The corridors of Hogwarts were eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to press in on Harry like a heavy blanket. His footsteps echoed in the stone hallways, a rhythmic beat that accompanied his wandering mind. It was late in the evening, the castle dark except for the dim glow of torchlight flickering on the walls. The common room had emptied hours ago, and he'd left Ginny and the others behind, claiming he needed some air. But he didn't want air. He needed space, and a chance to clear his head—though, it didn't seem to be working.
It had been weeks since they had returned to Hogwarts, weeks since everything had changed again. Harry had noticed it the first day back. Draco had always been distant, but this year... this year it was different. There was a coldness in the way he carried himself, a tension in his every movement. He didn't look like the same Draco. In fact, he didn't look like anyone at all. Just a shell, a person going through the motions of being at school. And the worst part? No one seemed to notice.
No one except Harry, that was.
He slowed his pace, eyes darting to the paintings on the walls as he tried to piece together what he knew, or what he thought he knew. Draco had been sneaking around the castle at odd hours, vanishing into empty corridors, only to reappear like he'd never left. And the way he acted in class—how his eyes always seemed to flicker to the door as if he were expecting someone, as if he were listening for something. It was as though he were waiting for an order, or a signal.
Harry had spent weeks trying to figure out why it bothered him so much. After all, Draco Malfoy was the last person he should care about. But every time Draco was around, Harry felt a tightness in his chest, something he couldn't quite place. The way his silvery eyes flickered nervously, like he was hiding something, like he was about to break. Harry couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with what happened last year, with the Dark Lord returning, with the war... and now, with whatever secret Draco was keeping.
As Harry rounded another corner, lost in thought, a faint sound tugged at the edges of his consciousness—a soft, lilting melody, drifting through the stone corridors. At first, he thought it was the wind, or perhaps the distant echo of some enchanted music from the Great Hall. But there was something too deliberate about it, too... precise.
Harry's heart quickened. The melody was haunting, almost ethereal, the kind of music that seemed to wrap itself around you, pulling at memories you couldn't quite place. It was slow, melancholic, played on a piano—soft, trembling notes that seemed to weave through the very air of the castle.
Compelled by curiosity, Harry followed the music, quickening his pace despite the knot of unease in his stomach. The corridors twisted and turned unpredictably, Hogwarts' labyrinthine heart guiding him through dimly lit passageways and staircases that groaned under their own weight.
The music led him deeper into the castle than he'd ever ventured after hours—past the familiar wings, beyond the echo of student chatter and muffled laughter, until he stood before an old, weathered classroom he didn't recognize. The door was slightly ajar, and the music slipped out like smoke through the gap.
Harry hesitated at the threshold, chest tight and pulse thundering in his ears. The melody played on, smooth and melancholy, filling the corridor with an eerie sense of longing.
Cautiously, Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The classroom was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from a single flickering torch on the wall near the door. The stone walls were lined with shelves of dust-covered tomes and glass cases filled with long-forgotten artifacts. At the center of the room sat an old, grand piano—its black lacquered surface dulled by years of neglect, keys slightly yellowed but gleaming under the torchlight.
Draco Malfoy sat at the piano, his back straight, shoulders rigid. His fingers glided over the keys with a precision that was almost painful to watch—each note sharp, deliberate, and full of an aching melancholy. His platinum-blond hair hung over his face, obscuring his expression, but Harry could see the slight quiver of his hands, the tension in his narrow shoulders.
Harry stood frozen at the threshold, breath caught somewhere between curiosity and apprehension. For a long moment, he simply watched.
Draco played as if the world had narrowed to the space before him, the keys under his fingers, and the music itself. The melody was haunting—rich with sorrow and regret, notes twisting and turning through the room like smoke. It felt like Draco was trying to say something Harry couldn't quite hear, pouring every shred of something unspoken into each chord.
Harry didn't move. He didn't step forward. He knew Draco would notice him if he did—knew Draco's eyes would flick up, silver meeting green with all the intensity of a duel. But for now, Harry stayed silent.
The music stretched on, filling the room with its somber beauty, wrapping tightly around Harry's chest. It felt like watching Draco tear himself open, key by key, note by note—letting the music be the confession Draco couldn't voice.
Harry's pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the piano's echo, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours—it was hard to tell. The music ebbed and flowed, sometimes gentle, at other times lashing out with quiet desperation. Draco's hands trembled slightly now, the notes trembling under his touch.
