Obsessed

I told myself I wasn’t obsessed.

That I was just *concerned* about Malfoy. That it was normal to notice things—how he’d been moving differently lately, how his Quidditch robes had started fitting a little looser, how he sometimes touched his stomach absentmindedly when he thought no one was looking.

I was just being *observant*. That’s what I told myself.

But when he fell off his broom during the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, all my carefully constructed lies shattered.

It wasn’t a normal fall. Malfoy had been chasing the Snitch, his movements sharp and controlled as always, when suddenly, his body tensed. His broom wobbled—just slightly at first—but then his face twisted in what looked like *pain.* Before I could process it, he was plummeting.

I didn’t think. I just *moved.*

The roar of the crowd blurred into nothing. I dove, faster than I’d ever flown before, reaching out—*Come on, come on*—and then, just as he was about to hit the ground, my arms caught him.

His weight knocked the breath out of me, and we tumbled onto the grass in a heap.

The stadium erupted in gasps and cheers, but I barely heard them. I was too busy staring down at Malfoy, who was cradling his stomach with wide, panicked eyes.

Something wasn’t right.

Madam Hooch rushed over, but I didn’t let go. Not until Madam Pomfrey practically wrestled him from my arms and whisked him away to the hospital wing.

And, like the *perfectly sane and normal person* I was, I followed.

---

I waited outside the hospital wing for hours, pacing, ignoring Hermione and Ron when they tried to drag me away.

“Mate,” Ron said, rubbing his face in exasperation. “You *hate* Malfoy. Why do you care so much?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Finally, when Madam Pomfrey left for a moment, I did what any rational person would do—I snuck inside.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the enchanted candles hovering near the ceiling. Malfoy was lying on one of the beds, looking pale but very much awake.

His eyes snapped to me the second I stepped closer. “Potter,” he drawled, though his voice was weaker than usual. “Come to finish me off?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, sitting on the chair beside his bed. “Are you okay?”

He scoffed, but his fingers twitched against the blanket. “Touched by your *concern,* really.”

I was about to snap back when I noticed it—his hand resting protectively over his stomach. A gesture so small, so fleeting, that I might have missed it if I weren’t so… *obsessed.*

A thought struck me. A ridiculous, impossible, *insane* thought.

And yet—

“You’re pregnant.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Draco went completely still. His usual sneer faltered, replaced by something raw, something close to *fear.*

“Get out,” he whispered.

“Malfoy—”

“*Get out!*” His voice cracked, his fingers gripping the sheets. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he wasn’t denying it.

Holy *shit.*

Draco Malfoy was pregnant.

And I—obsessed, paranoid, *stalker* that I apparently was—was the only one who knew.