#themalfoyproblem

Yes, that Draco Malfoy. The same one who spent six years being a condescending, bigoted nuisance and then had the audacity to look good in a crisis.

I wish I were exaggerating.

It started with the staircase shifting beneath us. At first, I thought it was just another minor adjustment—Hogwarts is still settling after the war, after all—but then the stones gave way. Crumbling. Collapsing. And before I could so much as react, Malfoy grabbed me. Grabbed me.

We fell.

And somehow, somehow, we landed in one piece. More specifically, I landed on top of him, and for a horrifying second, I thought I was going to die—not from the fall, but from the sheer mortification of finding myself sprawled across his chest.

There was a moment of silence. A moment. One where I could feel his breath against my skin, where my fingers had fisted into his robes (out of necessity, I remind myself), and where his hands had lingered on my arms just a fraction longer than necessary.

And then we leapt apart like the contact had physically burned us both.

Naturally, the first thing he said was something insufferable. I don’t even remember what—probably a snide remark, because that’s all he’s good for—but I do remember scowling. A lot.

And then we realized we were stuck. The staircase was gone, the platform was unstable, and there was no way up. Fantastic.

Now, I like to think I am a reasonable person. I do not start fights when they are unnecessary. But Malfoy? Malfoy insists on antagonizing me at every opportunity. He smirked at me. He mocked my very valid frustration. And when I told him to stop being useless, he acted offended, as if he’d been contributing something other than irritation.

Of course, the real problem came when I suggested we levitate each other back to safety. You would think I’d asked him to hand over his inheritance the way he recoiled. Honestly. It’s a simple charm, and yet he hesitated. I accused him of being a coward, which—yes, may have been a low blow, but it worked. His pride is so fragile that he’d rather trust me than admit he was afraid.

(And he was afraid. I saw it. It was… strange. I’m used to Malfoy sneering, posturing, acting superior. But for a split second, he was just a person standing on the edge of something unknown. It was unsettling. I do not like being unsettled by Malfoy.)

To his credit, he didn’t drop me when it was my turn. That’s… something, I suppose.

But here’s the worst part. The truly infuriating part.

For a brief, fleeting second, when he was guiding me up, I felt… safe.

Not because I trust him—I don’t. But because he was concentrating, his jaw tight, his grip steady, like he genuinely didn’t want to let me fall. And that shouldn’t matter, because Malfoy is still Malfoy, and I have no reason to think of him as anything other than an annoying thorn in my side.

But the feeling still lingers.

He’d just come out of the locker room. Shirtless, of course. Probably too proud or too sulky to bother putting anything back on after whatever argument he’d had with Nott. The sun was behind him — theatrical, really — like a bloody Renaissance painting. Shadow over his collarbone, light on his shoulder. Ridiculous. 

And I — I ran right into him. Chest to shoulder. Skin to skin. My hand landed flat against him before I could stop it. 

And that’s the thing. That’s the bit I can’t seem to stop thinking about. 

Because he shouldn’t have a body like that. 

I don’t mean that in the obvious way — well, maybe a little — but it was unexpected. Not the overbuilt kind, not Quidditch-heavy like Harry or the sort of aesthetic brawn Cormac McLaggen used to strut around with. No. Malfoy’s all lean muscle and sharp lines. Narrow waist. Defined shoulders. His chest was—firm, but not showy. Functional. 

And his shoulders— 

No. 

This is not the point. This is exactly the opposite of the point. 

I shouldn’t be cataloguing Draco Malfoy’s anatomy like it’s part of a Potions ingredient list. 

The only reason I noticed (really noticed) was because of the scars. The one under his collarbone — it looked like curse damage. Old. The skin never healed right. But the one on his ribs was cleaner. Surgical. Like something mended with Muggle precision. Not from the war, but from before, maybe. Or after. I don’t know. 

But I recognized it. That kind of scar. The kind that means management. Daily, quietly. The kind that stays with you long after the physical pain fades. 

He saw me looking. And for a moment, I think he saw too much. 

So I reacted the only way I know how: with sharpness. 

“You think showing off scars makes you interesting? It doesn’t.” 

Cruel. Precise. Effective. 

He shot back something stupid — something about me throwing myself at him. Pathetic defense mechanism, really. I told him to put a shirt on. He teased. I bit harder. 

The conversation spiraled — or maybe it spiraled me. He still wears that awful ring, that symbol of everything he pretends he’s moved past. He twists it like it’s cutting off circulation. Maybe it is. 

