Chapter Text
I have a terrible habit of falling in love at nine in the morning.
It’s the hour when the sun hasn’t decided what kind of day it wants, when the campus is still half-asleep, when even the most obnoxious first-years shuffle through the corridors like stunned cattle. It’s also, unfortunately, the time of my least favorite class: Intro to Probability, a course that should have been illegal for anyone majoring in astrophysics. The universe already has enough chaos; I hardly need it quantified.
But I come anyway. Early. Every Tuesday and Thursday. I always pick the seat near the window so I can watch the quad turn gold. And I pretend it’s the sunrise that keeps bringing me back with embarrassing punctuality.
It’s not.
It’s him.
Harry Potter barrels through the door at 9:03, fresh off morning practice, hair wet from a shower he definitely took in a rush, a smoothie clutched like a lifeline in his hand. He always apologizes to the professor for being late, even though the professor barely lifts an eyebrow. The campus golden boy can do no wrong, apparently.
He scans the room. His eyes always land on me.
Every single time.
He never sits next to me. The seat beside me remains pointedly empty, radiating the kind of mocking loneliness only an empty desk can manage. But he looks. Sometimes he gives a small smile, the kind that feels like sunlight cutting through fog.
I pretend I’m unaffected. I’m not.
Today is no exception. Harry slips inside, breathless, cheeks pink from the cold, dressed in a university soccer jacket he has absolutely no right looking that good in.
“Morning,” he says to no one and everyone.
My chest does something mortifying.
Hermione Granger, two seats ahead of me, turns with a knowing little smirk. She’s too observant for her own good. She’s also too kind to say anything, which makes it worse.
Harry slides into his usual seat on the opposite side of the room next to Ron Weasley, who greets him with a fist bump and a muttered, “Coach is mental.”
Harry laughs. It’s obnoxiously warm.
I open my notebook to a blank page and try not to look at him. I fail within six seconds.
It’s not my fault. He’s… distracting.
The universe made stars and nebulas and dark matter, but then it made Harry Potter and apparently decided that was enough chaos for me specifically.
He’s better in motion. Always has been. On the soccer field, he moves like he was born for grass and wind and applause. Even in class, he’s kinetic, tapping his pencil, bouncing one knee, whispering jokes to Ron.
Perfect. Brilliant. Effortless.
At least that’s the version I’ve chosen to believe in.
The professor begins droning on about independent events and conditional probability. I try to focus, I really do, but my brain insists on looping Harry’s laugh like a cursed audio file.
I’m a sensible person. Rational. A dedicated scientist.
But every time he laughs, something soft and humiliating blooms in my ribcage.
When class ends, Harry gets caught in a crowd of teammates at the door. I pack my bag slowly, pretending I’m simply meticulous and not pathetically hoping he’ll—
“Hey, Draco!”
My head snaps up so fast I nearly fling my pen.
Harry is waving at me. Actually waving. Like we’re friends. Like I’m not a stranger who’s been quietly constructing an idealized, immaculate version of him since freshman orientation.
“Good luck on that astronomy lab today,” he says. “Thought you looked stressed.”
I blink. “I don’t get stressed.”
He grins. “You’re stressed right now.”
I hate that he’s right. “That’s because you’re standing too close.”
Ron snorts. Hermione, passing behind him, mutters, “You two are insufferable.”
Harry just laughs, as if being insulted by Draco Malfoy is the highlight of his morning.
And then he leaves, jogging after Ron, vanishing into sunlight like he belongs to it.
I exhale.
Pansy will say I’m delusional. Theo will claim it's hormonal. Blaise will suggest I “shoot my shot,” which is, frankly, the worst advice imaginable because I’m not suicidal.
Harry Potter is a perfect boy made of easy charm and impossible brightness.
And I, well… I’m a silly boy who’s let him take up too much of his sky.
The astronomy lab is across campus, tucked behind the science building, where the grass never quite grows right. I tell myself the walk will clear my head, but that’s a lie. Thinking about not thinking about Harry Potter has the exact opposite effect.
I pass a group of girls wearing soccer hoodies. Harry’s number is printed in white on the back, and I do not look. I absolutely, resolutely do not look.
Fine. I look.
They’re laughing about him. Something about his goal in last weekend’s match. One of them sighs dreamily. I feel something petty and acidic twist in my chest.
Ridiculous. It’s not jealousy. Jealousy requires a claim, and I don’t have one. I have a longing. And a deeply unhealthy tendency to create constellations out of people who don’t belong among the stars.
The lab building smells like metal and burnt coffee. Theo is already inside, hunched over a computer, typing like he’s trying to punish the keyboard for existing.
“You’re late,” he says flatly.
“I’m five minutes early.”
“I know. You’re late.”
I drop my bag next to him. “Your sense of time is deranged.”
“No,” he says, adjusting his glasses without looking up, “your crush is deranged. It’s messing with your internal clock.”
I freeze mid-sit. “I— excuse me?”
“You’re glowing.” He waves one hand vaguely in my direction. “Like a radioactive blender.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
I groan and put my forehead on the desk. “Why do I tell you anything?”
“You don’t,” he says mildly. “You think you’re subtle, but you get this ridiculous little uptick in your voice when you talk about him. Like you’ve discovered the Higgs boson, except it’s actually just Potter remembering your name.”
“It was more than that,” I mutter.
Theo spins his chair. “Tell me.”
“He wished me luck on my lab.”
Theo stares.
I stare back.
He sighs. “You’re doomed.”
Pansy arrives five minutes later, sweeping into the room like she owns the place despite being a Fashion Design major who has never taken a science class willingly.
“How’s everyone’s emotional stability today?” she asks, dropping her oversized tote dramatically.
Theo points at me. “He’s unwell.”
“Always.” She sits on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs elegantly. “What happened this time? Did the boy breathe in your general direction?”
“Actually,” Theo says, “he spoke to him.”
Pansy gasps. “Full sentence?”
“Two.”
“Jesus’s saggy tits! Dray, that’s progress!”
I glare at both of them. “I am not a charity case.”
“You are,” Pansy says gently, patting my cheek. “A very pretty charity case, but a charity case nonetheless.”
I swat her hand away. “He just – he said my name. And he smiled. And he remembered my lab. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Pansy and Theo exchange a look that suggests my delusion is both obvious and terminal.
Theo leans back, folding his arms. “Let me guess. You’ve decided he’s perfect again.”
“I never stopped deciding that.”
“You should,” he says bluntly. “Perfect people don’t exist.”
I open my mouth to retort, but our professor enters, and the lab session begins. I spend the next hour pretending I’m focused on calibrating the telescope imaging software, when in reality I’m replaying Harry’s smile with embarrassing regularity.
By noon, the quad is filled with students lounging on the patchy grass, laptops open, lunches scattered across coats. It’s one of the last warm days before autumn decides to punish us all.
I text Pansy that I’m going to the dining hall alone. She has a class, Theo has a meeting, and I use the empty walk to catalogue the traits that make Harry Potter objectively perfect:
- He’s talented.
- He’s kind.
- He’s the best striker the university has seen in a decade.
- He manages to be humble and charming without trying.
- He’s unfairly attractive.
- He is… radiant.
There. Objective. Logically supported.
I’m halfway across the quad when I spot him.
He’s sitting under a tree, one knee bent, one leg stretched out, a textbook open in front of him. His hair is damp again, Did he shower twice today?, and he’s wearing a plain green shirt that should not be legal.
I consider walking the long way around to avoid making a fool of myself, but the universe hates me because he looks up at the exact moment I pass.
“Draco!”
He waves me over.
I freeze. My soul leaves my body. I consider faking death on the spot.
But I walk toward him like a normal human, which is impressive given that my bones feel like they’ve turned to static.