Eventually, the last chord hung in the air, resonating with a fragile, bittersweet sting before fading into silence. Draco sat motionless for a heartbeat after the final note, hands hovering over the keys as if unsure whether to let them rest. Then, slowly, he straightened, fingers falling limply to his sides.
Still, Draco didn't look up.
Harry took a cautious step into the room, closing the distance by a few feet. The air felt thick, charged, and Harry could see the pale sheen of sweat on Draco's temple, the slight flush in his cheeks.
Harry didn't speak. He couldn't—didn't want to disturb whatever fragile world Draco had built around himself in that music. He simply stood there, watching Draco sit in silence, waiting for Draco to acknowledge him in his own time.
The final note hung in the air, fading slowly like mist dissipating under the sun. Draco sat motionless, his fingers hovering just above the keys for a brief moment before retreating limply to his sides. The silence that followed was dense, heavy—an almost physical thing pressing against Harry's chest.
Harry could hardly breathe.
Still, he didn't move. He remained at the threshold of the classroom, heart thudding painfully in his chest, eyes locked on Draco's rigid figure at the piano. He could see the slight tremble in Draco's hands, the tight clench of his jaw, and the way his shoulders remained stiff, unmoving. Draco Malfoy, playing the piano like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart—and Harry was an intruder in that world.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched on, filled only by the distant creak of the castle's settling stones and the faint crackle of the torch's flame.
Then, Draco's voice cut through the silence—cold, clipped, and carefully neutral.
"Why are you here, Potter?"
Draco didn't turn to look at Harry. His face remained hidden beneath the curtain of pale hair, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, as though Harry weren't standing right there. His tone carried an undercurrent of something sharper—defensiveness, maybe, or irritation. Maybe both.
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to answer, but the truth hovered on the tip of his tongue.
"Just... couldn't sleep."
It was a weak excuse, and Harry knew it. Draco could see through it as easily as Harry could read the weather. But the lie served its purpose—it kept Harry standing where he was, a passive observer rather than an active participant in Draco's fragile world.
Draco remained silent for a heartbeat, and then, after a pause thick with unspoken tension, Draco finally spoke again—voice quieter this time, but edged with the same clipped precision.
"Do you always follow me, Potter? Or is it just when I'm... vulnerable?"
Harry winced at the word *vulnerable,* but Draco didn't look up. Draco never looked up.
Harry hesitated, heart pounding so loudly he feared Draco might hear it over the eerie hush of the room. He debated pushing forward, confronting the raw truth behind Draco's walls, but the sight of Draco's still form—so rigid, so tight with barely restrained something—made Harry's decision for him.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Harry said quietly. The words felt hollow, but they were the only ones he could manage.
Another pause. The seconds dragged on, each one heavier than the last. Draco's silence felt like a blade pressed against Harry's ribs.
Finally, Draco shifted slightly at the piano bench, the movement subtle but unmistakable. His voice, when it came, was quieter—less sharp, though no less tense.
"Then... leave."
Harry's throat felt raw, but he nodded once, barely perceptible, and turned away. He didn't look back. His feet carried him swiftly through the winding corridors, the haunting echo of the piano's last note clinging to him as he retraced his steps.
As Harry left the classroom behind, the music's absence seemed to hollow out the corridor, leaving an emptiness that clung to him, heavy and suffocating.
The corridors of Hogwarts carried a familiar stillness as night settled over the castle, wrapping its stone walls in silence once more. The distant hoot of an owl was the only sound, mingling with the faint whisper of wind threading through narrow windows.
Harry moved with purpose this time, every step quieter than the last, as if the castle itself might shift underfoot. The memory of the previous night clung to him—Draco at the piano, the melancholy melody, the way Draco had shut him out with that single clipped command. *Then... leave.*
Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. About Draco. About the way the music had felt like a silent confession. Like a cry for something Harry couldn't quite grasp.
He reached the classroom again, the same old door slightly ajar, and Harry pushed it open with a gentleness that belied the determination in his chest.
Inside, the torch's flame flickered weakly against the walls, casting long, wavering shadows. The grand piano sat in the center of the room, its dark surface catching the dull light. And Draco—Draco was already there.
Seated at the piano with his back to the door, Draco's posture was unnervingly straight, as though carved from marble. His pale hair fell over his face again, obscuring his features from Harry's view.
The keys were silent. Draco's hands rested on his lap, clenched into fists.
Harry's heart quickened. He stood at the door for a moment, unsure whether to step inside or turn back. But the pull was too strong.
