The Green-Eyed Monster
**Harry**
It was just a regular afternoon in the courtyard.
Books scattered. Sunlight filtering through the trees. Laughter echoing across stone. Nothing unusual.
Until he showed up.
The new Durmstrang transfer, Leon Grigore — all charm and confidence and annoying perfection — strolled up to their table like he belonged there.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, eyes on Draco.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Actually, we—”
“Sure,” Draco interrupted, scooting over with a tiny smile.
Harry clenched his jaw.
**Draco**
Leon was smooth. He complimented Draco’s handwriting. His robes. Even the way he rolled his Rs when reading from their Potions notes.
It was flattering. Harmless.
But what wasn’t harmless was the way Harry kept fidgeting.
First, it was the tapping quill. Then, the sighing. Then, the glaring.
At first, Draco ignored it.
Until Harry finally muttered, “Maybe Grigore should go flirt somewhere else.”
Leon raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
Harry didn’t look up. “I said we’re trying to study. And your constant commentary isn’t helping.”
Draco blinked. “Harry.”
Leon stood. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t welcome.”
“You’re not,” Harry said flatly.
Leon gave Draco an apologetic smile before walking away.
Silence.
Then Draco turned to him, voice sharp. “What the hell was that?”
**Harry**
He knew he messed up.
The second Draco’s expression hardened, the second his voice lost its teasing edge — Harry felt the shame creep in.
“I just— He was annoying,” Harry muttered.
Draco crossed his arms. “Or maybe you didn’t like someone else paying attention to me.”
Harry looked away. “That’s not—”
“Because if that’s the case, Potter, then say it.”
Harry’s pulse thundered.
Draco leaned forward, voice lower now. Dangerous. “Or are you only allowed to be the one who cares?”
That stopped Harry cold.
Cares.
Not hates. Not tolerates.
Cares.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Couldn’t say a damn word.
Draco stood.
“Exactly what I thought,” he said, and walked off.
**Draco**
His heart was racing.
Why was it racing?
Because Harry was jealous. Because for a moment, just a moment, Draco saw it — the look in his eyes that said, mine.
And yet… Harry said nothing.
So Draco walked away.
But he didn’t get far.
Because a few minutes later, the sound of footsteps followed him, and then—
“Wait.”
He turned around.
Harry was standing there, flushed and breathless, fists clenched at his sides.
“I was jealous,” he said.
Draco blinked.
Harry stepped closer. “I didn’t like seeing him flirt with you. I didn’t like that you smiled at him. And I didn’t like that he got your attention without having to earn it.”
Draco said nothing. Just waited.
Harry’s voice dropped, barely audible.
“…Because I want to be the one you look at like that.”
**Harry**
It was the first time he said something close to truth.
The first time he let himself feel without filtering it through logic or fear.
Draco didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he stepped forward — slowly, deliberately — until they were barely inches apart.
And he whispered, “Then stop pushing me away.”
Harry’s breath hitched.
Draco didn’t touch him.
Didn’t kiss him.
But he left Harry standing there with every nerve in his body on fire.
And that was worse.
Or better.
He didn’t know anymore.