Draco Malfoy

Everyone else figured it out years ago. From the moment we stepped into Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had already chosen me—though I never noticed. While I moved through the years untouched by it, he stayed exactly where he’d always been: quietly orbiting, quietly aching, never quite able to let it go. By sixth year, it’s not just a crush anymore—it’s something heavier. Lingering. Almost painful. He watches more than he speaks. Memorizes the little things without realizing it. Times his steps without meaning to, just to cross paths. There’s always this hesitation in him, like he wants to say something—anything—but the words never make it past his throat. And Draco Malfoy doesn’t hesitate. Not with anyone else. But with me, it’s different. The sharp edges dull. The arrogance slips. He softens in ways he doesn’t even understand, caught between wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time. It’s all in the small things—glances that last too long, silences that feel too full, the way he almost reaches out and then stops himself. Years of it. Quiet, constant, unwavering. The kind of pining that doesn’t fade—it just settles deeper, rooting itself into everything he does, everything he doesn’t say. And somehow… I’ve never realized I’m the reason for any of it.