Be with Me Instead

The midwinter gloom of Hogwarts' fifth year seeped through the ancient stone walls, mirroring the chill that had settled in Harry Potter's chest. It wasn't the cold of the drafts, nor the perpetual damp of the dungeons where he spent far too many hours enduring Snape's scorn; it was the cold of watching, helpless and furious, as Draco Malfoy bestowed his attention on someone else.

Harry hadn't meant to become so fixated. At first, it was simply the usual rivalry—the sneers across the Great Hall, the hexes in the corridors, the biting remarks. But somewhere between the chaos of Umbridge's reign and the ever-tightening grip of Voldemort's war, Harry's gaze began to linger. It lingered on the way Malfoy's pale hair caught the candlelight, the way his lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the way his grey eyes could flash with such intense emotion. And it lingered, with a growing, sour ache, on the way Malfoy leaned into Theodore Nott.

Everywhere Harry looked, they were together. In Potions, Malfoy would slide his cauldron dangerously close to Nott's, their shoulders brushing as they whispered. In the common room, Harry glimpsed through the door one evening when the Slytherins entered, Malfoy's hand resting on Nott's forearm, his head tilted in that intimate, adoring way. In the library, where Harry had taken to hiding away from his own tumultuous thoughts, he would see them at a secluded table, Malfoy's fingers tracing patterns on Nott's hand, his eyes soft with a devotion that twisted the knife deeper into Harry's gut.

Jealousy was an ugly, writhing thing. Harry told himself it was hatred—hatred for Malfoy's smug existence, for his family's treachery, for the way he always seemed to provoke Harry into losing control. But hatred didn't explain the dreams. In the quiet dark of the dormitory, Harry dreamed of that look being directed at him. He dreamed of being the one to make Malfoy's breath catch, to see those grey eyes go dark with want, to feel that slender hand in his own. He would wake up gasping, disgusted and aroused, and the jealousy would surge anew as he watched Malfoy the next day, always watching, always wanting what he could never have.

For Malfoy never looked at him that way. Not once. Malfoy looked at Harry with contempt, with anger, sometimes with something that might have been fear, but never—never—with that devastating softness reserved for Theodore Nott. Harry would have given anything for a fraction of it. He'd have traded his fame, his scar, his very destiny just to have Draco Malfoy gaze at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

It was a Tuesday in late February when the world shifted. Harry was skulking in the corner of the library, ostensibly studying for a Charms exam but in reality observing a table near the Restricted Section where Malfoy sat alone. Nott was absent, and Malfoy seemed restless, glancing at the entrance every few minutes. Harry's heart had been doing its usual bitter tango when Hermione appeared, sliding a note across the table to him with a disapproving frown.

"You're staring again," she whispered. "Honestly, Harry, if you're going to obsess over Malfoy, you could at least be subtle about it."

Harry grunted, not taking the bait. "What's this?"

"Rumour mill from Luna. Apparently, Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass have been seen snogging in the potions corridor. Quite publicly."

Harry's blood went cold, then hot. He snatched the note, scanning Luna's loopy handwriting. The words blurred for a moment before sharpening with cruel clarity. Nott was with Greengrass. Nott had a girlfriend. That meant Malfoy—what did that mean for Malfoy?

He looked up, and his chest constricted. Malfoy had snatched up his bag and was now striding swiftly out of the library, his face a mask of rigid control that Harry recognised all too well. It was the mask Malfoy wore when he was about to shatter.

Harry didn't think. He just moved, abandoning Hermione's hiss of protest and his own belongings. He followed the flash of platinum hair down the corridors, past the staircase, into a lesser-used wing where the air grew dusty and silent. Malfoy disappeared into a small, secluded section of the library—a place of ancient grimoires and forgotten texts, rarely visited. Harry crept to the door, which Malfoy had left slightly ajar, and peered through.

Draco Malfoy was crying.

He sat slumped against a tall bookshelf, his knees drawn up to his chest, his bag discarded carelessly on the floor. His shoulders shook with silent, suppressed sobs, and his hands were pressed over his face, but even so, Harry could see the tears leaking through his fingers, tracing clean tracks through the pale skin. The sight was so unexpectedly raw, so unlike the arrogant boy Harry knew, that it struck him like a blow to the chest.

A part of Harry—the part that had been forged in years of rivalry—wanted to feel triumph. But the larger, more terrifying part felt a fierce, possessive ache. He wanted to be the one to comfort him. He wanted to be the reason for those tears, and he wanted to be the one to wipe them away. The duality was maddening.

He pushed the door open. It creaked, and Malfoy's head snapped up, his red-rimmed eyes going wide with shock and then with a desperate attempt at defiance. He scrambled to his feet, wiping frantically at his cheeks.

"Potter," he spat, but his voice cracked pitifully, transforming the intended insult into a broken whisper.

Harry felt a smirk tug at his lips—a smirk born not of cruelty but of a strange, overwhelming need to break down the walls between them. He advanced slowly, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Malfoy could hear it. Malfoy took a step back and hit the bookshelf, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture, but Harry didn't stop. He closed the distance until they were chest to chest, and then he did what he had fantasised about for months: he reached up and gently, almost tenderly, wiped the tears from Malfoy's cheeks with his thumbs.

"Malfoy," Harry said, his voice low and rough.

Malfoy shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut for a beat before flying open again. "Potter," he repeated, but it was softer now, a trembling exhalation.

