next lecture. And for Merlin’s sake, try not to trip over your own feet on the way there."

He watched her go, his mind already racing. He didn't go to his next class. Instead, he headed straight for the Slytherin common room.

***

The atmosphere in the common room was different during the day. It was quieter, the green light from the lake shimmering across the floor. Draco found what he was looking for in the far corner, near the fireplace.

Pansy Parkinson was sitting with Millicent Bulstrode, a small, leather-bound book held in her hands. She was giggling, pointing at a page while Millicent let out a guttural laugh.

"Listen to this," Pansy mocked, her voice high and cruel. "'I think the silver in his eyes is like the moon over the Black Lake. Cold, but I want to touch it anyway.' Can you believe it? The little mudblood thinks she’s a poet. And she’s talking about Draco!"

Draco felt a surge of cold, white-hot fury. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years—not the calculated annoyance he usually wore, but a raw, protective rage.

He crossed the room in three long strides. Before Pansy could react, he snatched the notebook out of her hands.

"Hey!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet. "Draco! We were just having a laugh. You won't believe the rubbish she wrote about you."

"I believe," Draco said, his voice like a shard of ice, "that I told you to keep her name out of your mouth, Pansy."

Pansy blanched, stepping back. "It’s just a joke, Draco. She’s a nobody. She’s a fluke. Why do you care what that girl writes in her diary?"

"Because," Draco said, leaning in until he was inches from her face, "she is my research partner. And anything that belongs to her is under my protection until this project is finished. If I see you touch her things again, or if I hear a single word of what’s in this book repeated in these halls, I will make sure your father’s next meeting with the Board of Governors is his last. Do I make myself clear?"

Pansy’s lip trembled. She looked at the surrounding students, but no one moved to help her. Draco’s reputation was not built on kindness, and when he was like this—quiet and lethal—he was terrifying.

"Clear," she whispered.

Draco tucked the notebook into his inner jacket pocket, right against his heart. He turned and walked out of the common room, the heavy stone door thudding shut behind him.

***

He found her in the owlery.

It was a cold, drafty place, filled with the soft hooting of birds and the smell of straw. Clara was standing by the window, feeding a small, tawny owl. She looked lonely against the vast, grey sky of the Highlands.

"You’re going to catch a cold up here," Draco said, his voice echoing in the stone chamber.

Clara jumped, turning around with a hand over her heart. "Draco! You scared me."

He walked toward her, pulling the notebook from his pocket. He held it out to her. "Next time, try not to leave your life story lying around for vultures to find."

Her eyes widened, and she snatched the book, clutching it to her chest. "Who had it? Did they... did they read it?"

Draco looked away, staring out at the distant mountains. "Pansy had it. And yes, she read some of it."

Clara’s face fell. She looked down at her shoes, her shoulders slumping. "Oh. Then everyone knows. They’re going to laugh at me, aren't they? The girl who thought she could look at a Malfoy."

"No one is going to laugh," Draco said firmly. He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she was forced to look up at him. "I dealt with them. No one will speak of it."

Clara searched his face, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Why? Why do you keep helping me and then acting like you hate me? It’s confusing, Draco. I don't know which version of you is real."

"Both are real," he said, his voice rough. "I am a Malfoy. I am arrogant. I am mean. I was raised to believe that people like you are beneath me. That is real."

He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over the bridge of her nose, tracing the freckles he had once claimed to despise.

"But this is real, too," he whispered. "The way my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest when you smile. The way I can't think about anything but the way you tasted last night. It’s like mercury, Clara. It’s heavy, and it’s poisonous, and it’s running through my veins."

Clara reached up, placing her hand over his. "Mercury is also beautiful," she said softly. "It reflects everything around it."

"I don't want to reflect the world," Draco said, leaning down. "I just want to be near you without feeling like I’m betraying everything I was born to be."

"Then stop being what you were born to be," she whispered, rising on her tiptoes. "And just be Draco."

He kissed her then, and this time, it wasn't a collision. It was a slow, deliberate sinking. The cold wind of the owlery swirled around them, but Draco felt only the warmth of her. He pulled her against him, his hands tangling in her brown hair, losing himself in the softness he had tried so hard to hate.

She was a disaster in the lab. She was a Muggle-born. She was a girl who apologized to chairs and saved spiders.

And as he held her, Draco realized with a terrifying clarity that he would burn the world down before he let anyone take her away from him.

"We have Potions tomorrow," he murmured against her lips, his voice laced with a rare, genuine amusement.

"I know," she breathed, her eyes bright. "Are you going to be mean to me again?"

Draco smirked, the familiar mask of the Malfoy heir slipping back into place, though it felt lighter now. "Probably. I have a reputation to maintain, Parker. And you still can't chop a Valerian root to save your life."

Clara laughed, and the sound was the only thing that mattered in the cold, grey tower. "I’ll try harder, Draco."

"Don't," he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Just stay exactly as you are. I’ll do the chopping for both of us."

They stood there for a long time, two students from the same house but different worlds, watching the sun struggle to break through the clouds. For the first time in twenty years, Draco Malfoy didn't care about the crown he wore. He only cared about the girl who made the mercury in his blood feel like gold.