Chapter Text
Obsessed With The " Enemy "
Drarry
The green-eyed monster didn't just linger.. it consumed him. Draco was burning with envy at the mere sight of Harry with another man, a possessiveness that felt entirely too intense for someone he wasn't even dating
And it all ends with, confusing and messing with Harry's mind.
Pov Harry
"Does he even like me?" I muttered, fingers twisting through my hair as I tried.. and failed not to stare across the Great Hall at Malfoy. I was chatting with Ron about Quidditch, but my mind kept snagging on the same maddening question. One minute Malfoy's practically breathing down my neck, all smirks and proximity, and the next he's colder than a Dementor's kiss. It's enough to drive you mental.
It messes with my head, this push and pull. But then I hear his voice. When he says 'You're mine,' and those eyes fix on me... I swear I just completely lose my composure.
It makes me want to submit myself to him.
I walked over to the lockers and spotted Ginny. "Hey, Ginny," I said, catching her eye.
"Hey, Harry!" she smiled back.
We made a little small talk about classes and Ron's latest Quidditch antics before her expression shifted, turning serious.
"So what were you and Malfoy talking about?" she asked, a protective edge in her voice. "I saw him leaving and you were just standing there. Did he hurt you?"
My cheeks instantly went bright red. "Oh, nothing," I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my face. "He... he was just talking, you know him..."
Yeah, but he seemed pretty mad," Ginny said, her brow furrowed with concern. "He even snarled something about 'watch where you're going, Weasley' at me as he stormed past. I just hope you are okay."
Hermione walked up just then, joining us at the lockers. "Hey, Ginny. Oh, hey, Harry. Where have you been? We missed you in Charms."
I quickly looked away, trying to act casual. "Nowhere! Just talking to Ginny..."
"Oh, and Malfoy," Ginny added with a knowing look.
"What did Twat! want?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp with immediate suspicion.
"Nothing," I muttered under my breath, hoping they didn't catch the obvious lie.
"Nothing?" Hermione repeated, narrowing her eyes. That look meant she wasn't buying it for a second. "Harry, that usually means everything. Did he threaten you? Did you duel? What happened?"
I felt a fresh wave of heat in my cheeks. Ginny had the decency to look slightly sympathetic, but Hermione was on the warpath.
"Honestly, Hermione, it's fine," I insisted, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly. "It was just... a conversation."
"A conversation," Ginny echoed skeptically, leaning against the locker next to mine. "With Malfoy? The bloke looked ready to hex the nearest person in sight when he left here."
I avoided their eyes, focusing intensely on a scuff mark on my shoe. "Well, he didn't hex me. Everything's fine."
Hermione and Ginny shared a look over my head..a silent, exasperated conversation I knew well.
"Fine," Hermione sighed, clearly deciding to drop it for now, though I knew it would come up later. "Just... if that git bothers you again, you tell us, okay? We deal with him together."
"Deal," I agreed, maybe a little too quickly, desperate to change the subject. "So, how was Charms? Did Flitwick mention the exam results?" My mind was somewhere else.
It’s a constant, agonizing loop. My thoughts are a tangled mess of what ifs and contradictions, and every single thread leads back to him. Does he like me? I whisper the question in the quiet moments, in the depths of the night when the darkness feels a little less lonely. But then, the memory of his sneer, of his cruelty, flashes behind my eyes, a cold, sharp blade cutting through the fragile hope.
He’s a walking contradiction, and it's driving me mad. One moment, he's burning a hole through me with that intense gaze, a possessive, almost desperate look that makes my blood run hot and my legs feel weak. He whispers something like, "You're mine," and for one insane, breathtaking second, I believe him. But then he pulls back, a wall of ice, and all his old venom returns. The insults, the posturing, the reminder of who we're supposed to be enemies.
I can’t figure him out. His eyes are a story I can’t read, an indecipherable code. Is he messing with me? Is this just another twisted game to him? Because if it is, I'm already losing. I find myself searching for him in the Great Hall, my eyes sweeping the Slytherin table, feeling an unnatural pull toward the one person I should hate. I think about him during lessons, during Quidditch practice, when I’m supposed to be focused on anything but him.
Does he like me? The question is a ghost that haunts me, a whisper in the back of my mind. And the worst part is, I’m terrified of the answer, no matter what it is.
I've asked him, too many times to count. I’ve tried to pin him down, tried to force a straightforward answer from a boy made entirely of sharp edges and contradictions. But every single time, every answer he gives me, just leaves me more unsure than before.
It’s never a simple 'yes' or 'no.' It’s a deflection, a scathing comment that sounds almost like a compliment, or a look that speaks volumes but says nothing concrete. He uses his words like a shield and a sword all at once. He’ll sneer and say something like, "Don't be ridiculous, Potter, as if I'd ever stoop that low," while simultaneously taking a step closer, his eyes fixed on my mouth.
It’s maddening. One minute I think I’ve got it figured out, that I’ve seen the genuine him behind the mask, and the next he shatters it with another insult. I'm left standing there, heart racing and head spinning, wondering if I just imagined the vulnerability I saw a second ago. I can’t tell what's real and what's part of his act. The uncertainty is the worst torture he’s ever inflicted on me.