Draco had never been one for grand gestures. Not really. He was Malfoy, after all—aloof, cold, calculated. His entire life had been about control, keeping emotions buried so deep that no one, not even himself, could touch them. But Potter... Potter had this way of ruining everything.
It started small. A brush of their fingers passing each other in the corridor, the faintest touch sending sparks up Draco’s arm, making his skin burn with something he couldn’t explain. He told himself it was nothing. Just a fluke. Potter wasn’t even paying attention, surely.
But then, those moments kept happening. In Potions class, when Potter leaned over to pass him an ingredient, their hands accidentally meeting for a split second. In the library, when they reached for the same book at the same time, their knuckles grazing against each other. Draco could feel it—could feel Potter’s warmth, his presence, like he was invading every inch of Draco’s carefully crafted world. It was suffocating.
And it was exhilarating.
Draco hated himself for it. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Not about him. But every time Potter looked at him, every time those green eyes locked onto his, something in Draco’s chest twisted and tightened, making it hard to breathe.
And the worst part? Potter was always so damn decent to him. Like he didn’t even care that they’d spent years hating each other. Like all those whispered conversations in the Astronomy Tower, all those reckless adventures running through the Forbidden Forest, all those late-night swims in the Black Lake, laughing under the stars, meant nothing. Like it was all casual.
Draco was a fool.
He should have known better. He should have realized that Potter wasn’t interested in him the way he was in Potter. But every time Potter smiled at him, every time he leaned in just a little too close, Draco’s heart would leap, hope swelling in his chest, telling him that maybe, just maybe, Potter felt the same way.
It was stupid. Of course, Potter didn’t feel that way.
And now, standing in the middle of Hogsmeade, Draco felt the full weight of his stupidity crashing down on him. He clutched the small, delicate Snitch necklace in his hand, the one he’d overheard Potter mention weeks ago. It was gaudy, really, but Draco had convinced himself that it didn’t matter—that Potter would appreciate the gesture. That maybe, when Draco gave it to him, things would shift between them. That maybe Potter would finally see him as something more than just... Draco.
But then, he saw them.
Potter and her. Ginny Weasley.
They were standing in the snow, under a heavy gray sky, and they looked perfect. Too perfect. The way Potter’s arm was draped around her waist, the way she leaned into him, laughing softly as snowflakes landed on her fiery hair. Draco’s stomach churned as he watched them. His breath hitched when he saw Ginny pull out the exact same necklace Draco was holding—the Snitch, glittering in her hands, as she handed it to Potter.
So that’s why she’d been in the shop, too.
Draco swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he watched Potter’s eyes light up at the sight of the necklace. He didn’t even hear what Potter said next; all Draco could see was the way Potter pulled Ginny closer, the way their lips met in a soft kiss, the snow falling gently around them, wrapping them in a moment that was painfully perfect.
Draco’s chest ached. He was an idiot for ever thinking he had a chance. He was just a boy, after all. Just a stupid, foolish boy who had let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, Potter could want him.
He squeezed the necklace in his hand, the metal biting into his palm, the sharp pain grounding him as he watched Potter and Ginny kiss again. This wasn’t real. What Draco had with Potter—the secrets they’d shared, the late-night talks, the stolen moments—it had all been casual. Nothing more.
The way Potter had smiled at him in the Astronomy Tower, the way his eyes had lingered on Draco a little too long—it had all been meaningless. Just Potter being decent, being friendly.
Draco had been so desperate to believe it was something more that he’d blinded himself to the truth.
And now, standing in the cold, watching Potter with her, Draco realized just how foolish he’d been. He let out a shaky breath, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. He’d never meant anything to Potter. Not really.
It had all been casual. Even the way Potter’s eyes had looked at him, the way his lips had twitched into a small, secret smile whenever they were alone—that had all been platonic.
Draco was stupid for wanting more.