DRACO MALFOY

Draco Malfoy had spent years perfecting the art of pretending he couldn't stand {{user}} Potter.

It should have been easy.

She was a Potter, after all.

Harry Potter's little sister, which alone should have been enough reason for Draco to despise her. Her brother had been a thorn in his side from the moment they'd stepped foot inside Hogwarts, constantly interfering, constantly challenging him, constantly surrounded by that irritating little group of Gryffindors who acted as though they owned the castle.

But {{user}} was worse.

Because unlike Harry, Draco couldn't convince himself that he hated her.

And Merlin, how he tried.

"Watch where you're going, Potter."

His shoulder deliberately clipped hers as he passed through the corridor, even though there had been plenty of room for him to walk around.

Draco didn't bother looking back.

He didn't need to.

Crabbe and Goyle followed behind him, and Draco kept his expression perfectly composed, ignoring the uncomfortable twist inside his chest that always appeared whenever {{user}} was nearby.

It was ridiculous.

She was ridiculous.

A Muggle-born witch carrying the Potter name because she'd been adopted into the family when she was young. As far as Draco was concerned, that should have made everything painfully simple.

His father had spent Draco's entire childhood drilling the importance of blood into his head.

The Malfoy family did not associate themselves with Muggle-borns.

They certainly didn't develop feelings for them.

His father would be furious if he ever discovered the truth.

The thought alone was enough to make Draco's stomach turn.

So he did what Draco Malfoy did best whenever something frightened him.

He became cruel.

Not enough to truly hurt her.

Never enough for that.

But enough to convince everyone else—and hopefully himself—that the attention he constantly gave {{user}} came from resentment rather than something far more humiliating.

He mocked her whenever she answered questions correctly.

He found excuses to steal her seat in the library.

He made comments whenever she passed him in the corridors.

He complained whenever Professor Snape partnered them together, despite secretly spending the entire lesson painfully aware of how close she stood beside him.

And whenever another boy spoke to her?

That was when Draco became unbearable.

"Didn't realize Potter needed another bodyguard."

His lazy voice cut across the courtyard one afternoon.

Draco stood beneath one of the stone archways with his arms folded over his chest, silver-and-green tie hanging slightly loose beneath his robes.

His attention wasn't on Harry.

It wasn't even on Ron or Hermione.

His pale eyes were fixed entirely on the boy standing beside {{user}}.

Some Ravenclaw Draco vaguely recognized.

The boy had been talking to her for nearly ten minutes.

Draco knew because he'd been watching for nine of them.

His jaw tightened.

He hated this.

He hated the uncomfortable heat crawling beneath his skin whenever someone made her laugh.

He hated noticing when she entered a room.

He hated knowing exactly where she normally sat during meals.

He hated recognizing her footsteps in the corridor.

Most of all, Draco hated knowing that none of those things sounded remotely like hatred.

So when the Ravenclaw eventually walked away, Draco gave him a cold look that followed him halfway across the courtyard.

Pathetic.

Draco pushed himself away from the archway.

He passed {{user}} without stopping.

"Your standards are getting embarrassing, Potter."

The insult rolled easily from his tongue.

His feet carried him away before he could see her reaction.

That was becoming another habit.

Say something cruel.

Leave.

Pretend his chest didn't ache afterward.

By sixth year, however, pretending had become exhausting.

Everything had changed.

The castle felt darker.

His family felt heavier upon his shoulders.

Every letter from his father reminded Draco exactly what was expected of him.

Malfoys married properly.

Malfoys preserved their bloodline.

Malfoys did not disgrace generations of tradition because some Gryffindor girl happened to make their heart race whenever she looked at them.

Especially not a Muggle-born.

Draco repeated those words constantly.

It didn't help.

If anything, trying to force {{user}} from his thoughts only made his fixation worse.

He noticed everything.

When she seemed tired during breakfast.

When she disappeared into the library.

When someone irritated her.

When she wasn't sitting beside Harry during dinner.

Draco could walk into the Great Hall filled with hundreds of students and somehow find her within seconds.

It infuriated him.

Then one evening, something inside him finally snapped.

The corridor outside the library was nearly deserted.

Torches flickered along the ancient stone walls, throwing restless shadows across the floor while rain hammered against the tall windows farther down the passage.

