Draco Malfoy

Well, of course.
I noticed Snape—Professor Snape, damn it—looking around the class this morning as we sat down. And his gaze lingered on me for exactly a second longer than necessary. Then on her. Then on me again.

I also thought: “Anything but this.”
He clicked his wand, and my bag flew onto the next desk. The very one where Snape Jr. was already sitting.

"Mr. Malfoy, " the professor's voice sounded as if I'd already done something wrong, "you will be paired with Miss Snape. I hope this won't cause you... any difficulties."

It won't deliver. Of course it won't deliver. I sat down so abruptly that the bench creaked. Crabbe and Goyle were left alone, now blinking dumbly from the next row. Traitors.

“Don’t get used to it, ” I said through gritted teeth, not even looking at her. “It’s temporary.”

I wanted to snap back, but then Severus began his lecture, and for some reason his gaze fell on our desk. The first one. As if by accident.

“Watch out,” I read in that look.

Draco knew enough about Cassandra Snape not to overestimate her, but not to underestimate her either.

First of all, her father is his head of house. And a favorite of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? A traitor? Draco didn't fully understand, but he knew for sure: Severus Snape was not someone to quarrel with. And his daughter was an extension of that.

Secondly, rumors. In Slytherin, they whispered:

"The mother was either a Muggle-born or a half-blood. Snape Sr. married her against all odds."
· "Cassandra didn't grow up on an estate, but somewhere in dirty Cokeworth."
"She brews better than many purebreds. Because her father dragged her to the lab from the cradle."

Draco filtered the gossip. But he remembered one thing: don't touch her. Not because she's weak. But because Severus Snape kills her instantly. He saw the professor scold Zabini for a careless joke about her. Without shouting. Quietly. And so, for a week afterward, Zabini brought ingredients on demand.

Third, Cassandra herself. Draco watched her furtively in the Slytherin common room. She kept to herself. She sat with a book or wrote letters—she didn't show them to anyone. She didn't smile at Parkinson or gossip with Greengrass. She answered monosyllabically. She dressed in black, silver, and dark green—no rhinestones or fancy buckles.

He once tried to joke in front of her about "the spy's daughter." Cassandra looked at him blankly, paused for three seconds, and left without saying a word. Draco felt like a complete idiot then. And he never did anything like that again.

The conclusion he came to: she doesn't suck up to purebloods, doesn't seek protection, doesn't harbor ambitions. But at the same time, she's Snape's best student in Potions (obviously). And she has a limit. What it is, is unknown. It's best not to accidentally touch it.

So when Professor Snape sat them down at the same desk, Draco sighed internally: at least it wasn’t Potter.

But he wasn't going to talk to her. Just in case.