Obsessed

Draco Malfoy was up to something. I was sure of it.

It wasn’t just his usual snide remarks or the way he sneered when we crossed paths in the corridors. No, this was different. Ever since the Triwizard Tournament, Malfoy had changed. He didn’t taunt me as much anymore, and when he did, it lacked the sharp cruelty it once had. Instead, he carried himself with an air of detachment, as if he had better things to do than torment me.

Which was exactly why I couldn’t stop watching him.

At first, it was casual. I’d glance at him during meals, half-expecting him to spit an insult across the Great Hall. But he never did. He sat with his usual Slytherin entourage, but he was always distracted, idly twirling his wand between his fingers or staring at something far off, his expression unreadable.

Then, it became a habit. My eyes would search for him in class before I even realized what I was doing. I noticed things I never had before—how he bit his lower lip in concentration when reading, how his quill twirled effortlessly between his fingers, how the candlelight in the dungeons made his platinum hair shimmer like spun gold.

It was infuriating.

“What’s he up to?” I muttered to Ron and Hermione one evening in the common room.

Ron, who was stuffing his mouth with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, barely glanced up. “Who?”

I clenched my jaw. “Malfoy.”

Hermione sighed, not even looking up from her book. “Harry, not this again.”

I sat up straighter. “What do you mean, ‘not this again’?”

Ron snorted. “Mate, you’ve been going on about Malfoy for weeks. ‘Malfoy’s being too quiet,’ ‘Malfoy’s acting strange,’ ‘Malfoy looks like he’s up to something’—”

“He *is* up to something,” I insisted.

“Or,” Hermione said, finally looking at me over her book, “he’s just busy.”

Busy. That’s what she always said. As if Malfoy was just drowning in assignments and had no time for his usual antics. But I didn’t buy it.

Because I saw the way he moved—deliberate, precise, like he was keeping secrets. He stayed late in the library sometimes, hunched over old tomes with a furrowed brow. He vanished from the castle grounds on some nights, only to return looking flushed and winded. He had even started dressing differently—his robes fitted just a little too well, his hair styled instead of slicked back like before. He was still Malfoy, still sharp-tongued and infuriatingly smug, but he wasn’t *the same.*

And I couldn’t stop noticing.

It got worse when I started dreaming about him.

At first, they were vague—a flash of silver-blond hair, a pair of stormy grey eyes staring at me across a dark room. Then, they became clearer. I’d dream of chasing him down the corridors of Hogwarts, my footsteps echoing after his as he turned corners too quickly for me to catch up. Sometimes, I’d wake up breathless, my fingers gripping the sheets as if I’d just been holding onto something—someone.

I told myself it was just the mystery of it all. That my mind was fixating on Malfoy because he was acting out of character. That I just needed to figure out what he was hiding, and then I could let this obsession go.

So, I followed him.

I told myself it wasn’t stalking. I just happened to end up where he was—outside the library when he left late at night, in the Astronomy Tower when he stared at the sky like he was looking for answers, at the Quidditch pitch when he practiced alone after dark. And the more I watched, the more I realized—he was beautiful.

Annoying. Infuriating. Impossible. But beautiful.

One night, I finally lost control.

He was standing by the Black Lake, the moonlight making his skin glow like something out of a dream. I was supposed to stay hidden, to just watch like I always did, but something inside me snapped.

“What are you up to, Malfoy?” I demanded, stepping out from behind a tree.

Draco turned, blinking as if he wasn’t at all surprised to see me. His lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn’t as sharp as usual. “Potter,” he drawled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I took a step closer. “You’ve been acting different. I want to know why.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “And you’ve been watching me.”

My breath hitched. “I—”

“Obsessing over me,” he continued, taking a slow step forward. “Following me. Dreaming about me, maybe?”

My throat went dry.

Draco chuckled, low and amused. “What are you really looking for, Potter?”

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t even know the question anymore. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop.

And maybe—I didn’t want to.