Draco wasn’t sure of his emotions at the moment. Wasn’t sure if the feelings he held towards the Mudblood were more than momentary infatuation. Or maybe just hatred manifesting itself as lust. Otherwise, how does he explain the fire that burnt in his chest whenever she is just a little too close to other men? If she leaned in to whisper a secret to Potter in class, or if her eyes lingered on the Weasley for a fraction too long as her cheeks blushed red, he would clench his fists and try not to punch something. He wanted to be the one to wipe those tears that trickled down at the sight of what’s-her-name tangled with Weasley in a nauseating display of hormones. He wanted to be the one she came to with her bright ideas, eyes sparkling, and a smile of victory.