Things We Don't Say
**Draco**
He’d been out of the hospital wing for two days.
His ribs still ached when he breathed too hard, and his head throbbed if he moved too fast — but it wasn’t the pain that unsettled him.
It was Harry.
The way he hovered. Always near. Always quiet. Always watching.
Not like he used to — not with suspicion or rivalry. But with something softer. Something gentler. Something that made Draco’s skin warm in places he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He hated it.
Except… he didn’t.
**Harry**
He knocked on Draco’s door, holding two mugs of tea.
He had no reason to be here. None he could justify, anyway.
But when Draco opened the door in his soft sweater and messy hair, Harry forgot the excuse he’d rehearsed.
“…Hi.”
Draco raised a brow. “You’re still stalking me, I see.”
Harry smirked. “Got you tea. Thought you might still be sore.”
A beat.
Then Draco stepped aside.
“…Fine. But I’m not drinking it if it tastes like guilt.”
**The Room**
It was quiet.
Harry sat on the edge of Draco’s bed while Draco curled up on the opposite side, his knees tucked to his chest, fingers wrapped around the warm mug.
They didn’t speak for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged.
There was something alive in the stillness — something trembling beneath the surface, like a spark waiting for kindling.
Harry finally said, “I keep thinking about the duel.”
Draco didn't look at him. “I told you it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. But I also know I lost control.”
“You were angry.”
“Not at you.”
That made Draco glance at him. “Then who?”
Harry looked down at his hands. “Myself.”
**Draco**
That admission hit harder than it should have.
He’d spent so long being the villain in Harry’s story… he hadn’t considered that Harry might also be the villain in his own.
Draco set the mug down.
“You’re harder on yourself than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Harry gave a dry laugh. “That’s saying something, coming from you.”
Draco smiled faintly. “Touché.”
Another silence.
Then Draco asked, barely above a whisper, “Why do you keep coming back?”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
But when he did, his voice was low and honest and terrifying:
“Because I feel more like myself when I’m with you.”
**Harry**
The words hung in the air like a secret too delicate to touch.
He hadn’t meant to say them. But now that he had, he didn’t regret it.
Draco didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
But his eyes — Merlin, his eyes — softened in a way Harry had never seen.
The walls were still there. But they were starting to crack.
Harry set his mug down beside Draco’s.
Their hands didn’t touch.
But they were close.
So close.
And that was enough.
For now.