The corridors of Hogwarts held a certain hush that afternoon, golden light slanting through high windows, gilding every inch of stone and shadow. Classes had ended, students were trickling off to the library or the Great Hall, and Harry found himself meandering through the halls with no particular destination in mind.
He wasn't looking for Malfoy.
At least, that's what he told himself.
His feet betrayed him though, carrying him past the familiar archways near the Astronomy Tower—places that had once been a refuge, then a battleground, and now… something else entirely.
When he turned the corner of a narrow stairwell, he collided sharply into someone.
"Bloody—watch it—"
Malfoy.
Harry stumbled back a step, immediately catching sight of the silver-blond hair and the flash of grey eyes widened in surprise. Malfoy looked as if he'd just come from the greenhouse, a few petals stuck to his sleeve and his robes slightly askew.
Great. Perfect.
"You," Malfoy said flatly.
"Me," Harry replied just as awkwardly.
There was a long pause, like the castle itself had stopped breathing.
Harry noticed the way Malfoy's hand hovered near his pocket, as if debating whether to walk past or hex him out of sheer muscle memory.
"I wasn't looking for you," Harry blurted, then immediately regretted how defensive he sounded.
Malfoy's eyebrow arched in that maddeningly elegant way. "Congratulations. You found me anyway."
Silence.
Harry should've walked away. He should've just said sorry, acted like he hadn't been unintentionally following the faint trail of cologne and tension all afternoon.
But instead, he stared.
And Malfoy stared back.
It wasn't the same as it had been at school before the war. This was a different stare. Less about anger, more about questions neither of them dared ask.
Harry's gaze dipped.
The hickey was gone.
Or maybe covered up.
But the memory of it pulsed like a quiet curse between them.
"You're late to sulking," Malfoy said suddenly. "That's normally my thing."
Harry snorted. "You're more of a dramatic storm-off kind of sulker."
Malfoy's lips twitched, just slightly. "And you're a broody-walk-the-corridors kind of mess."
"Guilty."
A beat passed. A real one. Neither moved.
"I should—" Harry began.
"Yeah," Malfoy said at the same time.
They both turned, then turned back. The air felt thick.
"Listen," Harry started, quieter now, "you… alright?"
Malfoy stared at him for a long moment. Not scowling. Just… tired.
"Define 'alright,' Potter."
And that was the moment. Awkward. Heavy. Barely a spark of honesty, but enough.
Harry gave a small nod. "Same."
They didn't say goodbye. But somehow, the silence as they parted ways held more weight than any words could.
Dinner in the Great Hall was unusually noisy.
Harry joined Hermione and Ron halfway through the meal. Hermione was animatedly talking about the newest Defense assignment, while Ron was trying to sneak two treacle tarts into his robe.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked, glancing sideways at him.
Harry nodded, taking a bite of his shepherd's pie. "Ran into Malfoy."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Did he hex you?"
"No." Harry hesitated. "He was… normal. Sort of."
Hermione peered at him thoughtfully. "You sound surprised."
Harry didn't respond.
At the Slytherin table, Malfoy laughed at something Blaise said, head thrown back just slightly, hand brushing a piece of parchment aside. But there was something in the set of his shoulders—stiff, as if aware that eyes were on him.
Harry looked away.
Later that evening, the common room had quieted. Ron and Hermione had gone off for a walk around the courtyard, promising to be back before curfew.
Harry sat in the armchair, his Transfiguration book open but utterly ignored.
He heard the door creak open behind him.
Draco entered, slow and unhurried. He didn't acknowledge Harry immediately. He moved to his bed, set down a book, and began taking off his robes, revealing a thin black long-sleeve underneath.
Harry told himself not to look. But he did.
There was no hickey.
Still.
"Going to stand there all evening?" Draco asked, voice neutral.
Harry realized he'd half-risen from his chair without even noticing. "No. Just… thinking."
Draco glanced at him over his shoulder, brows raised. "Dangerous habit."
Harry cracked a smile. "You'd know."
Draco smirked faintly and sat on the edge of his bed, fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve.
There was a silence again. Not hostile. Not exactly comfortable either.
Harry cleared his throat. "About earlier… I didn't mean to run into you. It just happened."
Draco tilted his head. "I didn't hex you, did I?"