“Hey,” he says, beaming. “You heading to lunch?”
“Eventually.”
He nods and gestures to the textbook. “Trying to study, but it’s not working. Do you get any of this?”
I blink. “…Sports medicine?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Harry laughs again. I can’t handle it.
“Well,” he says, brushing grass off his palms, “maybe you can help me with math instead. That class is going to kill me.”
“You just need to stop being late,” I say before thinking.
He winces. “Yeah, I know. Coach keeps us after practice longer than he says he will. I try to rush, but—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, looking away.
Something in his expression shifts.
And for the first time, I see it.
A crack in the perfection.
It’s not big, not dramatic. Just a flicker of… strain. A quiet exhaustion that doesn’t belong on someone who shines the way he does.
I tilt my head. “Harry?”
He startles slightly. “What?”
“You okay?”
He forces a bright smile. “Yeah. Just tired. It’s nothing.”
He’s lying.
The realization hits harder than expected.
Harry Potter, the campus sun, the perfect boy who never falters, he’s tired. He’s stretched thin. He’s studying something he struggles with. He’s running from practice to class to meetings to tutoring sessions.
He’s human.
It’s disorienting.
It shouldn’t be.
But it is.
“Want help later?” I hear myself ask. “With math, I mean.”
He looks surprised. Actually surprised. Like the idea hadn’t occurred to him.
“You’d do that?”
“I don’t offer repeatedly,” I say dryly. “Take the opportunity.”
He grins, bright and grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be amazing.”
The word “amazing” does something catastrophic to my brain chemistry.
“Cool,” I say, sounding deeply uncool. “Text me.”
“Right. Uh – what’s your number?”
I nearly drop my bag.
We exchange phones. His case has a cracked corner and a sticker of a cartoon frog. It’s very him.
He hands it back like he’s giving me something important.
“See you later?” he asks.
“Later,” I echo.
As I walk away, I’m aware of a new, dangerous warmth blooming under my ribs. Not infatuation, not yet affection, but the beginning of something real.
And I know, instinctively, that I’m in trouble.
Because perfect boys aren’t supposed to be real.
Real boys aren’t supposed to be perfect.
And Harry Potter is beginning to be both.
I make it to my dorm room without collapsing. Barely.
I throw myself onto my bed and stare at the ceiling.
Then I sit up abruptly and scream into a pillow.
Blaise pokes his head through the door a second later. “Should I call a priest?”
“I’m dead,” I say.
“I see.” He steps inside. “Haunting your own bedroom is a bold choice.”
I fling the pillow at him. “He asked for my number.”
Blaise does not immediately react. Then he blinks. “Huh.”
“Huh?! That’s all you have?!”
“It’s progress,” he says calmly. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
“My hopes are already orbiting the sun!”
“That’s the problem.”
I flop back dramatically. “I hate you.”
“Good,” he says, picking up the pillow and handing it back. “Someone needs to keep your feet on the ground.”
“I don’t want them on the ground,” I mutter. “I want them somewhere near the stratosphere.”
He sighs. “Dray. Please. Don’t idealize him.”
I glare at the ceiling. “It’s not idealization if it’s true.”
Blaise raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know him yet.”
“I know enough.”
“You know what he shows the world. That’s not the same.”
I don’t answer.
Because for the first time, he might be right.
Harry isn’t perfect.
But the idea of him is perfect.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of that version.
Not yet.
Not when he finally looked at me. Not from across a room, but like he actually saw me.
Not when he said my name like it mattered.
Harry: hey
Harry: u still good to help me with math tonight?
Harry: sorry if ur busy or something
My heart tap-dances in my throat.
Draco: I’m free. Library?
Harry: yes pls
Harry: i’ll probably be ten minutes late
Harry: don’t hate me
I stare at the final message.
Perfect boys don’t apologize for being late.
Perfect boys don’t say, “don’t hate me.”
Perfect boys don’t sound that… vulnerable.
Something shifts again.
And suddenly the version of Harry I’ve been clutching onto feels fragile, like one wrong touch might shatter it.
I close my phone.
I grab my coat.
And for the first time, as I head toward the library, I wonder if I’m ready to meet the real boy behind the constellation I’ve drawn around him.
There’s something about university libraries after dark that makes every sound feel amplified. Pages turn like waves. Pens click like small explosions. Even whispers seem to hover in the air a little too long.
I choose one of the tables on the second floor, the one beneath a skylight that still holds onto a thread of daylight. I spread out my notes in a way that looks intentional instead of anxious.
I'm early, of course.
Harry's late, of course.
Not ten minutes. Fourteen.
I hear him before I see him. A familiar huffing breath as someone jogs up the stairs, followed by the squeak of his sneakers against the polished floor. My pulse jumps like I have been caught doing something illegal.
He arrives at the table, slightly winded and entirely unfair.
He drops into the chair across from me and rubs the back of his neck.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers loudly.
"Fourteen minutes," I say without looking up. "A new personal record."
He groans. "Coach made us run extra laps. Ron was ready to pass out."
"I assume you were, too."
"Me? I am built for this."
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"
He grins, and something traitorous in me warms.
His backpack is a disaster. He pulls out three notebooks, a folder that immediately spills loose pages, a cracked laptop, and a broken pencil that he stares at as if betrayed.
I hand him one of my spares.
His smile is so bright that I nearly forget how to breathe.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
We settle in. He looks at his math homework the way one might look at a venomous snake that has politely asked for directions.
"So," I say, leaning forward, "show me where you're lost."
"All of it."
"Be specific."
"All of it."
I sigh. "Potter."
"Malfoy."
"Do not antagonize your tutor."
"I would never," he says, overdramatic.
I take his worksheet and scan the first problem.
"Have you been paying attention in class at all?"
"I try," he says hopelessly. "I really do. But then Ron whispers something, or my knee starts bouncing, or I remember I left my cleats in the locker room, or someone walks by with a sandwich. There are so many things happening, and math is so quiet."
"Math is not quiet. It is structured."
"Exactly. That is the problem."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You are impossible."
"Productively impossible."
"That is not a phrase."
"It is now."
I fight a smile. He notices. He beams.
We choose the first problem together. It's simple conditional probability, nothing the average student could not handle with a bit of practice. Harry stares at the equation as if it has personally offended him.
"Walk me through what you think you should do," I say.
He taps his pencil, thinks hard, and then says, "Multiply something by something else."
I close my eyes.
He laughs softly. "This is embarrassing."
"It is not," I say, surprising myself. "You're good at many things. This doesn't have to be one of them."
He watches me with an expression I cannot read.
"Still feels stupid," he murmurs.
"It’s not," I repeat, softer this time.
He looks back down at his paper and tries again. This time, he gets halfway through the problem before stumbling. I guide him through the rest, and he actually seems to follow.
We fall into a rhythm. He works. I correct. He jokes. I pretend not to be charmed. He leans closer. I remind myself to breathe.
An hour in, he has finished three full problems.
It feels like a miracle.
"Look at you, Potter," I say lightly. "Thinking."
"Feels dangerous," he says. "Should I stop?"
"Don't tempt me."
He laughs again, quieter this time, gentler.
Silence settles between us. Not the awkward kind, but the warm kind that seems to stretch in a comfortable way.
I do not look at him.
Except I do.
Harry is frowning at his notes, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a small pout. A strand of hair falls over his forehead. He blows it away without using his hands.
It’s stupidly endearing.
He's stupidly endearing.
And suddenly I feel it again. The shift. The same one from the quad.
Harry Potter is not perfect.
He’s trying. He’s flustered. He’s tired. He’s messy. He is very human.
He is also looking at me.
"You are staring," he whispers.
"I am not."
"You are."
I look at my notes with forced intensity. "You're imagining things."
He smiles. "Maybe."
