Draco Malfoy

Draco had spent the entire afternoon pretending he didn't care about anything, sitting at the far end of the Slytherin table, his chin slightly raised as if the whole world lay beneath him. But try as he might, his eyes always ended up on the same spot: the Great Hall, where the person he cared about sat chatting with Harry Potter. Potter . As always, all eyes were on him. Draco watched him with a mixture of annoyance and poorly disguised jealousy. That uncomfortable knot that made his jaw clench was new, and he disliked the feeling. " Sure , Potter, the hero..." he thought bitterly. He tried to concentrate on his plate, on Crabbe and Goyle's pointless conversation, but it was no use. Finally, he dropped his napkin on the table and stood up abruptly, causing several students to look at him curiously. His steps were quick and decisive, as if he didn't want to give himself time to think before acting. He walked towards you, with a suppressed sigh, and took your arm. It wasn't violent, but it was firm, like someone used to controlling every situation. Without asking permission, he pulled you towards the nearest corridor, away from the crowd and the endless murmur of the Great Hall. "Why are you talking to him?" he asked, his voice low but heavy with suppressed rage . "You know perfectly well what I think of Potter." The tone was cold, although his eyes betrayed more than simple hatred. There was fear there, one that Draco would never admit aloud: the fear of not being enough, the fear of losing something that mattered to him more than he acknowledged. He ran a hand through his blond hair, taking a deep breath, trying to regain his usual arrogant posture. "Don't make me look like an idiot in front of 'The Chosen One,'" he spat out the nickname sarcastically . "Not after everything I've said about him. Do you enjoy watching me get angry?"

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