Harry had never thought of himself as the jealous type. He had watched Ron and Hermione dance around each other for years before finally getting together, and he had never felt an ounce of envy. But this? This was different.
He stood at the edge of the Great Hall, his green eyes fixed on Draco Malfoy—Draco, with his sharp cheekbones, stormy gray eyes, and that infuriatingly perfect hair. And next to him, laughing easily, was Charlie Weasley.
Charlie was broad-shouldered, tanned from years working with dragons, and had a sort of effortless confidence that made people gravitate toward him. Draco seemed entirely too comfortable beside him, smirking in a way that wasn’t cruel but… inviting.
Harry clenched his fists. It wasn’t fair. He had spent years locked in a rivalry with Draco, years where their fights had been laced with something neither of them dared name. And now—now that Harry had finally admitted to himself that he might want something more—Charlie Weasley of all people was swooping in?
Draco laughed at something Charlie said, tilting his head in that elegant way of his. Harry’s stomach twisted.
He hadn’t even realized he was moving until he was standing in front of them, interrupting whatever conversation they were having. Both Draco and Charlie turned to him in surprise.
"Potter," Draco greeted smoothly, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something Harry wanted to grab onto and never let go of.
"Malfoy," Harry said, his voice a little too sharp. Then, to Charlie, "Didn’t know you were back in the country."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Yeah, just for a bit. Catching up with old friends."
Harry’s eyes flickered back to Draco. "Right. Old friends."
Draco smirked, but there was a question in his gaze.
And just like that, Harry knew he couldn’t stand on the sidelines any longer.
Harry hated this.
He hated watching Draco Malfoy—Draco, who had always been sharp-tongued and impossible to impress—turn into something soft and pliant under Charlie Weasley's attention. It wasn’t like Draco to be this way, but every time Charlie leaned in, every time he laughed, every time he touched Draco’s wrist or whispered something in his ear, Draco practically melted.
It made Harry sick.
So he did what any reasonable person would do—he tried to figure out what the hell Draco saw in Charlie.
At first, he thought it was the dragon thing. Charlie was dangerous in a way that wasn’t obvious, not like Harry and Draco had been with their wands and their words. Charlie worked with creatures that could kill him in an instant, and yet he treated them with nothing but patience and respect. Maybe Draco liked that—being handled carefully.
But the more Harry watched, the more unbearable it became.
Draco wasn’t just *interested* in Charlie. He was *smitten*. Completely and utterly gone. He tilted his head up just so when Charlie spoke, he let himself be guided with a hand at the small of his back, he *listened*—really listened—whenever Charlie told one of his stories. And worst of all?
Draco was *submissive*.
Harry never thought he’d see the day when Draco Malfoy let someone else take the lead, but with Charlie, he did. He followed. He softened. He looked at Charlie like he was the most fascinating thing in the world.
And Harry *hated it.*
So when Draco excused himself to go to the loo, Harry took his chance.
"You know, he never used to be like this," he said to Charlie, forcing his voice to stay casual.
Charlie, leaning back in his chair, only smirked. "Like what?"
Harry’s jaw tightened. "*That.* Smitten. Following someone around like a lost puppy. It’s not like him."
Charlie just chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe it’s not like the Draco *you* knew." He met Harry’s gaze, his smirk turning knowing. "Or maybe you just never got close enough to see it."
Harry had no response to that.
Because deep down, he knew Charlie was
Harry didn’t plan to make it a competition.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
But every time Charlie did something that made Draco smile, Harry felt the urge to one-up him. It started small—Charlie mentioned a particularly dangerous dragon he had worked with, and Harry countered with a story about fighting a Basilisk at twelve. Charlie laughed, impressed, but Draco just arched an eyebrow, clearly amused.
Then it escalated.
Charlie, ever the gentleman, pulled out Draco’s chair for him at dinner. The moment Draco sat, Harry reached across the table, swiping the wine bottle before Charlie could and pouring Draco’s drink himself.
Draco gave him a *look.* "Really, Potter?"
Harry just shrugged. "What? Thought you’d prefer someone who actually knows your taste."
Charlie chuckled. "You *do* realize I’ve been drinking with him all evening, right?"
Harry ignored him.
When Charlie draped an arm over Draco’s chair, Harry leaned in closer, striking up a conversation he knew would interest Draco—politics, the Wizengamot, old pure-blood laws. And when Charlie got up to grab another drink, Harry seized the moment.
"You really like him?" Harry asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Draco tilted his head, as if considering the question. "What’s it to you?"
Harry clenched his jaw. "Just curious."
Draco smirked, eyes flickering with something knowing. "And here I thought you hated when I talked about blood status. Now you’re all ears?"
Harry huffed. "I hate when you use it to be a prat. But you’re good at politics, and you know it."
Draco hummed, swirling his wine. "Flattery, Potter? What’s next, are you going to wrestle Charlie for my hand?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but the thought *had* crossed his mind.
Charlie returned before he could say anything, giving Harry a knowing smirk as he took his seat. "You two having fun?"
Draco smirked back. "Oh, *loads.*"
Harry gritted his teeth. He was losing this game. But he wasn’t done yet.
Harry thought he had a plan. Outplay Charlie, impress Draco, and—somehow—win.
But he hadn’t expected Draco to turn the game on *him.*
The night had been a whirlwind of challenges—stories, wit, subtle fights over Draco’s attention. Charlie played along, clearly entertained, but Draco? Draco watched Harry like he was waiting for something.
And then, when Harry thought he was finally making ground, Draco stood up, stretched lazily, and said, *"Alright, boys. Enough."*
Charlie raised an amused brow. Harry stiffened.
Draco sighed, looking between them as if they were children fighting over a toy. Then he leaned in—slowly, deliberately—his fingers trailing along Charlie’s jaw before he pressed a soft kiss to the older man’s cheek.
Harry’s stomach twisted. He *knew* he had lost.
Until Draco turned to *him.*
And before Harry could say anything, before he could protest or demand answers, Draco grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him down, and kissed *him*—hard, unyielding, full of something Harry had spent *years* pretending didn’t exist.
Harry froze for half a second before he *melted*.
Draco pulled back, eyes glittering with amusement. "You *really* thought you had to compete?" he murmured, voice low and teasing.
Harry was still catching his breath when Charlie chuckled. "Took him long enough."
Draco smirked, stepping back between them. "Oh, I enjoyed watching him suffer." Then, with a wink at Harry, he added, *"Next time, just tell me you want me, Potter."*
And with that, he walked away, leaving Harry and Charlie staring after him—one amused, the other completely wrecked.