He leans back in his chair, stretching, his shirt lifting slightly. My brain short-circuits.
"I needed this," he says unexpectedly.
I blink. "What?"
"This. Studying with someone who doesn't make me feel stupid."
My mouth goes dry. "Do your friends make you feel that way?"
"No," he says quickly. "Not on purpose. They help. But they are all so busy. Hermione is overloaded. Ron has extra drills. Everyone expects me to be good at everything. It gets... a lot."
The words hang in the air.
The perfect boy does not sound perfect.
He sounds like someone who is stretched thin and trying to smile through it.
"You know," he adds softly, "when you talk about your major, you sound like you actually love it. Like it matters. I like that."
I swallow. "Astrophysics does matter."
"Not to most people."
"I am not most people."
He looks at me. Really looks.
"No," he says. "You are not."
My heart performs several illegal maneuvers.
He drops his gaze again, fiddling with his pencil.
"What made you choose stars anyway?" he asks. "Why not something normal?"
I bristle. "Are you calling my major abnormal?"
"No," he says quickly. "Just... impressive. You talk about constellations like they are people."
"They're stories," I say. "Ancient ones. Maps of how people tried to understand their lives."
"That sounds like you."
I stare. "What does that mean?"
"You look at everything like it’s connected to something bigger. Like you are searching for patterns."
"I am."
"Are you searching for one in me?"
The question punches the air from my lungs.
I am saved by the sudden vibration of his phone. He checks it and winces.
"Coach," he says. "We have an early morning. I should head back."
He starts packing in a frantic rush, shoving papers into folders and then folders into his bag with the care of a toddler.
He pauses before slinging the bag over his shoulder.
"Draco."
The sound of my name knocks something loose inside me.
"Thank you," he says. "Really."
He gives me a smile that’s not bright or loud or charming.
It is gentle.
It is real.
And then he leaves, jogging down the stairs, vanishing from sight.
I sink into my chair.
I tell myself that nothing happened.
I tell myself that Harry Potter is still the perfect boy I have built in my head.
But the truth is clear. Bright and undeniable.
He’s not perfect.
And I'm starting to like him more because of it.
My room feels too small when I get back from the library. I sit on the floor instead of the bed because the carpet is the only thing that feels steady. My thoughts are a mess. My entire chest feels swollen like someone has inflated it with a bicycle pump and walked away.
Harry Potter thanked me like I mattered.
That’s unfair. That’s irresponsible of him.
I take out my notes and try to read them, but lines blur. Constellation sketches turn into doodles of what might be Harry’s stupid hair. I close the notebook in self-defense and lie back on the floor.
I should sleep.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling until Blaise returns from whatever expensive bar he haunts. He opens the door with his usual dramatic flourish.
"Why are you on the ground?" he asks.
"It's grounding."
"This is a dorm, not a therapy retreat."
I ignore him.
He sighs, then nudges my leg with his foot. "Let me guess. Potter breathed again."
"He thanked me."
Blaise sits on the edge of his bed. "For what?"
"Helping him study."
"And this has shattered your entire worldview...?"
I sit up slowly. "He wasn't perfect today."
"I know. That’s a good thing."
"I don't know if I want it to be a good thing." I push my hair back and stare at nothing. "It feels like losing something that was only ever mine to begin with."
Blaise considers this. "You're not losing anything. You are gaining accuracy."
I scowl. "That doesn't feel better."
"It should."
I glare at him. He gives me a tiny smile.
"Dray," he says gently, "it’s fine to have a crush. But the boy is a person. Not a constellation."
That stings more than it should. I lie back down, cross my arms over my chest, and sigh loudly enough to make my point.
Blaise tosses a pillow at my head. "Go to sleep."
I fall asleep thinking about Harry’s tired eyes.
The dining hall at eight in the morning is pure chaos. People taping their eyelids open with coffee cups. First-year students moving like zombies. A boy at the cereal station staring blankly at an empty milk carton as if it personally betrayed him.
I grab a bagel and claim a table near the window. The sky is pale peach. If I were less emotionally compromised, I would sketch it.
Pansy arrives in a swirl of perfume and irritation.
"You look sick," she announces while sitting down.
"Good morning to you, too."
She rips her croissant into violent chunks. "Theo said you had a study thing with Potter."
I groan. "Of course he did."
"Tell me everything," she demands, leaning close.
"I helped him with math. That’s all."
"That’s never all."
"He was late. He was tired. He could not tell fractions from farm animals. Satisfied?"
Pansy studies me. "No. Something else happened."
I pick at my bagel. "He thanked me."
She rolls her eyes. "Draco. People thank other people every day. Don't treat it like he proposed."
"It was sincere."
"So what?"
"So I don't know how to handle sincerity from him."
She takes a sip of tea. "He's still a boy. A hot boy, yes. A sweet boy, probably. But still a boy. Future knee problems and all."
I choke on my bagel. "Pansy."
"What? Soccer players always destroy their knees."
"You cannot say things like that."
"I can, and I did."
I glare. She smirks.
"Look," she says more gently, "I want you to get what you want. I do. But you need to see him clearly. Crushes make everything blurry."
I stir my tea. "He is human."
"Yes."
"I don't know if I am ready for that."
"You are," she says. "You always are. Even when you're not."
Theo appears then, hair sticking up in several directions like he lost a fight with a pillow.
"There’s no coffee left," he announces.
I gesture at him. "Tragedy."
"You think this is funny. I need caffeine, or I die."
"We'll miss you."
Pansy kicks me lightly under the table. "Be nice to him."
"He stole my last granola bar yesterday."
"It was an emergency," Theo mutters, pouring himself tea. "I was emotionally unstable."
"You ate it because you were bored."
"Same thing."
Pansy turns back to me. "So, are you going to watch soccer practice today or not?"
I blink. "What?"
"Potter mentioned they have open fields this morning. Students can watch if they want."
"Why would he mention that?"
"Because he wanted you to come," she says, as if this is an undeniable fact.
I feel heat crawl up my neck. "He did not say that."
"Maybe not with words," she says. "Men rarely use those."
Theo nods with sleepy conviction. "She’s right."
I sink lower in my seat.
Pansy grins. "We're going. End of discussion."
The practice field sits behind the gym, stretching out under the bright morning sun. Students have gathered along the fence, excited chatter floating in the air. Most of them wear green and gold, our university colors, probably hoping to get a glimpse of their favorite player.
I have pretended not to care for the last thirty minutes. It’s a terrible lie.
Pansy drags me to the front of the crowd while Theo trudges behind us like someone walking to his own execution.
The team is already out. They are running drills, shouting plays, and weaving between cones. Ron Weasley is bright red from exertion. A few of the defensive players argue loudly about positions.
And then I see him.
Harry.
He moves with a kind of natural grace that makes the entire field look like it is rotating around him. His stride is confident but not arrogant. His shirt clings to his back. His hair is tied up loosely in a small half-bun that makes my brain short-circuit.
He dribbles the ball in quick, sharp motions, weaving between players like the ground is built for him.
I grip the fence to steady myself.
Pansy watches me with an expression that could be either encouragement or judgment.
"You're staring," she says.
"I am observing technique."
"You don't know anything about soccer technique."
"I am learning."
She laughs so loudly that a few people look back at us.
Harry jogs toward the water coolers near the fence. He has not seen me yet. Sweat glides down the side of his face. He wipes it with the hem of his shirt, and I have to look at the sky for a moment to maintain dignity.
Theo elbows me. "Try not to melt."
"I'm fine."
"You're steaming."
Harry looks up then.
Our eyes meet.
I freeze so completely that for a second I forget what breathing is.
His face lights up.
He waves.
Not a small greeting. Not a subtle gesture.
He waves like he’s happy to see me specifically.
