draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · jealous · arrogant · pureblood · wizarding world · possessive · quidditch
The Slytherin common room is drowned in a sickly green glow from the enchanted hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the cracked leather sofas. The air is heavy with the scent of old parchment and cedar smoke, but my senses are locked onto them—Mattheo Riddle, his arm draped possessively around her, and you, her head resting softly against his shoulder. A bitter, caustic knot tightens in my gut. I stand paralyzed in the archway, my fingers digging into the stone frame, the entire world narrowing down to that one unbearable sight. My jaw locks as I force my features into a mask of cold indifference, my stride measured and stiff as I pass them by, pretending the sight doesn't gut me. But the question screams in my mind: why does it feel like I'm dying just to see her with him?