I told him the truth. That he changed not because it was right, but because it suited him. Because it benefited him. And he didn’t deny it. Not really. Just stared at me like he wanted to deny it but knew better. 

I stepped closer. I still don’t know why. Maybe I was testing something. Maybe I wanted him to flinch. 

He didn’t. 

We brushed — skin to skin again. Shoulder to arm. Brief. Inconsequential. And yet it felt… 

It felt like something I don’t have the words for. And I have words. I always have words. 

But not for this. 

I didn’t look back. 

Because I couldn’t let him see that it meant something. That I felt something. Because if I gave it space, even for a second, it would grow roots. 

And that’s not acceptable. Not with him. 

He watched me leave. I know it. I could feel it like a hex pressed between my shoulder blades. 

But that’s not the point. 

The point is: Draco Malfoy is not redeemed. He is not reformed. He is calculating. Strategic. And if he’s changed at all, it’s only because change serves him better now than arrogance ever did. 

And that — not his shoulders, not his stupid aristocratic bone structure— that is what matters. 

The rest is static. Noise. 

And I won’t be distracted. 

Because I’m tired. 

Because I’ve been spiralling for weeks and haven’t had the courage to name it. 

That fight in the corridor—Ron and I—Gods, we weren’t even fighting anymore by the end. It was just... Unravelling. Threadbare silence and accusations that have been waiting to surface for months. Maybe years. 

He said I act like he’s the problem. 

And I stood there, stunned, like it was the first time someone had slapped me with the wrong truth. Because I don’t think he is the problem. Not entirely. But he thinks I do. He thinks I look at him like he’s not enough. 

And maybe I do. 

Maybe he’s not wrong. 

That’s what’s been haunting me. Not that we argue, but that I hesitated when he asked me to stop treating him like the problem. I didn’t defend him. I didn’t defend us. 

Because I didn’t have anything left to say. 

And now—now I flinch when he touches my wrist in the Great Hall. I flinch, like a coward, like I’m not allowed to be tired or frayed or unsure. 

Like I’m failing him. Like I’m failing everyone. 

Which brings me back to Potions. 

Slughorn, in his infinite wisdom, paired me with Malfoy. 

Of course. 

The moment he said it, my stomach dropped. It wasn’t fear—it was something heavier. That strange tightness in my chest I’ve started associating with him. The way he looks at me like he sees things. Like he doesn’t have to ask. 

And I hate that it’s easier, sometimes, than being around people who love me. 

Ron talks like if I just tried harder, I’d stop being so... me. 

Harry watches like he’s waiting for me to break. 

And Malfoy? 

He pokes. He prods. He smirks. 

But he doesn’t flinch when I do. He doesn’t look at me like I’m fragile or disappointing. 

He looks at me like he’s waiting—for a mistake, for a misstep—but not because he wants to fix me. 

Because he expects me to fight back. 

And I did. But today, I didn’t fight well. I fought defensively. I lashed out when he corrected me. I stirred too hard. I lost focus. I had to rely on him to steady the brew. 

It should feel like an embarrassment. 

But it doesn’t. 

It feels like a warning. 

Because the truth is—I’ve been off balance for weeks. I’ve been pretending everything’s fine. Pushing harder. Sleeping less. I haven’t been okay, and now it’s bleeding through the cracks. Into my work. Into my relationship. Into him. 

And the worst part? 

When our hands brushed—just for a second—it felt like someone cracked open a window in a room I didn’t realize was suffocating me. 

He smirked, of course. He made some insufferable comment about how I was jumpier than usual. I insulted him. We danced around it like always. 

But I felt it. 

That click. That something I shouldn’t be feeling. Not with him. Not now. 

I’m supposed to be in love with Ron. 

I’ve said I’m in love with Ron. 

But it’s been weeks since that fight. And I keep finding myself staring at the wrong things. The wrong people. The wrong person. And it’s not the sharp tongue or the arrogance—it’s the stillness. 

He doesn’t try to rescue me. He doesn’t act like I’m a problem to solve. He just is. 

And somehow that makes it harder to breathe. 

He noticed my mistake before I did. And that should infuriate me. 

But mostly—it scares me. 

Because if I keep unravelling like this, if I keep making mistakes, if I keep letting him get under my skin— 

What happens when the wrong person starts feeling like the safer choice?