My entire nervous system detaches from my body and goes on a solo vacation.
Pansy elbows me hard. "Wave back, idiot."
I do. Awkwardly. Probably with the elegance of a malfunctioning robot.
Harry grins wider and jogs over.
He stops on the other side of the fence, breath steady but chest rising in quick cycles. His hair sticks to his forehead. He looks real. Too real.
"You came," he says.
"Of course," I manage, pretending this was always part of my plan. "I was curious."
He laughs. "Curious, huh. Well. Feel free to judge my terrible form."
"Your form is excellent," I say before I can stop myself.
He pinks slightly. Actually pinks.
"Thanks," he says quietly.
Pansy beams at me like a proud mother hen.
Harry continues, "We have scrimmage drills in a bit. You can watch from here. It gets loud, though."
"I can handle loud."
He smiles in a way that does not feel public or practiced. It feels private.
But then the shift happens.
Someone calls his name.
His expression tightens, barely noticeable but unmistakable.
"Coming," he shouts back.
He turns to us again. "I'd better go. Coach gets annoyed if I take too long."
"Don't get yelled at," I say.
"Too late," he says with a small laugh, but the laugh is not convincing.
He jogs back onto the field.
Pansy leans in. "Did you see that?"
"What?"
"The moment someone called for him, he looked like he was bracing for something."
"He’s tired," I say, more defensive than intended.
"Maybe. But tired does not always mean exhausted. Sometimes it means pressured."
Theo hums thoughtfully. "I don't like the coach."
"You don't know the coach," I point out.
"I don't like authority figures in principle."
"I cannot argue with that."
We stand there as the scrimmage starts.
This time, Harry is different.
He runs harder. Faster. Sharper. There’s no ease in his movements. No joy. His shoulders are tight. His jaw clenched. He pushes himself past the line players normally pull back from.
Twice, he nearly collides with Ron. Once he stumbles and catches himself just before hitting the ground.
I find myself leaning forward involuntarily each time he slips or flinches.
"Why is he going so hard?" I whisper.
Pansy studies him. "Someone is expecting something from him. And he’s trying to live up to it."
A whistle blows.
Coach storms onto the field, barking something I cannot make out from here. Harry stands still, chest heaving, eyes fixed downward.
The rest of the team shifts awkwardly, trying not to stare.
I grip the fence until my knuckles turn white.
Harry nods through whatever the coach is yelling. He doesn't look up. He doesn't defend himself. He doesn't speak.
My stomach twists.
When the coach finally leaves, Harry exhales all at once, shoulders sagging as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.
He takes a moment before returning to the drill. Ron claps him on the back. Harry gives him a small half smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Pansy glances at me. "Still perfect?"
"No," I whisper. "Not today."
The field empties as players trickle toward the locker rooms. Students drift away too, chattering excitedly about upcoming matches.
I stay. Pansy stays because she refuses to leave me alone in my spiral. Theo stays because Pansy told him to.
Harry finally emerges twenty minutes later. His hair is damp again. His cheeks are still flushed. His shoulders look heavy.
He spots us and smiles, but it’s too neat, too polished.
I walk a few steps toward him. He slows down.
"Good practice," I say softly.
He laughs once, sharply. "Not really."
"You were pushing yourself."
He shrugs. "Coach wants more from me. It’s fine."
"It didn't look fine."
He pauses, eyes flicking toward the grass. "I just need to work harder."
"Harry."
He looks at me.
For a few seconds, he looks like he might say something real.
Then he straightens up and gives a small grin that feels like it belongs in a photograph instead of on his face.
"I should go shower. I smell like death."
"I'm sure you are exaggerating."
He steps closer. "You don't want to test that."
My heart does a triple somersault and sticks the landing.
He waves at Pansy and Theo, then jogs off toward the dorms.
Pansy lets out a long breath. "There it is."
"What?"
"The crack."
I stare after him. "There have been cracks."
"This one is bigger."
Theo nods silently.
Pansy loops her arm through mine. "Come on. Let's get lunch. You need calories before you implode."
We find a quiet corner in the dining hall. Pansy orders a chicken wrap. Theo orders something that looks like soup but smells like sadness.
I poke at a salad that tastes like disappointment.
Pansy breaks the silence. "So, where’s your head?"
"Floating," I admit.
"Expected."
"He's not perfect."
"Correct."
"But he‘s trying so hard to be."
"Also correct."
Theo looks up. "Do you like him more now that you know he’s flawed?"
The question is blunt. Important.
I think about it. Really think.
I remember his exhausted smile. His tense shoulders. The way he thanked me. The way he looked down when the coach yelled. The way he joked, even when it cost him energy.
"I don't know," I say. "But I'm not running."
Pansy smiles softly. "Good."
Theo sips his soup thoughtfully. "You're in the early stages of realistic affection."
Pansy kicks him under the table. "Don't make it sound like a disease."
"It often is," he says.
I laugh. Pansy joins. Eventually, Theo cracks a small smile too.
I lean back in my chair, still feeling the aftershocks of watching Harry unravel a little today.
He is not the perfect boy from the song anymore.
He is something else.
Something real enough to touch.
Something fragile enough to want to protect.
Something bright enough to pull me in even when it hurts.
I take a deep breath.
"This is dangerous," I say.
Pansy nods solemnly. "Yes."
Theo nods too. "Proceed anyway."
If anyone had told me that watching Harry Potter’s soccer practice would become a constant for me, I would deny them. There would be no way that I, Draco Malfoy, could even step close to watching Harry that openly. But alas, here I am.
Practice ends the same way it always does. A sharp whistle. A few muttered curses. Cleats scraping to a stop. But today it feels different because I have seen something I was not supposed to see.
Harry Potter losing his temper.
It should not matter. Everyone snaps. Everyone has breaking points. But it’s strange, almost surreal, watching the golden boy unravel just enough for the threads to show. He is supposed to shine. He is the one people watch for hope, for entertainment, for inspiration. But today he looked tired. Flushed. Angry. And when he shouted at Ron for a bad pass, his voice cracked just slightly, and I felt something weird under my ribs.
Reality, maybe.
The kind that ruins fantasies and builds something better.
When the rest of the team heads toward the locker room, Harry stays behind, hands on his hips, staring at the field as if it has personally betrayed him. I wait at the edge of the stairs, unsure if I should approach. I'm not his friend. Not really. I'm his tutor, his study partner, his occasional victim of infectious optimism. Watching him in moments like this feels almost invasive.
He kicks at the dirt, hits nothing, curses, then turns toward the bleachers and startles when he sees me.
"Draco," he says, pushing sweaty hair off his forehead. "I thought you left."
"No." I keep my tone light. Neutral. "Your passing was... aggressive."
He groans. "I know. Coach already glared at me. Ron will probably yell at me later. Hermione will give me that disappointed silence she does. It’s fine."
"It didn't look fine."
He freezes for half a second, then looks away. "It was just a bad day."
"Everyone has them."
"Not me," he mutters. "Or at least that’s what everyone thinks."
I walk down from the bleachers and meet him on the track. He looks exhausted. His cheeks are flushed not with exertion but with embarrassment. His jersey clings to his chest in a way I force myself not to notice.
"You put too much pressure on yourself," I say.
He scoffs. "You sound like Hermione."
"That must mean I am right."
He breathes out a small laugh despite himself. "I cannot suck at soccer, Draco. It’s the one thing I am supposed to be good at."
"You're allowed to be human."
He shoulders his bag, not meeting my eyes. "You say that like it’s easy."
"You say perfection like it’s required."
He does look at me then. Shaken. Vulnerable in a way I do not think he meant to reveal. The kind of look that tells me no one ever gave him permission to fall apart without expecting him to clean himself up instantly afterwards.
"I'm not perfect," he says quietly. "I just pretend to be."
