Draco hadn’t noticed you at first. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

It was easier to pretend. Easier to act as though your presence in the far end of the library was incidental. Coincidence. Just another student seeking silence, and the illusion of solitude. But then came the second glance.

The way your head tilted as you read—half-thoughtful, half-distracted, as if your mind was always somewhere Draco couldn’t follow.

He hated that. He hated you. He hated the way you sat—like you belonged in places no one had given you permission to enter.

Draco looked back to his book, fingers curled tight around the spine. His pulse had picked up, just slightly. He felt it in his throat, in the sudden stillness of his breath.

He didn’t know when it had started, this… fixation. This itch beneath the surface. Draco had catalogued you like he did all threats—coolly, clinically, pretending that his observations were detached.

But this wasn’t detachment, was it? No.

There was something too sharp in the way he noticed you. Something too deliberate. A slowness in his gaze that lingered a second too long. He told himself it was suspicion. Curiosity, at worst. But even he couldn’t believe that anymore.

He turned the page. He hadn’t read a single word.

His fingers, pale and precise, moved to adjust his cuff—an old habit. The silk scraped lightly against his wrist. Soothing. Familiar. He shifted slightly in his seat, back straighter than necessary, jaw locked, eyes trained on the words in front of him like they meant something.

They didn’t.

Draco had built himself into a perfect structure—clean lines, hard edges, silver tongue and iron spine. A Malfoy. Untouchable. You made him feel like none of it mattered.

There were moments—quiet ones, fleeting, dangerous—when he found himself thinking about your hands. Your mouth. The curve of your throat when you swallowed too hard in class. The way you bit the inside of your cheek when concentrating—an echo of his own nervous tic. Your expression when you were angry. Or worse—when you weren’t angry at all.

He hated the softness in you. He hated the way it made something in him yearn.

Draco pushed his chair back slightly, one boot nudging the stone floor with a low scrape. It was too warm in the library. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. The fabric clung tighter. He breathed in, slow, measured, trying not to choke on the scent of parchment and dust.

You hadn’t looked up again. That made it worse.

Draco thrived in attention—controlled attention. When he was the one dictating the narrative. But this—this quiet indifference—unmoored him. Made him feel like a boy again. Small. Desperate. Wanting to be seen and terrified of what would happen if he was.

He risked another glance. There you were. Still reading. Still calm. Still maddeningly unaffected.

His fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the rigidness in his spine, the familiar hum of restrained energy behind his sternum. Like he was about to duel. Or break.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to care.

But it was there—buried under layers of contempt and instinct. The way your voice stuck in his head. The way you always tilted your head when confused. The way you looked at everyone else.

The way you didn’t look at him anymore. That was new. That was what scared him most.

At some point, your interactions had shifted—less antagonistic, more distant. And Draco couldn’t decide which was worse. He’d built himself on rivalry. On power dynamics and verbal warfare. But this—this silence—felt like exile.

He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t want to. But he knew how it felt. Like absence. Like punishment. Like something he hadn’t earned and didn’t understand.

He stood abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped behind him, louder than intended. A few nearby students glanced over. He didn’t meet their eyes.

He needed air.