It hit Draco Malfoy like a hex he never saw coming.
He’d been sitting in the Great Hall, halfway through a particularly dull dinner, when he looked up and his gaze landed on Harry Potter. Nothing unusual—Potter was always there, a thorn in his side, the constant reminder of everything Draco wasn’t. It should have been a moment like any other. Just Potter being Potter. But it wasn’t.
Because this time, Draco didn’t look away.
He couldn’t.
Potter was laughing at something Granger had said, his green eyes brighter than they had any right to be in the dim lighting of the hall. The same eyes that had glared at him a thousand times before, now soft and relaxed, a world away from the sharp, battle-ready focus Draco was used to. And Merlin, they were green—so much greener than he remembered.
Draco’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, and something inside him shifted.
Oh. Oh no.
This wasn’t good.
Potter glanced up suddenly, catching Draco’s stare. Instinctively, Draco’s lips curled into a sneer. He waited for the usual flare of annoyance, the rush of irritation that came whenever Potter looked at him. But it didn’t come. Instead, there was just a heavy thud in his chest—a thud that felt dangerously close to... longing.
Draco blinked, his heart doing a funny little lurch as he quickly dropped his gaze to his plate.
No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. He was Draco Malfoy. He didn’t... he didn’t look at Potter like that.
He couldn’t.
But the more he tried to push the thought away, the more it gnawed at him. He’d liked women his whole life. That was simple, easy. The way Pansy’s smile used to make him feel like he had something to show off, or the way Daphne had once laughed at one of his jokes in fourth year. It was comfortable, predictable. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Potter’s stupid hair and his stupid green eyes and his stupid scar were making Draco feel... different.
Complicated.
He swallowed hard, his mind spinning. He hated Potter. Hating him was simple, clean-cut. It made sense. But this... this was something else entirely. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering dangerously close to falling, and all because of one bloody look.
This wasn’t just about rivalry anymore. It wasn’t even about the war, or sides, or anything like that. No, it was about the fact that somehow—somehow—Potter had become more than a name in Draco’s head.
He was a person.
And that realization hit Draco harder than any spell ever had.
It was Potter’s fault, really. If he didn’t walk around with those ridiculous green eyes and that stupid messy hair, Draco wouldn’t be in this mess. If Potter wasn’t... wasn’t so bloody good all the time—brave and noble and insufferable—then Draco wouldn’t feel this way.
But here he was. And here it was.
Shit.
He couldn’t be in love with Harry Potter. That wasn’t an option. Not for him. Not for a Malfoy.
But when he looked up again, and Potter’s laughter echoed across the hall, there was no denying the truth anymore. The pounding in his chest, the tightening in his throat—he’d seen enough romantic nonsense in the common room to recognize the symptoms.
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, as if that might erase what he’d just realized.
It didn’t.
He was in love with Potter.
Oh well. This wasn’t complicated at all.