The Edge of Control (Harry and Draco's POV)
Harry wasn’t used to being distracted. Sure, there had been times in his life when he couldn’t concentrate—between Voldemort, Quidditch matches, and the weight of expectations, distractions came naturally. But this... this was different. This wasn’t a looming threat or pressure from the wizarding world.
This was Malfoy.
The constant buzz of irritation he’d felt around Draco for years was morphing into something more complex, something unsettling that Harry couldn’t shake off. Every time Draco glanced his way, every time he made a snide comment, Harry felt his skin crawl—not just with anger, but with something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to understand.
After the disaster of the last few days, Harry had resolved to ignore Draco. The plan was simple: avoid eye contact, ignore the taunts, and maybe—just maybe—he could stop feeling like he was on the verge of losing control every time Draco was near.
Of course, that resolve didn’t last long.
It was a Friday afternoon when everything seemed to come to a head. The sun hung low in the sky as students wandered toward the Great Hall for dinner, the warmth of early autumn clinging to the air. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were headed there too, but Harry was distracted, as usual, by the strange sensation of being watched.
It didn’t take long to find the source of that feeling.
Draco was standing in the shadow of a stone archway, leaning casually against the wall as if he had nowhere better to be. His pale eyes followed Harry’s every movement with an intensity that made Harry’s skin prickle.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he turned toward her, blinking.
“What?”
“I asked if you were alright,” she said, her brow furrowing in concern. “You’ve been spacing out a lot lately.”
Harry forced a smile, hoping it looked convincing. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”
Hermione didn’t look convinced, but Ron, bless him, didn’t notice. He was too busy going on about tomorrow’s Quidditch practice, something about new strategies and how Slytherin didn’t stand a chance.
“I’m telling you, Harry, their Seeker’s rubbish,” Ron said. “Malfoy’s only ever been good at fouling, and he barely—” Harry didn’t hear the rest. He’d made the mistake of glancing back toward the archway. Draco was still there, but now, as if sensing Harry’s gaze, he pushed off the wall and began walking toward them. His stride was confident, his eyes locked onto Harry with that familiar, infuriating smirk on his face.
Great. Just what Harry needed.
“Potter,” Draco drawled as he came to a stop in front of them. “Enjoying your little chat with Weasel and the Know-It-All?”
Ron’s face immediately flushed, his hands balling into fists. “Watch it, Malfoy.”
Draco ignored him, his eyes still fixed on Harry. “I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit... distracted lately, Potter. Daydreaming about me, are we?”
Harry’s face grew hot. “In your dreams, Malfoy.”
Draco’s smirk deepened. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper. “Or maybe yours?”
Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, a strange mix of anger and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. Why did Draco always have to push like this? Why did he always get under Harry’s skin in ways no one else could?
“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry growled, turning to walk away, but Draco grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
The touch sent an electric shock up Harry’s arm, and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at Draco’s hand on his arm, then back up at Draco’s face. For a moment, everything around them seemed to disappear—the hall, the other students, even Ron and Hermione. It was just them, locked in some strange, silent standoff.
Draco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, his grip tightening slightly before he let go.
“Careful, Potter,” Draco said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wouldn’t want people to think you actually care.”
Harry blinked, the spell broken. He stepped back, shaking off the strange feeling that had settled over him. What was happening? Why did Draco’s words—and his touch—linger like that?
Ron, always ready for a fight, took a step forward, glaring at Draco. “Don’t touch him, Malfoy.”
Draco, ever the picture of calm arrogance, simply raised an eyebrow. “Relax, Weasley. I wouldn’t want to dirty my hands.”
With one last glance at Harry, Draco turned on his heel and walked away, leaving behind a suffocating silence. Harry stood there, still reeling from the strange encounter, his pulse racing and his thoughts jumbled. He could feel Ron and Hermione staring at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.
“Harry?” Hermione asked cautiously. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” Harry snapped, harsher than he intended. He winced at the sharpness in his voice and immediately softened. “Sorry, I’m just... I don’t know what’s going on.”
Hermione exchanged a look with Ron, who seemed equally confused, though his confusion was more about why Harry wasn’t as angry as he should’ve been.
“You’ve been acting weird since that last fight with Malfoy,” Ron said bluntly. “What’s going on? Did he hex you or something?”
Harry shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. “No, it’s not that. It’s... it’s nothing. He just... he gets on my nerves.”
“That’s always been true,” Hermione pointed out.
“I know,” Harry muttered, still staring at the spot where Draco had been moments ago. “It’s just... different now.”
Harry’s POV
That night, Harry lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the Gryffindor dormitory. His thoughts were racing, chasing each other in circles around the same problem. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Draco? What was it about him that kept pulling Harry in, even when he wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face?
He turned over, burying his face in his pillow. He was tired of this—tired of feeling so on edge, of letting Draco get to him. He didn’t understand why it was happening, and the more he tried to figure it out, the worse it got.
But deep down, Harry knew the truth.
It wasn’t just anger anymore. It hadn’t been for a while, and scared him more than he was willing to admit.
Draco’s POV
That night, Draco lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, circling around the same haunting question. Why couldn’t he shake off his fixation on Harry Potter? What was it about the Gryffindor that kept drawing him in, even as he seethed with frustration at their endless rivalry?
He turned onto his side, burying his face in his pillow. He was exhausted—exhausted from the emotional tug-of-war, from the constant battle of wills that had taken a turn he never expected. Each encounter in Potions replayed in his mind, the heat of their exchanges igniting feelings that confused him. The harder he tried to dismiss them, the more they intensified.
But deep down, Draco knew the truth. It wasn’t just irritation anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. The thrill of their banter, the way Harry challenged him, sparked something in him that felt dangerously close to admiration—and that terrified him.
As he lay there in the darkness, grappling with the storm of emotions swirling inside him, he couldn’t help but wonder what it all meant. Was he ready to confront this new reality? The thought of letting his guard down around Harry felt impossible, yet he realised that the facade he’d built was starting to crack. The truth was creeping in, and he was terrified of what that might mean for both of them.