Paper Walls and Stolen Looks
**Harry**
Harry wasn’t sure which part was worse — the awkward silence, or the fact that he caught himself staring.
Every time Malfoy shifted in bed. Every time he sighed. Every time he ran a hand through that ridiculous platinum hair. It was like living with a storm — quiet for now, but crackling under the surface.
And Harry hated how aware of him he was.
The first morning was hell.
Draco — no, Malfoy — woke up first. Harry could tell because there was a faint trace of cologne in the air and the rustle of pages turning. He opened one eye, groggy and grumpy, only to see Malfoy already dressed and reading by the window.
He looked like a painting. Moonlight, messily tied tie, legs crossed elegantly, as if the war had never touched him.
Harry sat up with a grunt. “You’re an early riser?”
“I like silence,” Malfoy replied, not looking up.
“Right. And that’s why you used to stomp around like a bloody peacock.”
Draco glanced at him, one brow raised. “And yet you’re still obsessed with watching me.”
Harry stiffened. “In your dreams, Malfoy.”
“Frequently,” he muttered under his breath.
Harry pretended not to hear that. Unfortunately, he absolutely did.
**Draco**
He hadn’t slept properly in months.
Even back home, the manor had felt suffocating. His parents walked like ghosts, their names now synonymous with shame. And Hogwarts wasn’t much better — at least ghosts here were actual spirits, not just whispers and judgment.
He tried to ignore Potter’s presence. He really did. But Potter made that impossible.
He was loud. He left his robes on the floor. He forgot his socks on Draco’s desk. And worst of all — he looked at him.
Not the way people usually did — with suspicion or hatred.
Potter looked at him like he was trying to figure him out.
It was annoying. Intimate. Dangerous.
And it made Draco’s hands shake in a way he hadn’t felt since the war.
Later That Week
They were paired in Potions. Of course. Of course.
“Looks like we’re stuck together again, Malfoy,” Harry said as he slid onto the stool beside him.
Draco didn’t reply. He started chopping his valerian root with calm precision.
Harry watched him for a moment. Then blurted, “Are your hands okay?”
Draco paused. “What?”
“Back in the war,” Harry said awkwardly. “Your hands were shaking. A lot.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” Harry leaned closer, voice quiet. “I notice things.”
Draco turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “Well, stop noticing me.”
Harry smirked. “Can’t.”
Draco dropped the knife.
**That Night**
Harry lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
He could hear Draco breathing. Slow. Controlled. But not asleep.
And even through the dark, Harry knew they were both pretending.
Finally, Draco whispered, “Why do you keep… looking at me like that?”
Harry turned onto his side. “Like what?”
“Like you want to ask something but you’re too scared of the answer.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Harry said softly, “Maybe I am.”
Draco didn’t respond. But Harry could see the way his shoulders tensed — like he was holding something in.
They didn’t say anything else that night.
But the air between them had changed.