The air was thick with the heady scent of alcohol, laughter, and the low thrum of music that vibrated through the Slytherin common room. It was late, too late for any of this, but no one cared. Not when it felt like they could drown in the night and never surface. Harry leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, trying to keep himself together, but his eyes—they couldn’t stop tracking Draco Malfoy.
Draco, sprawled out in the middle of the room like he owned it, legs spread wide, his tie loosened around his neck, a few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the pale stretch of his chest. His hair was tousled, messy in that way that looked too damn good, too deliberate, like he hadn’t spent hours making it look like that. In one hand, he held a glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid casually, his lips curled into that easy smirk that set Harry’s nerves on fire.
Harry hated it. He hated the way Draco looked so calm, so collected, as though he knew exactly what he was doing to Harry without even having to try.
It made Harry’s blood boil.
Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Draco could sit there, legs open, lounging like he was some goddamn king while Harry stood in the corner, practically vibrating with the need to grab him. To pull him away from the others, drag him into a dark corner and—
And what?
He didn’t even know anymore.
All he knew was that every inch of him was focused on Draco. Every bit of him was honed in on the way Draco’s lips curved around the rim of his glass, how his throat bobbed as he took a sip, how his fingers flexed on the edge of his chair, long and pale and distracting as hell.
Draco threw his head back to laugh at something Blaise said, and Harry felt his jaw clench. The way Draco’s throat was exposed like that, the line of his neck, the faint shadow of stubble… Harry wanted to run his fingers along it. Or his mouth.
Fuck.
He should’ve been talking to his friends, laughing with them, being normal, but he couldn’t do it. Not when Draco was right there, sitting too close to Pansy, who kept touching his arm, leaning into him, her eyes on his. And Draco—he just smiled back, all easy and relaxed, as though nothing about this night was out of the ordinary. As though Harry wasn’t about to snap in half from the sheer weight of wanting him.
God, it was maddening.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to act like he didn’t care, trying to force himself to look away. But he couldn’t. His eyes kept sliding back, drawn to Draco like gravity itself was pulling him in.
Draco moved, his legs spreading just a little wider, and Harry’s breath hitched. It was too much, the way Draco’s body was so languid, so casual. His shirt hung open just enough to tease, just enough to make Harry’s mind race with thoughts he shouldn’t be having, not here, not now.
But they came anyway.
Obsessive thoughts.
Thoughts about how it would feel to have Draco pressed up against him, how it would feel to run his hands through that platinum hair, pull him closer, feel that smirk against his mouth.
Merlin, the thought made him dizzy.
And Draco knew. He had to know, didn’t he? The way his eyes flicked over to Harry every now and then, like he was waiting for something, daring Harry to make a move. It drove Harry mad—the way Draco played this game, the way he teased without even trying.
He hated how easily Draco could make him feel this way—completely unhinged, jealous, desperate. Every time Pansy laughed a little too loud at something Draco said, every time she leaned in a little too close, Harry’s chest tightened. He could barely think straight, barely breathe.
He couldn’t help it. The jealousy. It ate at him, gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, making his vision tunnel until all he could see was Draco and the people around him. People who didn’t deserve to be that close to him. People who didn’t know him the way Harry did.
Because Draco wasn’t just this smooth, charming bastard lounging in his chair, drinking whiskey with a smirk that could cut glass. He was more. Harry knew that. He’d seen it—the way Draco’s hands shook after the war, the way his voice cracked when he thought no one was listening. The way he held Harry close when they were alone, when it was just the two of them and the world outside didn’t matter.
But out here, in this room, with all these people? Draco was untouchable. He was everything Harry wanted but couldn’t have, not in the way he wanted him.
And it killed him.
Harry’s gaze burned into Draco as Pansy leaned over again, whispering something in his ear, her lips too close to his skin. Draco smirked, his head tilting just enough to make Harry’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Fuck this.
Before he could stop himself, Harry pushed off the wall, his heart pounding in his chest as he stalked across the room, his eyes locked on Draco. He didn’t care who was watching anymore. He didn’t care about the stares, the whispers, or what people would say.
He just needed to be near him.
Draco’s eyes flicked up as Harry approached, and for a split second, something flashed across his face. Surprise? Anticipation? Whatever it was, it made Harry’s stomach twist.
“Potter,” Draco drawled, his voice slow, deliberate, as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking over Harry’s face. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The way he said it—like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he was in complete control—made Harry’s blood boil. He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the thousand things he wanted to say, the thousand things he wanted to do.
“You look like you’re having fun,” Harry said, his voice tight, the words laced with something darker than he’d intended. His eyes flicked to Pansy, who was watching the exchange with a raised brow, then back to Draco, whose smirk had only widened.
“Jealous, Potter?” Draco asked, his voice low, mocking.
Harry’s stomach flipped, his pulse hammering in his ears. Yes. Yes, he was fucking jealous. Jealous of every person who got to touch Draco, who got to make him laugh, who got to be near him like this.
But he couldn’t say that.
Instead, he leaned down, his face inches from Draco’s, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You have no idea.”
Draco’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening, and Harry felt a thrill shoot through him.
Good. Let him feel it. Let him see what he does to me.
Before Draco could respond, Harry’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, pulling him to his feet. The whiskey glass clattered to the floor, forgotten as Harry dragged him through the room, ignoring the stares, the whispers. He didn’t care anymore.
The only thing that mattered was Draco.
He pulled him into a dark alcove just outside the common room, slamming him against the wall, his hands on either side of Draco’s head, caging him in. Draco’s chest heaved, his eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
“Harry—”
But Harry didn’t let him finish. He surged forward, capturing Draco’s mouth in a fierce, desperate kiss. The taste of whiskey on Draco’s lips only fueled the fire burning inside him, and he kissed him harder, deeper, his hands fisting in Draco’s shirt, pulling him closer.
Draco groaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to grab Harry’s hips, pulling him flush against him, and that—that was all Harry needed. All he wanted.
To be close to him. To feel him. To have him.
Because no one else could.