Draco Malfoy is never unsure.
Every move he makes, every sneer and harsh word he says, he's sure of, and he's never doubted himself or his decisions.
"Watch where you're going, Mudblood."
"Don't get so close, Weasel, I don't want your dirty rags anywhere near my tastefully expensive robes."
"Why didn't you die along with your bastard parents, Potter?"
His surety is something he's always had, even as a child, wandering around the Manor with no falter in his steps.
One night while he's walking down a darkened hallway, his Prefects badge gleaming in the scarce moonlight, Harry Potter yanks him into a closet, locking and silencing charms muttered in quick succession.
Before he can protest, his mouth is devoured, and minutes later the dark haired boy is on his knees and Draco's mouth is open, his moans breaking off into a final cry.
"You're always watching me."
He opens his mouth, but Potter continues.
"I watch you too." Is all he says, and then he's gone, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, and cheeks flushed.
Hours later when the sun is rising, he walks back to the Slytherin dorms, slowly and quietly, and he's not sure of anything anymore.
End.