You weren’t supposed to care.

Not about him, of all people.

It had started in first year — that very first night on the train. Draco had barged into your compartment, chin high and voice smug, offering his hand to Harry like he was doing him a favour.

Harry had refused.

You hadn’t.

You hadn’t taken his hand either — but you’d looked him in the eye, unfazed, and told him he was standing in front of your Chocolate Frogs.

And from that moment on, he never left you alone.

At first, it was war.

Snide comments in the corridors. Jabs at dinner. Whispered insults that somehow felt personal and not at all like jokes. He’d pull your ponytail when you passed. You’d jinx his shoelaces together during Charms.

But even then — it was different. His insults had a kind of attention to them. Like he saw you. Like he liked the way you snapped back.

By second year, it had shifted.

There were moments. Silent ones. Shared glances across classrooms when Harry wasn’t looking. Long, charged pauses in the library when you both reached for the same book. Detentions spent side by side, parchment between you and legs almost touching, tension crackling like electricity in the space you didn’t fill.

You hated him. You hated that you didn’t.

And he… gods, he was insufferable. Always smirking. Always pretending like he didn’t care. But you’d caught him looking at you when you weren’t meant to see. When your laughter burst out mid-class. When you were reading alone in the courtyard, hair falling over your cheek. He looked like he was holding something back.

By third year, he stopped pretending he wasn’t obsessed.

He still teased. Still mocked. But now his words had changed — his voice softer when it was just the two of you. His jokes darker, quieter, like secrets only you understood.

He started leaving things for you. A note pressed between pages in the library. A sugar quill you’d mentioned wanting once in passing. His scarf around your shoulders when you’d forgotten yours by the lake.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But you kept the scarf anyway.

Now it was fifth year.

And you were completely, irrevocably undone.

He’d kissed you once. It had been an accident. A fight that spiraled — both of you too loud, too close, too angry. He’d said something cruel, you’d shoved him, and then—

His mouth was on yours. Like he hated himself for it. Like he couldn’t not.

You didn’t speak for a week after.

But by the end of that week, you were back in the same hallway, behind the same tapestry, kissing like the world was ending.

You knew you weren’t supposed to want this. That your brother would murder him. That your names were oil and water, impossible and wrong.

But when he looked at you — really looked at you — it was like none of that mattered. He didn’t see Harry’s sister. He didn’t see a Gryffindor. He saw you.

And when you were alone, he changed.

He became quiet. Gentle. Careful in a way that made you ache.

You fought more often now.

Not over houses. Not over blood.

But over what this was. What you were doing.

He’d kiss you breathless behind the library shelves and then push away like he hated himself for it.

You’d run into his arms on the Astronomy Tower, only to tell him you never wanted to see him again two days later.

But somehow — you always came back.

Always.

Even tonight.

You found him on the bridge behind the greenhouses, like you always did when everything got too loud. The wind tugged at your robes. His blond hair was falling into his eyes.

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned beside him. He Just passed you a chocolate bar without speaking.