The Gryffindor common room crackled with the low hum of evening chatter and the occasional flick of a turning page. The fire danced lazily in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls, while a half-finished game of Exploding Snap sat abandoned near the window bench. First-years whispered over parchment rolls. Someone laughed too loudly. The usual chaos of an ordinary night.
But Harry Potter was far from ordinary tonight.
He sat hunched in his favorite armchair near the fire, a book open on his lap, untouched. His fingers tapped restlessly against the worn leather spine, eyes fixed on the same paragraph he hadn't processed in the last fifteen minutes.
Hermione noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"You've been staring at the same page since I came down from the girls' dormitory," she said gently, settling into the chair beside him. "That book's not going to read itself, Harry."
Harry didn't answer at first. His eyes flicked to the flames, as if they held a memory he couldn't shake loose.
Ron flopped into the opposite seat, dragging a plate of leftover toast smuggled from dinner. "If this is about Malfoy again, just forget him. He's a git. Always has been."
Harry looked up, brow slightly drawn. "He hasn't really said anything since yesterday."
"That's what I mean," Hermione said. "It's unusual."
"He didn't even insult Neville today during Charms," Ron muttered through a bite of toast. "And he always goes after Neville."
Harry leaned forward, elbows on knees. "It's weird. He just… watches me. Like he wants to say something, but then bolts like a scared owl."
Hermione shared a look with Ron.
"You don't think—" she started, but Harry cut in.
"No. It's not a trap." His voice was too fast. Too certain.
There was a pause.
He sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "It's different. He's different. It's like… he's trying not to be himself. Or maybe figuring out who that even is."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "And why does that matter to you?"
Harry didn't answer.
Hermione frowned, her expression thoughtful. "Harry, are you—do you trust him now?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't think he's pretending. Something's bothering him."
Ron muttered something under his breath about Slytherins being dramatic, but Hermione stayed quiet.
She had seen the shift too—quiet moments in the corridors where Draco didn't sneer, where he watched Harry like he was memorizing something. There was no malice. No bravado. Only… hesitation.
And Harry?
Harry was changing, too.
Meanwhile, in the Dungeons
Severus Snape sat in his private office, the heavy scent of ink and parchment hanging in the air like incense. A cup of bitter tea steamed beside him, forgotten, while graded essays lay stacked in careful piles.
He had seen Draco earlier in the corridor—just in passing. No probing questions. No lectures. Just a glance that spoke volumes.
Draco hadn't said a word.
But he had paused.
Snape knew how to read silence better than most. He could detect guilt in a twitch of a hand, defiance in a tilt of the head. But Draco's silence was different tonight. It wasn't just guilt. Or fear.
It was longing.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at the flames in the fireplace that barely warmed the cold dungeon air.
Draco was standing on the edge of something. Something that frightened him more than Voldemort ever had.
And Potter…
Snape's lips curled slightly.
It would be so much easier if they hated each other. That would be manageable. Predictable.
But what was growing between them now?
That was dangerous.
After Hours
Upstairs in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, Harry paced in his pyjamas, arms crossed, expression clouded. Ron was asleep, his snores echoing in the room like a dull drumbeat. The curtains around Seamus's bed were drawn shut, and Neville murmured softly in his sleep.
But Harry was restless.
He walked back and forth in front of the window, the rain tapping softly against the glass like a reminder of everything he was trying not to think about.
Draco's eyes when they passed in the hallway. The flicker of something raw there. The way he flinched slightly when their arms brushed by accident in Potions.
The quiet between them had started to feel heavier than their old insults ever were.
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered, dragging a hand down his face. "What is happening?"
Far below, in the Slytherin dormitory, Draco Malfoy lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He wasn't sleeping either.
He hadn't been sleeping much at all lately.
"Why does he look at me like that?" he muttered into the dark. "Why do I care?"
He turned over sharply, face buried in his pillow.
He was losing control. Of his image. His voice. His thoughts.
Of everything.