"No." Harry looked down. "Kind of wish you had. Might've made this less awkward."
Malfoy snorted. "I could do it now if you want. Properly, with flair."
Harry looked up, grinning despite himself. "Maybe some other time."
Draco's eyes met his, and for a moment, the teasing lifted. He looked… tired again. Worn at the edges.
"You're really not alright, are you?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.
Draco didn't answer.
Then, softly: "I'm surviving."
And somehow, that felt more honest than anything they'd ever said to each other.
They didn't talk much after that. But Harry stayed in the room, and Draco didn't leave.
Sometimes, silence wasn't empty. Sometimes, it was the first brick in a bridge neither of them knew they wanted to build.
Draco's POV – Under Fire
The room had smelled faintly of cherry lip gloss and firewhiskey. She had laughed too loudly, her touch too eager, her lips sticky against his skin. Draco didn't even remember her name—just that she was a Hufflepuff, maybe a year or two below him, with wide eyes that looked at him like he was some kind of story.
He hadn't wanted her. Not really.
He just hadn't wanted to feel like himself.
It had started with idle conversation in the Three Broomsticks, her sitting too close, giggling at nothing he said. He hadn't planned anything, but after two drinks and a storm of thoughts he didn't want to deal with, her offer to "get some air" seemed like a good enough excuse to leave.
They ended up in a rented room above the shop. The sheets were clean, but it all felt staged—performative. Her hands were soft, her breath warm against his throat, but it was mechanical, a process he barely participated in. She kissed down his chest, marked him with a playful nip near his collarbone—one she laughed about, calling it her "signature."
He didn't laugh.
He didn't stop her either.
When it was over, she curled up beside him, asking pointless questions he didn't care to answer. He couldn't even remember if he answered at all. He just laid there, staring up at the ceiling, aware of the hickey throbbing like some kind of brand.
It meant nothing. She meant nothing. And he hated himself a little for it.
He left before dawn, quietly slipping out while she slept. The streets were empty, and his footsteps echoed too loud in his ears. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked back to the castle in silence, the hickey pulsing against his skin like a reminder of the emptiness he tried to ignore.
It hadn't helped.
He hadn't felt desired—just used. Just there.
He wanted something real. Not a touch that lasted an hour, not a kiss that meant nothing the second it ended. He wanted to be looked at like he wasn't broken. Like he was worth staying for.
Back in the dorm, standing under the dim bathroom light, Draco looked at his reflection and muttered to himself, "You're pathetic."
The hickey was still there. Angry and purple.
But worse was the ache in his chest.
Because it wasn't her he'd been thinking of.
It never was.
Harry Potter had a way of staring like he was trying to unravel every layer of someone's soul, and Draco was getting more than a little sick of being on the receiving end of it.
At first, he ignored it. Potter had always been nosy, the kind of Gryffindor who couldn't let a mystery sit. So what if Draco had returned late to the dorms? So what if there was a faint bruise on his collarbone that hadn't quite vanished with magic? It was none of his business. But the looks—the way those green eyes trailed after him across the room, over the lunch table, from the other end of the corridor—it made Draco feel like he was being dissected.
And it wasn't just curiosity. There was something else behind those glances. Confusion? Jealousy? Draco didn't dare hope it was anything more. Not after everything.
He stood at the mirror in their shared bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink, jaw clenched tight. "Get over yourself, Potter," he muttered, frowning at his reflection. "You lost your chance to ask the question. You don't get to look like that now."
The hickey—that damned thing—was fading, but Potter had seen it. He saw it in the way his gaze darted down and then quickly away, his mouth tightening like he'd bitten into something bitter. Draco wasn't sure why he hadn't just covered it up properly. Maybe a part of him wanted to provoke something. A reaction. Anything.
When he walked into class, every brush of Potter's eyes on his skin made his own feel tight. Like he was being watched, studied. And yet Potter never said a word.
"Stupid Gryffindor," Draco hissed under his breath, pulling his robe collar higher and turning on the faucet with more force than necessary.
But he couldn't shake the sensation. He could feel Potter's gaze even now, even through walls, like an itch he couldn't scratch. He hated how aware he was of it. Of him.
He hated even more the part of himself that didn't want it to stop.