This is something I wrote a pretty long time ago, and so I'm not sure how I feel about it. This would potentially be a multi-chaptered fic (I'm thinking like ten), depending on the kind of response it gets. Meaning, if basically one person says that they would love for me to continue, I most likely would, and even if everyone hates it, I might still continue anyway.

The basic plot, Draco's character/main conflict, and the point of view will stay the same. Basically, the essence of the story will be left intact.

However, some small grammatical things, the title, the description, and possibly the ending are all subject to change, as I may think of something new after I upload, and if I end up leaving this as a single chapter, I may rewrite the ending in Draco's favor. Because duh.

As always, thank you for reading, favoriting, and reviewing. Draco loves you.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Draco Malfoy reached across the table, grabbing the salt as casually as possible.

He was unusually jumpy, his normally calm demeanor out the window. Nowadays he often found himself shaking, usually his hands, and had to clench his fists to stop it.

It wasn't that he was sick. He was just nervous, mostly, which was an odd emotion for him. He didn't exactly know how to handle it.

It had been like this for the past month.

His fingers slipped and the salt dropped, spilling across the table. He cursed under his breath and righted the salt quickly, deciding that his food in fact did not need salt at all.

He sat back on the bench, momentarily distracted, thinking about a muggle superstition that spilled salt was bad luck. Unconsciously, his eyes drifted up to the one place he swore he wouldn't look again.

Potter looked flawless. As usual. He was the only person who had ever made Draco feel insecure. With his stark ink black hair and striking green eyes, he was stunning and he didn't even know it, which was even more infuriating to Draco.

He used to rule this school, even with the Golden Boy Potter in his year. Girls dropped their panties for him like spare change; but everything was different after the war.

Potter walked with a newfound confidence. Not, I'm sexy and I know it, like Draco, but more like, I don't really give a fuck either way.

Which, apparently, was so much more attractive. He had mastered that "I don't care" vibe—the one that Draco had been trying to master for years—with ease. Of course, it probably helped that Potter literally did not care.

Now that once awkward and gangly Golden Boy had grown, almost overnight, to this lean, muscly boy across the Great Hall; and the girls loved it.

It was not, Draco hated to admit, not just attractive to the ladies of Hogwarts. Draco found himself often affected by Potter in ways he'd die before speaking of.

Once, he had come up upon a very naked Potter in the showers after Quidditch, went back up to his dorm, and had the best wank of his life.

That was when he knew that this had to stop.

No more looking at Potter. No more following Potter. No more hoping you'll accidentally run into Potter in the bathrooms again. No more Harry.

Just Potter. Only Potter.

But just then, his focus had slipped, and he had looked up to the only place he really wanted to be looking.

Potter was at the stupid Gryffindor table with his stupid Gryffindor friends, laughing stupidly about stupid Gryffindor jokes.

Except Potter, of course, did not look stupid. He looked... he looked... he looked like Potter. His head thrown back in laughter, his eyes sparkling. There was no word for it. It was nothing but him.

Draco tore his eyes off of him and pushed his plate away.

He didn't feel all that hungry anymore.

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After dinner, Draco followed Potter out into the hall. This short time right after dinner was the only time he'd allow himself to talk to or look at Potter at all. It was a daily routine, and it was okay, just so long as he was insulting and cruel and everything he didn't want to be to him.

Usually, the boys would just bicker for a while, and then Hermione or Ron would pull Harry away, or Pansy, Draco, and they would part with a sneer. Rinse and repeat, every day he felt like it—which was every day.

Draco walked—strutted, really—up to Potter and his friends and used both hands to push him, hard, in both of the shoulders.

He opened his mouth to say something witty, and it was only then that he realized that he hadn't come up with anything to say.

He didn't have to, though, because the weasel was just reeling to push him right back when Potter put an arm on his shoulder.

"S'not worth it, Ron." He said, and he looked at Draco sadly. Pitifully.

If anything, that just really pissed Draco off, and so he went to push Potter again, harder, but Potter caught his arms this time, his long fingers curling around both of the Slytherin's wrists. Draco looked up at him, shocked.

"Don't you think it's time we stop this?" Potter asked quietly, looking up at Draco through his lashes. Never having seen those eyes so close before, Draco was beside himself and had missed the question entirely. He nodded anyway, as he didn't think he had it in him to disagree with anything Potter said.

Right then, if Potter jumped off a bridge, he would most definitely jump too, if only to catch him midair and protect his body with his own.

Potter nodded back, letting go. "Good. Because I'm tired of this."

Potter stuck out his hand.

Ron probably looked incredulous, Hermione somewhere between shock and relief, but Draco was not looking at them.

Potter was staring at him with this intense stare that Potter probably didn't even realize was intense, but definitely definitely was.

He assumed Potter had said something about a truce. Something about stopping all of this.

It was just like first year, except this time, he was the one with the choice.

The truth was, Draco didn't want to. He wanted to keep fighting, if only to just touch Potter on the shoulder. He wanted to keep bickering, if only to see the flush on Potter's face when he got upset.

By being his enemy, Draco got more than any of the girls ever did.

He got to touch him, and he had an excuse to watch him, and best of all, Harry noticed him. He knew who Draco was, and he probably stared at him a great deal too, at least just to glare.

If they settled on a truce, Potter would probably ignore him. He would walk through the halls, enemy-less, and Draco would trail after him with absolutely no excuse to talk to him. Draco's longing would undoubtedly grow worse, only to be momentarily satiated by a passing glance or an accidental brush of arms.

Potter would nod at him, maybe smile, and Draco would be dying inside.

Because Draco... was in love with Potter.

He knew it like he knew his last name.

Some part of him, some small part that still had hope, was whispering to him that if he turned down Potter's hand now, Draco would be his enemy forever.

But if he became his friend...

Draco's hand met Harry's in a firm shake, and then it was over and the contact was gone.

Potter smiled a small smile and moved around him, turning to his friends again, and Draco was left to wallow in the fact that he had just made the worse decision of his life.

That would be the only time Draco would ever hold Potter's hand.