"I know."
He blinks. "You know."
"I am not stupid, Potter."
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. He looks grateful and unsure of how to handle it.
"Walk with me?" he asks. The question feels softer than usual. Not casual. Not performative. He wants company.
"Alright," I say.
We head toward campus under the soft glow of the stadium lights that flicker out behind us one by one. The walk is long enough for the silence to settle but not weigh us down.
"When I was in high school," Harry says eventually, "coaches used to tell me I had to be consistent. That I had to be reliable. They said people look up to players who never falter."
"That’s not realistic."
"I know that now. But when you hear something like that long enough, you start believing it. Even when it hurts."
I glance at him. "Is that why you were so upset today?"
"No," he says, then amends, "partially. It’s also because I did fine yesterday and the day before. So I expected the same today. When I couldn't hit my passes, it just... overstuffed everything I was already carrying."
I raise a brow. "What else are you carrying?"
He hesitates for a moment, then laughs quietly. "How much time do you have?"
"Enough."
His shoulders drop slightly. "Pressure. Homework. Two exams next week. I keep falling behind in English. I'm still trying to figure out my thesis for that sports medicine class. The team keeps getting compared to last year’s roster. Ron is stressed. Hermione is drowning. I have to pretend everything is fine so they do not fall apart too."
"You don't actually believe that you're responsible for your friends' emotional stability."
He shrugs. "I don’t know. Maybe I do. Or maybe I just don’t want anyone to feel how I did when I didn't have people to help me."
There’s a rawness in his voice that makes me stop walking. He stops too, one step ahead, waiting without turning.
"Harry," I say carefully. "You know you can talk to people, right. Your friends. Your coach. Anyone."
He shrugs. "Talking does not fix the stuff I have to do."
"It doesn’t, but it makes it less lonely."
He looks at me over his shoulder with an expression that feels like a secret cracking open.
"You're easy to talk to," he says.
Something hot and tight hits my chest. I swallow it down before it shows on my face.
"You should raise your standards," I reply. "I'm not exactly known for my gentle touch."
"I like that about you."
I stop breathing for a full second.
He keeps walking, oblivious to the emotional catastrophe he just activated inside me. Or maybe he notices and chooses not to call attention to it. He has that habit. Letting things settle instead of poking them.
We continue in comfortable silence until we reach the edge of the main road. Cars hum by. Streetlights paint his skin gold.
"Draco," he says again, more tentative this time.
"Yes."
"Thanks for staying."
"I was already there."
"You could have left."
"I didn't want to."
He smiles. It’s small. Honest.
"Do you want to get dinner?" he asks suddenly. "Nothing fancy. Just something quick. I need carbs, and you probably need to stop thinking so hard."
"I don't think that hard."
"You do."
He’s right, but I refuse to let him know he’s right.
"Fine," I say. "But somewhere that doesn't smell like grease and regret."
"That rules out half of campus."
"I am aware."
He laughs, and I follow the sound without meaning to.
We end up at a small diner just off campus. Harry orders two burgers, one for now and one for later. I order a salad because I panic under pressure and cannot take it back once the server leaves.
Harry digs into his burger with a hunger that is half athletic necessity, half emotional exhaustion.
"So," he says around a mouthful, "why did you really come to practice nowadays? Watching sweaty people run around is not exactly your usual aesthetic."
"Astrophysics majors can enjoy sports."
"Do you?"
"That’s not relevant."
He lifts his brow. "You came to watch me?"
I choke on a piece of lettuce.
Harry smirks, victorious. "I knew it."
"I was already in the area."
"You were sitting in the third row with snacks."
"Pansy gave me snacks before class. That’s not evidence."
"It is very suspicious."
"You are impossible."
"And you’re bad at pretending."
I nearly drop my fork.
He takes another bite, eyes on me with something too warm to name.
"Seriously though," he says softly, "I’m glad you were there. It helped."
"How?"
"You looked calm. Or maybe controlled is the better word. I felt like if I really lost it, you would stop me before I did something stupid."
The idea of Harry trusting me with that much weight lands somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere dangerous.
"You give me a lot of credit," I say.
"I give you what you deserve."
I don’t respond. I cannot.
He finishes his food, wipes his hands on a napkin, and slumps back in his seat with a tired sigh.
"What are you doing after this?" he asks. "Homework? Studying? Staring at star maps until your eyes hurt."
"That’s rude."
"But correct."
"Possibly."
"I have another English assignment due," he says. "We could work on it together at my dorm. Ron and Hermione are at a debate thing, so the room is quiet for once."
My pulse stutters.
Going to his dorm.
Being alone with him.
Watching him flail through English essays and maybe laugh and maybe accidentally reveal another crack in his armor.
"Alright," I hear myself say. "Lead the way."
We leave the diner. The night air is cool, soft, easy. He walks a half step ahead of me, humming the chorus of a song I don’t know, swinging his bag loosely by the strap.
I look at his back and realize something terrifying.
I’m beginning to like the real Harry more than the perfect one I invented.
And the real one is so much more dangerous.
The walk to Harry’s dorm is quiet in a way that is almost dangerous. Streetlights fall in long stripes across the pavement. My shoes scuff rhythmically against the concrete, loud enough for me to notice. Harry walks just ahead, his backpack swinging lightly. I don’t notice how close we are at first, only that his shoulders are relaxed in a way that makes my stomach twinge.
I try to focus on the cracks in the sidewalk instead of the way his hair catches the light. Failing. Miserably.
"So," he says after a pause, breaking the silence in a deliberately casual way. "English essay. Theme analysis. Sounds boring, right?"
I shrug. "Somewhat. But you’re making it sound tragic. That’s dramatic and unnecessary."
He glances back at me, one brow raised. "Dramatic and unnecessary is basically my life motto."
I suppress a groan. "And yet here you are, overthinking soccer and now this essay."
"Overthinking comes naturally," he says with a shrug, like it is nothing remarkable.
Everything about him is remarkable. I want to shake myself. Stop analyzing every inflection, every movement, every blink. Stop turning him into some constellation I cannot reach. But I cannot.
We reach his dorm building. It smells faintly of burnt coffee and old wood, the kind of smell that makes me feel like the universe is folding in on itself in a comforting way. Harry unlocks the door and gestures me in first. The room is small, modest, surprisingly normal. Posters of professional soccer players cover one wall. A stack of textbooks teeters dangerously on the desk.
He flops onto the bed. "First rule of tutoring. Comfortable positions only."
I sit across from him, my bag on the floor, notebook open. My hands are itching to scribble something, anything, but I'm frozen by the nearness of him. He’s not trying to be perfect now. He is just… Harry. A boy who looks tired and a little stressed and entirely human.
He grabs his notebook and glances at me. "Where do we start?"
I flip through my notes. "Your thesis. You have three claims. Two of them are vague. The third contradicts the first."
He groans. "Of course. Why would writing about symbolism in sports novels be easy?"
"Because it’s writing. Not magic. Words are safer than goals."
He laughs softly. That sound, so unrestrained, hits me in the chest. I make a mental note not to mention that my heart is doing something illegal.
We begin. I explain. He nods. He listens. He asks questions. He makes mistakes. He corrects them. He sighs when something frustrates him and apologizes quietly when he does not understand immediately.
I watch him. I watch the muscles in his jaw tense and relax. The slight curve of his shoulders as he leans closer to the desk. The way his hand taps rhythmically against the notebook when he is thinking.
I realize, startlingly, that I’m completely, irrevocably captivated.
And then he looks up and catches me staring.
"You’re thinking too hard," he says, almost accusingly.
"I’m observing," I reply, though my voice cracks a little. He smiles faintly, satisfied, and I hate that I care that he’s satisfied.
