Harry had loved Draco for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t the kind of love that sparked out of nowhere—no, it was slow, creeping, like ivy climbing up the walls of his heart, filling every crack until he was too entangled to ever be free.
They had been best friends since childhood. Their mothers were old friends, which meant sleepovers, shared birthdays, and long summer afternoons sprawled under the sun, talking about everything and nothing. Draco had always been sharp-tongued and dramatic, but Harry adored him for it.
Draco, however, only ever had eyes for Charlie Weasley.
It had started when they were teenagers. Charlie had just finished high school and was moving out for college, but he came home during the summers, all broad shoulders and easy smiles. He had this way of making Draco laugh—real, unguarded laughter, the kind that Harry himself had spent years trying to coax out.
Draco had been fifteen when he first admitted it. They were lying on the grass in Harry’s backyard, staring at the night sky.
“I think I’m in love with Charlie.”
The words had hit Harry like a punch to the gut. He had laughed it off at the time, brushing it away as one of Draco’s passing crushes. But it never went away.
Year after year, summer after summer, Draco would light up the moment Charlie walked into a room. It was unbearable.
Harry had thought—hoped—maybe Draco would see him instead. Maybe one day, he’d turn his head and realize Harry had been there all along, waiting.
But love didn’t work that way.
Now, at twenty-two, Harry stood in the corner of a dimly lit bar, watching Draco lean into Charlie’s space, laughing at something the older man had said. Draco looked beautiful, golden hair catching the warm glow of the lights, grey eyes shining with admiration. Charlie, as always, was polite and kind, his responses teasing but never quite crossing into anything more.
Because that was the thing—Charlie didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t return the feelings.
Harry clenched his fists, feeling the weight of every unsaid word, every unspoken confession that had been building up inside him for years. He downed the rest of his drink, forcing a smile when Draco finally turned to him.
“Harry, come on, I need you to tell Charlie how utterly insufferable I was as a kid.” Draco beamed at him, oblivious.
Harry swallowed down the bitterness. “You were the worst,” he said, but his voice was soft. “But I loved you anyway.”
Draco laughed, nudging him. “See? He’s been my victim forever.”
Charlie chuckled. “You two are something else.”
Harry wished, just for once, Draco would look at him the way he looked at Charlie.
But some wishes never came true.
Harry knew from the moment it happened.
The way Draco’s messages slowed, the way their late-night calls turned into short replies and missed texts. He didn’t have to ask. He knew.
Draco had finally gotten what he wanted.
Charlie Weasley.
Harry found out officially through Pansy, of all people. She cornered him at a café, a smug little smirk on her face as she dropped the news like it was nothing.
“They’re together,” she said, stirring her latte with unnecessary flair. “Draco and Charlie.”
Harry took a sip of his coffee, nodding as if he hadn’t just felt his entire world tilt beneath him. “Good for him.”
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “That’s it?”
“What else is there to say?”
She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’re a terrible liar, Potter. But sure, keep pretending this doesn’t rip you apart.”
He forced a smile. “I moved on.”
“Did you?” she asked, unimpressed.
Harry didn't answer. He just drained the rest of his coffee, ignoring the ache in his chest.
He tried to move on. He really did.
He went on dates. He smiled at pretty strangers, kissed people whose lips felt unfamiliar, whose hands never quite fit the way Draco’s did when they were young and careless.
He even found someone—a guy named Louis. Sweet, kind, safe. Someone who didn’t make his heart feel like it was constantly bleeding.
But no one was Draco.
And Draco, now, belonged to someone else.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter. That he was happy for him. That it didn’t hurt when Draco showed up to their usual hangouts with Charlie’s jacket draped over his shoulders, when he talked about Charlie with that soft, dreamy look in his eyes.
That it didn’t kill him when Draco introduced Louis to him one night, smiling so damn easily, like Harry hadn’t spent years waiting for something that would never come.
“This is Louis,” Harry said, gripping his boyfriend’s hand a little tighter.
Draco grinned, offering his own. “Pleasure to meet you. Harry finally found someone who can tolerate him.”
Louis laughed, and just like that, the conversation moved on.
Draco never noticed the way Harry’s hand shook when he reached for his drink.
He never noticed the way Harry’s smile faltered when he looked at him too long.
And he never noticed that no matter how hard Harry tried, no one else could ever be him.