Harry's smirk deepened, though his eyes were fierce. He pressed his palms flat against the bookshelf on either side of Malfoy's head, effectively caging him in. "Do you know how pitiful it is," he murmured, "to watch you drool over Nott when he's clearly taken?"

The effect was instantaneous. Malfoy's face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled over. "I know," he choked out. "I just found out. I saw them—together—and I—" He broke off, a sob tearing from his throat.

Harry felt a strange surge of anger—not at Malfoy, but at the situation, at Nott, at the whole bloody world that made this beautiful, infuriating boy cry over someone who wasn't him. "You're just going to stand there looking pathetic for him, then?" he demanded, his voice gaining an edge of disbelief.

Malfoy cried harder, his sobs becoming almost childlike. He looked so broken, so vulnerable, that Harry's heart twisted brutally. He had never imagined Draco Malfoy could weep like this, all proud armour stripped away. And the sight lit a fire in him that was part fury, part desperate longing.

"Be with me instead," Harry growled, the words ripping from somewhere deep in his chest. "Forget him. Be with me."

Malfoy's eyes widened, his tears momentarily arrested by shock. "What—"

But Harry didn't let him finish. He crushed his mouth against Malfoy's in a kiss that was all anger and movement and months of pent-up desire. It was not gentle. It was a claim, a statement, a demand. Harry's lips were bruising, his teeth nipping at Malfoy's lower lip, his body pressing Malfoy hard against the bookshelf. He felt Malfoy go rigid for a heartbeat, and then, miraculously, Malfoy melted. His hands came up to fist in Harry's robes, and he kissed back with a desperate, inexperienced fervour that made Harry groan into his mouth.

The world narrowed to the heat of Malfoy's lips, the salt of his tears mingling with the taste of peppermint, the small, broken sounds he made as Harry devoured him. Harry's hands left the bookshelf to tangle in that silky platinum hair, angling Malfoy's head to deepen the kiss, to pour all his jealousy and want and madness into this single, shattering act.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting. Malfoy's face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes still glistening but now wide with bewilderment rather than despair. He stared at Harry as if he'd never truly seen him before.

"Why?" Malfoy whispered, his voice hoarse. "Why would you—you hate me."

Harry's chuckle was dark and self-deprecating. "Hate you? I've been going insane watching you with Nott for months. I couldn't stand it. Every time you looked at him, every time you touched him, I wanted to hex him into next week. I wanted—" He broke off, his jaw clenching. "I wanted you to look at me like that."

Malfoy's breath hitched. "You... you're jealous?"

"Yes," Harry admitted, the word feeling like a release. "Jealous, angry, utterly obsessed. It's pathetic, really. But I can't stop."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, Malfoy raised a trembling hand and touched Harry's cheek, trailing his fingers down to trace the line of his jaw. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent. Harry's eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed.

"I never thought..." Malfoy began, his voice still thick. "I always believed you despised me."

"I do," Harry said, and at Malfoy's flinch, he hastened to add, "But it's the same in reverse. I hate you because I can't stop thinking about you. Because it's easier than admitting—" He stopped, unable to voice the enormity of it.

Malfoy's expression crumbled into something vulnerable and raw. "I was so blind," he breathed. "All this time, I wasted on Theodore, and he never... he never looked at me the way I wanted. And you—" He shook his head, fresh tears springing to his eyes, but these were different—softer, perhaps born of relief. "You, of all people."

Harry cupped Malfoy's face again, his thumbs brushing away the new tears. "I'll make you forget him," he promised, his voice fierce with sincerity. "If you let me. Just... stop looking at him like that. Look at me."

Malfoy let out a shaky laugh that was half-sob. "You're such a Gryffindor. So dramatic."

"And you're a Slytherin who's been moping over someone who didn't deserve you. We're both a mess."

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the enormity of what had just occurred settling over them. Then Malfoy, with a cautious, almost shy movement, leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harry's in a kiss that was far gentler than their first. It tasted of apology and new beginnings and the terrifying, intoxicating promise of something more.

When they parted, Harry rested his forehead against Malfoy's. "What do we do now?" he murmured.

Malfoy's fingers tightened on Harry's robes. "I don't know. This is insane. We're... we're supposed to be enemies."

"Maybe we still are," Harry said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But maybe we can be something else too. In private, at least."

Malfoy considered this, his grey eyes searching Harry's face. "I might drive you mad. I'm still a git, you know."

"I'm counting on it," Harry replied, and for the first time in months, he felt the cold inside him begin to thaw.

They stayed there, wrapped in each other's space, until the distant sound of footsteps reminded them of the world outside. They broke apart, smoothing robes and wiping faces, but the tension between them had shifted irrevocably.

"Tomorrow," Harry said, his voice steady. "Meet me here tomorrow. After dinner. We can... talk. Properly."

Malfoy nodded, a flush rising to his cheeks. "Alright, Potter."

"Harry," Harry corrected, his heart hammering with the audacity of it.

Malfoy's lips quirked into a small, genuine smile—the first Harry had ever seen directed at him without malice. "Harry," he repeated, sounding the name like a caress. "Tomorrow, then."

And as they parted ways—Malfoy slipping out of the library first, his stride more confident than before—Harry leaned against the bookshelf and let out a long, shaky breath. He had no idea what came next, but for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to finding out.

The jealousy hadn't vanished entirely; it was simply transformed. Now it was a protective, possessive thing, a promise to himself that he would never have to watch Draco Malfoy yearn for anyone else again. Because from now on, that look of love and complete devotion? It would be his.