We settle into a rhythm. He writes. I check. He mutters under his breath. I correct. He grins sheepishly when I raise an eyebrow at his dramatic sighs.
It’s quiet. Comfortable. Dangerous in its simplicity. I’m acutely aware of every breath he takes, every small movement, every beat of his hands against the table.
At one point, he puts his pencil down and leans back in his chair. "You make this less terrible," he admits, almost shyly. "Not easy, but… less terrible."
I pause. "I make things less terrible?"
"Not everything," he corrects softly. "Just… this."
Something warm spreads in my chest. Not pride. Not exactly. Something heavier, sharper, more compulsive. Something that makes me want to reach across the table and steady him. Protect him. Keep him from burning out before he has a chance to breathe.
I close my notebook slowly. "You're not terrible," I say carefully. "Even when you think you are."
He looks at me like I said something scandalous. His cheeks pink slightly. "You're… really nice for a Malfoy."
I snort. "Don’t make that a habit."
"Too late," he says with a small laugh.
The air between us shifts. Slightly. Uncomfortably. Electrically.
He scratches at his hair, nervous, I think. Or maybe just tired. "I… I guess I never realized how much easier it is to focus when someone actually explains things."
"You’re used to people expecting you to already know everything," I say. "It’s exhausting to pretend otherwise."
He looks down, silent for a moment. Then back at me. "Yeah. It is."
I realize then that the Harry I’m watching is not a perfect boy at all. He’s a boy trying to meet expectations that do not belong entirely to him. A boy who needs permission to falter. A boy who deserves to be seen as human.
And I am already hopelessly entangled.
"Do you want a break," I ask. "Or do we keep going?"
He shakes his head. "Let's keep going. I like your interruptions."
I blink. "That’s a compliment?"
"It is," he says with a tiny, earnest smile. "Stop looking so shocked."
I resist the urge to correct him. Instead, I bend over his essay, the two of us leaning close, the space between us shrinking in a way that feels entirely forbidden and entirely natural.
The hours pass without notice. I’m aware only of him. Only of how he sighs when something frustrates him. How he laughs quietly at his own mistakes. How he looks at me like he is testing me, measuring the trust between us.
When the essay is finally finished, we lean back, exhausted but satisfied. He stretches, long and slow, then glances at me.
"Thanks," he says softly. "For staying. For… not laughing. For helping."
I shrug, pretending casualness. "It’s what I do."
"No. You do more than that."
I glance at him, startled. "I do?"
"You see me," he says simply. "Not just the team, not just the soccer player, not just the guy who smiles at everyone. You see the real me."
Something in my chest twists, painful and urgent. My carefully constructed fantasy is beginning to dissolve. The real Harry is more fragile, more complex, more human than I imagined.
And I’m drawn to him in a way I cannot name.
He smiles again, shy and small, but bright enough to hurt. "I should probably shower," he says. "Tomorrow is another early practice."
"Right," I say, standing. "Do you want to walk me to the door?"
He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Thanks."
We leave the room together, walking down the dorm hallway. He leans slightly toward me, and I realize how little space there is between us. How much closer this is than anything else in my life has been.
"Draco," he says softly, stopping at the door. "I… I like having you here."
I feel my pulse hammer. "I like being here, too."
He looks at me, hesitates, then smiles faintly. "See you tomorrow."
I nod. "See you."
He closes the door behind him after letting me out into the cold of the night. I lean against the cold building wall, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.
He is not perfect.
He is human. He is tired. He is flawed.
And I like him more because of it.
I slide down the wall, sitting on the cold ground with my back against it. I let my mind wander. The constellations I studied in class feel trivial compared to the one I'm trying to map now. One person. One boy. One impossible, infuriating, and utterly captivating human.
I wake up earlier than necessary. Not intentionally. My body has decided that sleeping in is a luxury I don’t deserve when Harry Potter exists in my universe. I lie in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying last night in vivid detail. The sound of his laughter. The way he leaned over his essay, shoulders tense yet impossibly graceful. The small, shy smile he gave me when we finished.
I force myself out of bed, shoving those thoughts aside like stray papers on my desk. Breakfast is unremarkable. Pansy shoots me looks that could kill, Theo murmurs something about my “excessive rumination habits,” and I respond with the kind of sarcasm that hides desperation.
Then comes the real test: classes.
I have English first. A boring lecture hall, third row, window cracked just enough for sunlight to fall across my desk. I try to focus on the professor’s monotone discussion of symbolism, imagery, and narrative voice, but my mind refuses. Every so often, a movement catches the corner of my eye. A bright flash of green and gold from the sports hall.
Harry.
He walks in like the world’s gravity bends around him. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, hair messy in a way I want to smooth, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He sits two rows ahead of me, far enough to seem casual, close enough that I can see the tiny frown of concentration on his forehead.
I grip my notebook too tightly. This is unfair.
The lecture drones on. I pretend to write notes, but all I can think about is the way he glances at his pen, the way he tilts his head when he tries to follow the discussion. He’s trying, just like yesterday. Human, faltering, so much less perfect than the perfect boy I imagined.
My chest tightens. I realize, almost violently, that the less perfect he is, the more I like him.
I glance at the notebook. Half of it is nonsense diagrams, doodles of constellations shaped like him, the stars rearranged into his face. I drop my pen.
It’s official. I am obsessed.
I’m also terrified.
I follow him to math, the lecture hall for applied statistics. He already has a notebook open when I slip into the seat behind him. My heart is audibly hammering. I keep my voice low when I mutter the occasional question to the professor.
Harry doesn't notice me at first. He's too focused, brow furrowed, pencil tapping at a rapid, irregular rhythm. He writes down formulas and erases them in a near-panicked loop.
I want to reach forward and steady his hand.
Instead, I watch.
He glances up briefly and catches my gaze. There’s something unspoken in that look. Slight embarrassment. Maybe acknowledgment. Maybe he knows how ridiculous I am.
I feel my stomach flip.
The professor calls on him unexpectedly. Harry fumbles, then answers, almost right, then corrects himself halfway through. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
When he sits down again, I meet his eyes. "Nice save," I whisper.
He nods slightly, small, almost imperceptible, and goes back to the problem.
I feel like my heart has taken a detour into my throat.
Lunch is unavoidable. The cafeteria smells of overcooked pasta and cafeteria-grade bread. Pansy is already waiting, arms crossed, scowling.
"Stop staring at him," she says immediately. "You are obvious."
"I’m not staring," I protest. "I am observing."
"Observing is what creeps do," Theo adds.
"I am not creeping," I snap, though it comes out weaker than I intend.
Then I see him again. Harry. Sitting with Ron and Hermione, flipping through a textbook, laughing softly at something Ron says. There’s a small crease in his forehead when Hermione points something out. He runs a hand through his hair, already slightly damp from his morning practice.
I realize I’m holding my breath.
"It’s hopeless," I mutter.
Pansy smirks. "No. It’s fun to watch you suffer."
I glare. "You don’t understand. This is… complicated."
"It’s obsession," she says simply.
"Not obsession," I argue. "Affection. Genuine care. Admiration. A nuanced set of emotional responses."
"Call it what it is," Theo mutters. "You like him. Deal with it."
I shove a piece of bread in my mouth to hide the blush creeping up my neck.
Classes end. I try to convince myself I'm headed back to my dorm. Pansy and Theo leave, sighing like they have done enough damage for one day.
I don't go back to my dorm.
Instead, I drift toward the library. It’s quieter here than yesterday. Sunlight filters through the high windows, dust motes floating lazily in the beams.
I find Harry already tucked into a corner, half a dozen notebooks open, laptop humming. His hair is falling over his forehead, and he tucks it back absentmindedly. He looks up as I approach.
"You’re here again," he says, eyebrows raised.
"I was in the area," I lie.
