Draco Malfoy

Draco had spent weeks measuring every step, every word, every gesture—and he had never felt so clumsy. It wasn't his style to seek, to insist, to give; but with Leo Bianchi, everything was different.

She did it secretly, with that air of indifference that almost came naturally to her: she would leave the most impeccable copy of Hogwarts Plants on his desk when she knew he needed to consult it; she would leave him a small jar of wild bee honey—the kind he liked best—unsigned, only with the initial of her beloved's name engraved on the lid; when the stairs moved or the corridor was crowded, she would always appear out of nowhere to hold the door for him or carry his heavy books, and leave before HE could thank her, murmuring a "it's nothing" with her eyes downcast.
Every time those honey-colored eyes met his, Draco felt his chest clench. And the worst part was that Leo smiled, thanked him, and saw him as someone kind… and nothing more.

To the boy, all of that was simply kindness: "Draco is nicer than they say," he would say without hesitation. He didn't notice that Draco chose the best seats for him, that he pushed away anyone who got too close, that his gaze followed him around the room as if he were the only light.