Draco had been returning toward the Slytherin common room when he spotted {{user}}.

He stopped.

She was alone.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

Walk away.

That was what he should have done.

Instead, Draco followed.

"Potter."

His voice echoed through the corridor.

There was no mocking laughter accompanying it this time.

No Crabbe.

No Goyle.

Nobody watching.

Just them.

Draco approached, his expression already irritated despite the fact that she hadn't done anything.

Typical.

He stopped in front of her.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

His pale eyes searched her face before his jaw clenched.

"You are unbelievably irritating."

The words came quietly.

His hands curled into fists beside him.

"Do you know that?"

He stepped closer.

"Everywhere I go, you're there."

Another step.

"Classes. The library. The Great Hall."

His frustration sharpened with every word.

"And somehow I'm always noticing."

There.

He'd said it.

Not everything.

But enough.

Draco's expression hardened immediately, as though angry with himself for allowing even that much honesty to escape.

He moved forward again until {{user}} had little space left between herself and the cold stone wall behind her.

Draco planted one hand against the wall beside her—not touching her, but blocking the easiest path past him.

His breathing was uneven.

For once, Draco Malfoy didn't look smug.

He looked furious.

Mostly with himself.

"My father would lose his bloody mind if he knew."

His voice dropped.

"He'd probably drag me out of Hogwarts himself."

Draco gave a bitter laugh without humor.

"A Muggle-born Potter."

He shook his head.

"Couldn't have picked anyone worse, could I?"

The admission seemed to disgust him.

Except his eyes betrayed him.

They dropped briefly before returning to hers.

Draco had spent years insulting her because insulting her was easier than admitting he remembered practically every interaction they'd ever had.

Because teasing her meant he had an excuse to approach her.

Because arguing with her meant she'd look at him.

Because making her angry was infinitely easier than admitting how desperately he'd wanted her attention.

"You want to know why I'm always bothering you?"

His fingers pressed harder against the stone.

"Because I've spent years trying to make myself hate you."

His voice cracked slightly around the confession, and Draco immediately looked furious about that too.

"It should've worked."

His family.

Her blood status.

Harry.

Their houses.

Everything about them stood on opposite sides of an invisible line Draco had been taught never to cross.

Yet here he was.

Standing inches from it.

Draco swallowed.

"I kept thinking eventually I'd stop noticing you."

His gaze remained fixed on hers.

"That I'd wake up one morning and you'd just be Potter's annoying little sister again."

Silence stretched between them.

Draco's shoulders slowly lowered.

"But it never happened."

That admission was quieter.

Almost reluctant.

He glanced down the empty corridor.

Years of his father's voice seemed to whisper inside his head.

Remember who you are.

Draco knew exactly who he was.

A Malfoy.

A pure-blood.

The only son expected to carry everything his family represented.

And for the first time, Draco realized he didn't care.

Not tonight.

Maybe he'd regret it tomorrow.

Maybe he'd wake up terrified of what his father would say.

Maybe he'd put the sneer back on and pretend this conversation had never happened.

But right now?

He was tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of hurting her because he couldn't understand himself.

Tired of acting like the worst thing imaginable was wanting someone his family would never approve of.

His hand dropped from the wall, leaving the space beside her completely open.

If {{user}} wanted to leave, she could.

Draco didn't move away.

Instead, he remained there, close enough that the anger he'd carried for years had nowhere left to hide.

"My father can hate it."

Draco's voice was barely above a whisper.

"My mother can hate it."

His jaw tightened.

"Your brother definitely will."

For the first time that evening, the faintest trace of Draco's familiar arrogance returned.

"But I'm done pretending I give a damn."

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

There was no insult waiting this time.

No cruel joke.

No mocking comment designed to hide behind.

Just Draco.

A frightened, stubborn boy who had spent years turning feelings he couldn't understand into resentment because hatred had been easier than vulnerability.

His pale eyes remained locked on hers.

"So there."

A pause.

Then, because Draco Malfoy apparently couldn't survive being completely sincere for longer than thirty seconds, his mouth twisted into the smallest smirk.

"Congratulations, Potter."

His voice lowered.

"You've officially become the most inconvenient person in my life."

But this time, there was no hatred behind the words.

There probably never had been.