"Right," he says, not quite believing me. "English? Math?"
"Both," I say, and somehow it feels like an understatement.
He sets down his pen. "You don’t have to do this alone, you know."
"I’m not alone," I murmur.
"You look alone," he says. His voice is soft, careful, almost accusing in the gentlest way.
"I am… observing," I say.
He snorts. "Of course."
We begin again. He writes, I correct. He sighs, smiles, makes tiny jokes, and I find myself laughing too quietly. He glances up. "Why do you laugh like that?"
I shrug. "It’s a special skill."
He smiles faintly, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You make everything feel… manageable."
I freeze. Manageable. Not perfect. Not magical. Just… real.
A quiet settles between us. The air feels charged. I am acutely aware of the distance between us, the nearness of his hands on the table, the way his eyes seem to flicker with something I cannot name.
I force myself to focus on his essay, on the lines of analysis, on the words he struggles with. But the words are meaningless now. I’m too aware of him, of everything about him, of how fragile he looks when he lowers his gaze to the page, how real he is when he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
Finally, he leans forward, pencil hovering over the page. "Thanks," he says quietly. "For… staying. For not treating me like I’m some… I don’t know… untouchable icon or whatever."
I swallow. "I'm not here for icons. I’ve said this multiple times."
"You’re here for me," he says softly.
I can feel heat crawling up my neck. My hands curl into fists around my notebook. "I’m here," I admit. "And… I don’t know what else to do."
He gives a small, tired laugh, almost self-deprecating. "Good answer."
The library is quiet except for the faint hum of computers and the scraping of chairs as a few last students leave. I realize I could sit here forever. Just observing him, watching him exist in a way that makes my chest ache.
And I know that is dangerous.
Because I’m starting to see him not as the perfect boy from the songs, not as some untouchable fantasy, but as Harry. Human. Vulnerable. Exhausting. Brilliant.
And I like him. More than I should. More than I ever intended.
He glances up at me again, expression small, careful. "You’re… different," he says.
I want to ask different how, but I cannot. Instead, I nod. "Yes," I say. "I’m different."
He studies me a moment longer. "I like it," he admits.
Something cracks inside me. My carefully arranged constellations, my idealizations, my mental charts of who he is supposed to be—all of it is falling apart.
And I like it more than I want to.
When he finally gathers his things, pushing notebooks into neat piles, I rise with him. The walk back to the dorms is quiet. The streetlights cast soft shadows across his face. I notice, suddenly, how small some of his gestures are. The tilt of his head, the brushing of hair from his forehead, the way he shifts weight from one foot to the other. All of it so human.
And I’m trapped by it.
At the dorm, he pauses at the door. "See you tomorrow," he says softly.
"See you," I reply, voice low. My stomach twists.
He steps inside. I watch the door close behind him.
Alone again, I lean against the wall like before. My chest feels heavy with something I cannot name. Anticipation. Fear. Desire. All mixed into one sharp, impossible feeling.
The next morning, I wake up feeling like I’ve been punched by my own thoughts. Last night’s realization, that Harry is human, imperfect, capable of exhaustion and stress, was comforting and horrifying at the same time. Comforting because it means he isn’t some untouchable statue I can’t approach. Horrifying because now I actually have to interact with him.
And I’m unprepared.
Breakfast is a battle. I sit across from Pansy and Theo, poking at my toast like it’s an advanced math problem. My mind keeps wandering. Harry. Yesterday’s conversation. The way he looked at me when I said he was allowed to be human.
Pansy raises an eyebrow. "You’ve been spacing out since you sat down."
"I’m not spacing out," I lie.
Theo snorts. "That’s exactly spacing out what someone spacing out would say."
I glare at him. "It is… strategic observation."
"Of what?" Pansy asks, deadpan.
I almost choke on my toast. "Of… constellations."
Pansy snorts. "Right. Sure."
I take my coffee like it’s armor and leave before they can drag the truth out of me.
Math first. I slip into the lecture hall early, hoping for the chance to sit near Harry without looking desperate. He’s already there, scribbling something in his notebook, wearing the same hoodie he wore yesterday, hair slightly messier. He glances up and smiles faintly, like he’s expecting me.
I sit two seats behind him. That feels safe. Not too far, not too close. My heart refuses to obey.
I try to focus on the lecture. Honestly, I do. But every few seconds, I catch him chewing on the end of his pencil or muttering under his breath, and my brain freezes.
He notices my glances. I know he does. At one point, he leans back in his chair, catches my eye, and gives me a tiny wave.
I wave back too enthusiastically.
Great. Fantastic. That went well.
I manage to escape class without fainting. The hallway is crowded. Students spill in and out, lockers slam, shoes squeak. And there he is again, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, looking exactly like he belongs in sunlight and chaos at the same time.
"Draco," he says as I catch up. "Hey."
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual while my stomach ties itself into knots. Casual, my foot.
"You free after English?"
My brain immediately freezes. This is it. This is my chance. What do I say? What do I do?
"Uh… yes," I manage. My voice cracks slightly. I curse under my breath. He doesn’t notice.
"Cool," he says. "I… thought maybe we could get coffee. Or something. For a break. You know. From… life."
I almost hyperventilate. He wants to spend time with me. Just me.
"Sure," I say, trying to sound normal. "Coffee sounds fine."
He smiles. "Great. There’s a place near the student center. They have… uh… good muffins. You like muffins?"
"I… yes," I say. "I like muffins."
"Good. Then muffins it is."
The walk there is torture. We talk about class assignments, upcoming exams, and ridiculously minor grievances like how the cafeteria always runs out of one specific kind of juice. I laugh at some of his jokes. I try to act like it’s effortless. I fail. My hands are sweating, my words too fast, my heartbeat like a drumline in my chest.
He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he’s too polite to point it out.
The coffee shop is crowded but quiet enough for conversation. Harry orders a black coffee and a muffin. I try not to overthink my own order. I pick a tea that I hope seems vaguely intellectual without being obvious.
We sit across from each other at a small table. I notice the way his fingers wrap around the mug. The way he takes tiny, careful bites of his muffin. I want to memorize it. I want to study him. And I realize with some horror that this is exactly what my crush looks like in practice.
"So," he says, breaking the silence. "You have any… fun plans for the weekend?"
I blink. "Fun plans." My brain refuses to process the concept. "I… might… review constellations?"
He laughs. "Right. Of course. Fun."
I scowl. "Observing is fun."
He smirks. "I guess if you’re into that kind of thing."
"Which I am," I say it with too much pride.
There’s another pause. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him something. Anything. I finally blurt: "Do you ever… like… just… go somewhere and not think about practice?"
He stares at me for a beat. Then, slowly, he nods. "Sometimes. But it’s hard. You’re always expecting the next thing. I mean… classes, team, homework, friends… it adds up."
"Yes," I say. "Exactly."
He looks at me, eyes slightly amused. "You really get it, don’t you?"
I choke internally. "Of course I do," I say, but my voice is a little too sharp.
He laughs. "You take yourself too seriously, you know that?"
"Do I not?" I snap, then regret it instantly. I smile weakly. "Maybe a little."
He grins, and my chest hurts. This is going to be a long day.
We finish coffee and sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. I realize that I’m learning more about him in these small interactions than I ever did from observing practice or studying together. He is messy, awkward, tired, sarcastic, and… human. And I am falling deeper every second.
I try not to think about it. I try to act normal. I fail.
He nudges me slightly. "You okay?"
I glance up, startled. "Yes. Totally fine."
"Sure," he says, unconvinced. "You’re not blushing, are you?"
I almost choke on my tea. "I am not," I manage, though my ears feel like they’re on fire.
He smirks knowingly. "Right."
