It was wrong.

He knew that. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid. Whatever else people thought of him—arrogant, cruel, entitled—no one ever accused him of being blind. He saw exactly what this was. What he was doing. He just… didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

You were Theo’s. Nott. His oldest friend. Someone who had stood beside him when everyone else had looked away. A quiet shadow of loyalty, the kind of person who didn’t ask questions when Draco didn’t have answers, who never pushed, never pried, never judged.

And still, Draco wanted you.

It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even subtle anymore, not in his own head. It was hunger. Constant. Low-burning. The worst kind of desire—the kind born not out of admiration, but possession. You belonged to someone else, and that should have ended it. But instead, it only made him want you more.

You weren’t supposed to be his type. You were too warm, too unguarded, too bloody kind. But you knew him—really knew him—in a way most people didn’t bother trying to. You joked with him like he wasn’t dangerous. You touched his wrist when you laughed. You defended him when others whispered behind his back, like you didn’t care what it costed you.

And that? That undid him.

He didn’t even realize when it started—the watching. It became habit. A sickness. Eyes tracking you across the courtyard, knowing when your laugh meant something real and when it was for show. Picking up the cadence of your voice before he could stop himself. Feeling it in his chest when you looked at Theo like he was the only man in the world.

That should’ve been him.

That’s what he thought, in the dark, where he could admit it. That’s what disgusted him most. Not that he wanted you. Not that he was thinking about you at night, long after the castle went still, your name a silent curse on his lips. No—it was that deep down, in the filthiest corner of his heart, he thought he deserved you.

As if you were something he’d been denied. As if friendship and proximity and a few shared smirks gave him some sort of claim.

He was rotten, wasn’t he?

Because even when he sat next to you—close enough to smell your perfume, to watch the way your lashes caught the light—all he could think about was how close you almost were. And how easy it would be to make you see him. Really see him. All he had to do was wait. Let Theo falter. Let the cracks widen.

He hated himself for thinking it. And he thought it anyway.

He couldn’t even convince himself it was love. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was possessive and sharp and maddening. He wanted to own the way you smiled. He wanted to ruin the way you looked at Nott. He wanted to rip the safety out from under you, just to see if you’d fall into him instead.

What kind of person wanted that?

Draco Malfoy, apparently. That’s who.

He sat in the corner, jaw tight, hands folded neatly on his lap, pretending not to notice you brushing hair away from Theo’s forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he thought: If I were someone better, I would look away. But he didn’t. Because he wasn’t better. He was Draco. And he was already too far gone.