Chapter 8: Smiles Sharper Than Spells

I did not plan it at first. Revenge usually sounds loud in stories. Spells, shouting, dramatic confrontations in corridors. What I felt instead was quiet and sharp and steady, settling into place the morning after Malfoy’s word followed me into my dreams. If bloodlines were living threads, then so was pride. And Draco Malfoy had plenty of it. I spotted him in the Slytherin common area entrance hall before Potions, leaning against the stone archway like he owned the castle. He was laughing at something Pansy Parkinson said, smug and polished and completely certain of himself. My stomach flipped. Hermione noticed my pause immediately. “Melody,” she warned softly. “I know,” I said. And I did. But I also knew this would work. I walked up to him before I could talk myself out of it. “Malfoy,” I said pleasantly. He looked up, clearly expecting anger or fear or tears again. Instead, I smiled. It was small. Careful. Real enough to confuse him. His expression froze for half a second. “Thatcher,” he replied coolly. “Come to cry in public again?” I tilted my head. “No. I just wanted to thank you.” That did it. Pansy frowned. Draco blinked. “For what, exactly?” “For yesterday,” I said lightly. “You made something very clear to me.” His eyes narrowed. “Did I.” “Yes.” I stepped a little closer, lowering my voice just enough to make him lean in without realizing it. “You helped me see how much people notice you. How much weight your words carry.” He straightened, pride kicking in on instinct. “Of course they do.” “I suppose,” I added, glancing at his prefect badge, “that is what happens when someone grows up knowing exactly who they are.” The compliment landed. I could see it in the way his shoulders eased, the way his mouth twitched despite himself. Hermione was staring at me like she had discovered a new and deeply alarming species of magical creature. Draco studied my face now, searching for the trick. “You are acting strangely.” “Am I,” I asked innocently. “Or did you just assume I would hate you?” He did not answer that. Potions class was worse. Or better. Depending on perspective. I took the seat beside him. Pansy made a noise of protest, but I ignored it. “Do you mind,” I asked Draco, already setting my bag down. He hesitated, then shrugged. “Do what you like.” Professor Snape began droning on about antidotes, but Draco kept glancing sideways at me like I might explode. I leaned over slightly. “You are very good at Potions,” I said quietly. “Hermione mentioned it once. You have a steady hand.” He scoffed, but there was color in his cheeks. “She would know, would she. “I notice things too,” I replied. I laughed at one of his dry comments later. I handed him a sliced ingredient without being asked. When his potion went right and mine did not, I smiled and said, “Figures,” like it amused me. Confusion replaced cruelty in his eyes. By the end of class, he was the one watching me leave. Hermione caught up with me in the corridor immediately. “What in the name of Merlin was that.” “I am being nice,” I said calmly. “To Draco Malfoy.” “Yes.” She stared. “You cried yesterday.” “I know,” I said. “And he expected me to keep doing that.” Ron shook his head. “You are terrifying.” I glanced back once. Draco stood near the dungeon doors, expression unreadable, gaze fixed on me like he was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to behave. Good. Because the truth was this. Malfoy wanted power. Control. Reactions. And nothing unsettles someone like that more than kindness they cannot twist. If he had tried to break me with a word, then I would undo him with a smile. Quietly. Patiently. Thread by thread.