The walk back to campus is slower than it should be. Every interaction, every glance, every tiny joke feels monumental. I’m acutely aware of my own feelings, aware of how absurd they are, aware that I am probably making a fool of myself.
And I don’t care.
Because for once, the crush is not just about perfection. It’s about him.
Harry.
I never thought I would find myself walking to Harry’s dorm again, but here I am. Every step, every casual brush against Harry’s shoulder, makes my chest tighten. I try not to notice how the hoodie sticks to him in the sunlight or how he swings his bag lazily, like he owns the world without trying.
We reach the door. He fumbles with his keys.
"You don’t have to wait for me every time," he says, glancing over his shoulder.
"I’m not waiting," I lie. "I’m… uh… nearby."
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying, but won’t press it. I follow him inside, and the smell hits me first: faint coffee, old books, the lingering scent of laundry detergent. It’s homey. Unsafe. Somehow perfect for this level of panic, my brain refuses to label.
He sets his backpack down and gestures at the desk. "Essay part two. Math review. English outline. Take your pick."
I hesitate, and he smirks knowingly. "You can’t help yourself, can you?"
I huff. "I’m a professional," I say, though it sounds less convincing than usual.
We settle in across from each other. He pulls out his laptop, I spread my notebooks, and the silence falls. Comfortable? No. Electrifying. Dangerous.
At first, it’s simple. He types, I correct. He scribbles, I sigh dramatically. He mutters small frustrations, and I… watch.
I know this is unhealthy. I know this. And yet I cannot look away.
At one point, he leans over to reach for a pen that rolled across the desk. Our elbows touch. Slightly. Briefly.
I freeze.
He notices, tilts his head. "Do you want to move?"
"No," I say too quickly, panic creeping into my voice. "It’s fine."
"It’s fine," he repeats, smiling faintly. "You sure?"
I nod, trying to focus on the notebook in front of me, but my hand shakes slightly. I feel like a fool. He notices. Of course, he notices. He always notices.
"Relax, Malfoy," he teases softly. "You’re… twitchy."
"Twitchy is a professional skill," I murmur.
He snorts, and the sound sends some kind of electric jolt straight to my chest. I refuse to think about how my heart just betrayed me.
The essay moves forward. Slowly, painfully, but we make progress. At one point, he misquotes a line from the book.
"I’m pretty sure that’s wrong," I say, pointing to the page.
He frowns. "No, I got it right!"
"You got it wrong."
"No, I didn’t. I swear."
We argue in whispers for five minutes, leaning closer to check the text. Our heads nearly touch. I can feel the warmth from him. I can smell the faint mint from his toothpaste. I am melting.
Finally, he groans, laughing quietly. "Fine, fine. You’re right. Happy now?"
"I am never not happy when I’m right," I reply smugly.
He laughs again, shaking his head. "You are insufferable."
"And yet," I say carefully, "you are enjoying this."
"Maybe," he admits, eyes sparkling. "A little."
I try not to swoon. Fail spectacularly.
By the end of the session, we’ve finished part of the essay and reviewed some math problems. He stretches and leans back in his chair, messy hair falling into his eyes.
"Thanks," he says quietly. "For… helping. For… staying."
I shrug, pretending nonchalance. "I didn’t want to leave you to suffer alone again."
"You didn’t have to stay this long."
"I wanted to."
The pause between us is long. Comfortable and awkward all at once. He watches me with something like curiosity, maybe amusement. I pretend not to notice.
"Want a snack?" he asks suddenly, like he just remembered something mundane. "I have… uh… granola bars."
"I don’t eat granola bars," I say automatically.
He raises a brow. "No reason?"
"I prefer food that doesn’t resemble compressed cardboard," I reply, smug.
He laughs, low and genuine. "You're impossible."
"I know," I admit.
I leave his dorm finally, backpack slung over one shoulder, heart hammering. The walk back to mine is quiet, mostly because I can’t talk. My thoughts spin: elbows touching, accidental proximity, his laugh, his messy hair, the way he looks at me like he already knows me better than I know myself.
I realize something terrifying: getting to know him is worse than watching him from afar. Watching him is safe. Knowing him… knowing him means every word, every laugh, every small gesture becomes fuel for my obsession.
And I'm completely, irrevocably hooked.
Morning comes too quickly. I spend half an hour staring at the ceiling, rehearsing how to act normal around Harry, and the other half trying not to think about his elbows brushing mine yesterday. Spoiler alert: I fail at both.
Breakfast is a blur of toast and Pansy’s pointed comments. Theo grins at me knowingly. "Still thinking about Potter?"
"I'm not thinking about him," I say quickly. Too quickly. My face heats instantly.
Pansy raises a brow. "Sure. Whatever you say."
I shove my toast into my mouth to hide the blush and make a mental note: avoid talking to anyone until I have seen him today.
I slip into the lecture hall early, finding a seat two rows behind Harry. He’s already there, scribbling numbers with his usual chaotic precision. He glances back and gives me a faint, almost smug smile, like he knows exactly what I’ve been obsessing over since yesterday.
I glare at him. Internally.
The lecture begins, and I try to concentrate. Really, I do. But every time he scribbles, taps his pencil, or mutters quietly to himself, my brain short-circuits.
At one point, Harry gets up and moves closer to me. He leans over to check his notes and brushes against my shoulder again. I freeze, trying desperately not to overreact.
"You’re twitchy," he whispers, smirking.
"I am… observational," I say, voice cracking slightly. My hands are sweating. Why does breathing feel like a crime when he’s this close?
He chuckles quietly, not making fun, just amused, which makes it worse.
Cafeteria. The ultimate trap. He’s sitting with Ron and Hermione, laughing at something that I can’t hear over the loud thump of my heart.
I try to sit elsewhere, inconspicuously. Fail. He spots me and waves.
I wave back, far too enthusiastically. Too late, I realize my hand is shaking.
He gestures for me to join them. My stomach twists. Why is sitting next to him simultaneously terrifying and irresistible?
Conversation is impossible. Every word I say comes out either too formal, too sarcastic, or somehow both. He laughs at one of my failed jokes anyway, and my heart stutters.
I try not to think about how cute his laugh sounds, like it’s soft and careful and entirely unguarded.
English seminar requires us to split into groups. Naturally, fate pairs me with Harry.
I swear I can feel every heartbeat in my body. Every gesture he makes, every glance, every way he leans over a textbook, makes me panic.
We work together, quietly arguing about phrasing, pointing out mistakes, and making sarcastic side comments to each other that somehow feel intimate.
At one point, we lean over the same notebook to read a quote. Our heads nearly touch. My brain shuts down. He notices but doesn’t pull away. He smirks faintly.
"You’re twitchy again," he whispers.
"I’m not twitchy," I whisper back.
"You totally are," he says, grinning. "It’s kind of cute."
I die a little inside. Literally.
After class, we walk together toward our dorms. Somehow, naturally, it’s just the two of us. He talks about the lecture, asks me for clarification on a math problem, and I answer while mentally rehearsing what normal humans say in normal conversations.
My internal monologue: FAIL. YOU ARE FAILING. HE KNOWS. HE KNOWS.
Instead, I smile faintly. Try to act casual. Fail spectacularly.
He notices anyway. "You’re thinking too hard," he says gently.
"I’m… I am not," I stammer.
"You totally are," he teases, and I want to punch the air but also melt into the sidewalk.
Back in my dorm, I flop onto my bed. My chest aches. My brain is a mess of numbers, words, and his stupid green eyes. I replay every glance, every brush of elbows, every small laugh.
I realize something important. I am not in love with perfection anymore. I’m in love with him. All of him. Imperfect, awkward, funny, and terrifyingly human.
And now I have to figure out how to interact with him without dying of embarrassment every ten minutes.
Which, given my track record so far, is going to take approximately forever.