Not jealous
It started as a whisper of doubt. Small, insidious, like a thread being slowly pulled from an already-frayed sweater. Harry wasn’t even sure where it had come from at first. Maybe it was just his own mind playing tricks on him, the deeply ingrained habit of second-guessing anything that felt too good, too improbable.
Because this thing with Draco Malfoy—whatever it was—was exactly that. Too good. Too impossible. And surely, surely, too temporary.
Harry had been fine, truly. Or at least, he had convinced himself he was. He and Draco had fallen into a rhythm—stolen moments in empty classrooms, sharp banter softened by the occasional ghost of a smile, the press of hands against fabric, of mouths against skin. It was reckless and thrilling and completely out of control, but Harry had let himself believe, just for a little while, that it was real. That it meant something.
And then, Draco had smiled at Blaise Zabini in the Great Hall.
It was such a stupid thing. A passing moment, insignificant to anyone else. Draco had laughed at something Blaise had said, tilting his head in that slow, self-assured way, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. And Blaise—stupidly handsome, perfectly poised Blaise—had grinned back at him, leaning in just a little too close, speaking just a little too softly.
Harry had felt it like a slap to the chest.
He had tried to tell himself it was nothing. Of course Draco talked to Blaise; they had been friends since childhood. Of course he smiled at him like that. He was Malfoy, and Malfoy charmed people effortlessly, wielded attention like a blade, took up space like it was his birthright. But then there had been other moments—Draco sitting too close to Pansy in the common room, their heads bent together in deep conversation. Draco laughing at Theo Nott’s jokes, his hand resting casually on Theo’s arm. Draco not showing up to meet Harry the night before, claiming he had “lost track of time.”
It built, little by little, like stones stacking precariously on top of one another, waiting for the inevitable collapse.
By the time they were alone together in the Astronomy Tower that evening, Harry’s insides felt raw, stretched too thin with the weight of unspoken words. Draco was leaning against the stone railing, looking effortlessly put-together as always, the wind teasing strands of silver-blond hair into his eyes. He glanced at Harry, arching an eyebrow.
“You’re in a mood,” he said, ever-observant. “Well. More than usual.”
Harry swallowed, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Am I?”
Draco hummed. “You are. What is it? Did Weasley finally figure out how to eat without talking at the same time? Or did Granger assign you another terrifyingly detailed study schedule?”
Harry should have laughed. Should have rolled his eyes and let it go, should have shoved it down like he always did. But the words slipped out before he could stop them, rough and accusing: “Where were you last night?”
Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“You didn’t show up,” Harry said, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “You said you lost track of time, but I saw you in the common room with Pansy.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, frowning. “And?”
And it mattered, Harry wanted to say. And it felt like being forgotten. And it made me wonder if I’m just another one of your amusements, if you’re laughing at me when I’m not around, if this was never real to you at all.
Instead, he said, “Nothing. Forget it.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, pushing off the railing. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it very clearly does,” Draco said, voice sharper now. “So why don’t you tell me what, exactly, is making you glare at me like I just kicked your owl?”
Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just—” He hesitated, then let the words fall out, exhausted and aching. “I don’t know where I stand with you.”
Draco froze. For the first time, his usual ease faltered. “What?”
Harry let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I see you with them, Malfoy. You always have some charming remark for Blaise, some easy laughter for Pansy, some secret conversation with Theo. And I just—” He broke off, hating the way his voice sounded, hating the vulnerability scraping against his ribs. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be.”
Draco stared at him, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, to Harry’s utter frustration, he laughed.
“You’re jealous.”
Harry’s stomach twisted. “I—what? No.”
Draco smirked, stepping closer. “You are.”
Harry scowled. “I’m not—this isn’t about—” He groaned, shoving at Draco’s chest, but Draco only caught his wrist, fingers curling lightly around it.
“Potter,” Draco said, quieter now, gaze searching. “I don’t know where you got it into your thick skull that Blaise or Theo or Pansy mean anything compared to this, but I promise you—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re the one I wait for.”
Harry swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to believe him. He really, really did.
But the doubt had already rooted itself deep inside him, and he wasn’t sure how to pull it out.
Draco sighed, studying him for a moment longer. Then, with an exaggerated groan, he flopped back against the railing dramatically. “Merlin, you’re insufferable. Do you want me to write you a love letter? Declare my undying affection in front of the entire school? Oh! Maybe a dramatic duel for your hand, yes?”
Harry couldn’t help the breath of a laugh that escaped him. “You’re a nightmare.”
“And yet, you’re smitten.” Draco smirked, but there was something softer beneath it now, something careful.
Harry’s heart pounded, both from the teasing and from the tangled mess of emotions Draco had stirred up. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at Draco, caught between the pull of wanting to believe and the heavy weight of everything that had brought him here—doubt, insecurity, the constant fear that he was too much of a fool to trust anything good that came his way.
He felt the vulnerability in his chest, in the rawness of his words, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating. But the truth was, he had to ask. He couldn’t go on pretending like everything was fine had intended it to be. "I don’t know if I can keep… pretending that nothing’s wrong. That this—whatever this is—doesn’t feel like it’s falling apart every time I see you with someone else." His voice faltered, but he forced the words out anyway, needing Draco to hear him, to understand. "I need something real, Draco. I need to know that this isn't just some game to you."
Draco was silent for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. The teasing smirk faded, replaced with something far more intense, something raw, almost unsure. He pushed off the railing, closing the distance between them in a few long strides.
"You think it’s a game?" Draco's voice was low, almost too soft. "You think I’d make this… this thing, with you, into a game?"
Harry swallowed, his stomach churning. He didn't know how to answer that, didn’t know how to convey just how much that feeling, that fear, gnawed at him.
Draco’s hand found his, pulling him closer, and for a second, Harry was lost in the warmth of his touch. Then, with a quiet intensity, Draco whispered, "You’re not some passing fancy, Harry. You never were." His thumb brushed gently across Harry’s palm, and Harry’s heart stuttered at the sincerity in his gaze. "I’m not perfect. I’ve never been perfect. But I’m here. For you."
The words hung between them, heavy with promise, but Harry couldn't shake the doubt still swirling in his chest. He wanted to believe it. He really did. But the uncertainty—the fear that it was all just too fragile, too fleeting—kept him at arm’s length.
Draco tilted his head, studying him with an expression that was both patient and knowing. "What do you need me to do, Potter?" he asked quietly. "Tell me what you need to make this real for you."
Harry hesitated, his breath catching. The rawness of the moment made his chest ache, the weight of his own vulnerability pressing down on him. Finally, he whispered, barely audible, "Just… show me. Show me that I matter. Show me that this isn’t just… temporary."
Draco’s gaze softened, and in that moment, Harry saw something more than just the Malfoy he knew—the arrogant, clever, untouchable boy he’d spent years resenting. He saw a side of Draco that was just as scared, just as uncertain, and just as desperate to make something work. Something real.
"I can do that," Draco murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. "I’ll show you. I’ll show you every single day."
And Harry… for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe.