You weren’t supposed to like him.

Not in first year, when Snape paired you with Malfoy for a potion’s project and he immediately scoffed, “Just my luck. A Potter.” Not in second, when he yanked your quill away in class and called you “Scar Jr.” Not in third, when his hand brushed yours under the table during detention—and stayed there. Not in fourth, when he kissed you behind the greenhouse after curfew, his lips still tasting like pumpkin juice and rebellion. And definitely not now.

Fifth year was worse. More dangerous. More real.

Because now it wasn’t just stolen glances in the corridors or sarcastic jabs laced with heat. It was touches. Whispered words. His fingertips on the small of your back when no one was looking. You’d lie awake at night, thinking of the way he said your name when no one else could hear it — softer than anyone might imagine of Draco Malfoy.

You weren’t supposed to like him. But God, you did.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because you were you. A Gryffindor. Harry’s little sister. His shadow. His legacy. His everything. And Draco was… the enemy. The boy raised to hate your last name. The boy who spit insults like poison but touched you like something fragile.

It had started innocent, you swore. Potions. Teasing. Detentions. Until one night in the library — you arguing in hushed tones, him slamming a book shut and muttering, “Do you ever stop talking?” And you whispering back, “Do you ever stop looking at me?”

He didn’t answer.

But the next day, he kissed you behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy and didn’t apologize.

Now, it was every day. Every night.

This time? It was in the Astronomy Tower. After dinner. Just after curfew. The stars were bleeding through the glass dome, and your heart thudded louder than your steps as you reached the top stair and saw him—already waiting, already leaning against the wall with that stupid smirk.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re lucky I came.”

He moved closer, eyes flickering down your frame like he couldn’t help it. You knew that look. It meant his mood was dark and sweet and dangerous. It meant he missed you. It meant he’d pretend not to care, but his hands would be on your waist before you could blink.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered anyway, when his fingers were already tracing your wrist. “You shouldn’t want me,” you whispered back.

But you both knew the truth: there were a hundred reasons not to want each other.

And none of them mattered anymore.

So you let him pull you close. Let him kiss you like no one else could ever know. Let him bury soft words in your neck like secrets, breathing things like, “You’re mine,” and “I don’t care who your brother is.”

And you—God help you—you believed it.

Because for all the hatred, the rivalry, the war building around you… In his arms, none of it existed.

Just his heartbeat, yours, and the stars.