Quietly, Harry crossed the threshold.
Draco made no move to acknowledge him—didn't shift, didn't speak. The stillness in the room thickened, pressing against Harry's chest like a vice.
Harry took a step closer, closing the distance between them by several feet. He remained silent, unwilling to disturb the fragile world Draco seemed to be holding together by sheer force of will.
Minutes passed like hours. Harry watched Draco, noticed the subtle tremble in his shoulders, the way his fists relaxed ever so slightly.
Finally, Draco's voice cut through the silence—low, tense, edged with icy control.
"Why are you here again, Potter?"
Harry met Draco's question with the quiet weight of truth.
"I didn't know where else to go."
The honesty hung between them, raw and unguarded. Draco still didn't look at him. Harry could hear Draco's ragged breathing, could sense the tight coil of tension beneath the surface.
Another pause. Draco's fingers twitched at his sides, restless.
"You could have stayed away. I wouldn't have noticed."
Draco's voice was quieter now, but it carried the same edge of defiance—sharp and brittle.
Harry stepped closer, closing the gap to just a few feet.
"I would've noticed."
Still no response. Draco sat like a statue—unyielding, silent.
Harry stood before the piano, watching Draco for a long moment, unsure whether to speak again or simply wait. Then, after a stretch of silence that felt like the castle itself was holding its breath, Draco finally shifted.
Draco's hands moved—slowly, reluctantly—back to the keys. His fingers hovered over them for a heartbeat before he began to play.
The melody was different this time. Softer, more tentative. The notes trembled like fragile glass, delicate and unsure, but the same undercurrent of sorrow ran beneath them.
Harry stood in silence once more, listening. Watching Draco pour himself into the music, the invisible cracks in his armor revealed with each trembling note.
Harry didn't know what he expected—an apology, an explanation, some sign that Draco wanted him there. But Draco said nothing. He played.
And Harry stayed.
A few weeks had passed since Harry's first visit to the old classroom, and he had found himself returning again and again. Each night, the music would call to him, soft and alluring, drifting through the empty halls of Hogwarts like a thread of something fragile, something Harry couldn't quite name.
The rhythm of his footsteps had grown familiar to him, as if the echo of his own presence had become a silent promise to the castle and to Draco Malfoy, whose shadow seemed to stretch farther with each passing day.
Tonight was no different. The door to the classroom was slightly ajar, the flickering light from within casting long shadows onto the stone floor. Harry hesitated, just for a moment, but that same pull—the quiet need to hear the music, to watch Draco—compelled him to push the door open.
Inside, the room was dim, shrouded in the same heavy silence as always. The flickering torch light cast a ghostly glow over the grand piano at the center of the room, the keys still, but not for long. Draco sat at the bench, his posture unnaturally rigid as he faced the instrument. His platinum hair hung over his face, hiding his expression, and Harry had learned not to try and read it. The only thing that mattered in this room, in this fragile moment, was the music.
Draco's hands hovered just above the keys, fingers trembling slightly as though he was gathering the strength to begin. Harry stood in the doorway, as always, watching, listening—waiting.
A moment passed, and then the music began.
The melody was different tonight—less melancholic, but no less full of sorrow. The notes seemed hesitant, unsure, like a hesitant breath held too long. Harry felt the familiar ache of the music coil in his chest, but this time, there was a deeper edge to it. A sense of loss, of something slipping through Draco's fingers that he couldn't quite grasp.
Harry stepped into the room, quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of silence between them. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched Draco, who hadn't acknowledged his presence, who didn't look up or pause his playing. The tension in Draco's back was still there, like a bowstring pulled tight, but tonight there was something more—something Harry couldn't name.
As Draco played, Harry leaned against the doorframe, the distance between them more suffocating than ever. It wasn't like the other times. This time, something felt different. Draco wasn't just hiding in the music; he was drowning in it. And Harry—well, he couldn't help but feel the weight of it.
The music swelled, then softened, a haunting lullaby that wrapped around Harry's heart, squeezing it until he could barely breathe. It was the same song, yet entirely different. It held the same aching grief but felt... broken. Harry knew there was more hidden beneath the surface of the notes, a message he couldn't yet decipher. And part of him—no matter how irrational—wondered if it was meant for him.
He knew he should speak. He should ask. He should do something, anything to bridge the distance between them, to tear down the walls Draco had built. But the truth was, Harry didn't know how. How did you reach someone who had buried themselves so deep inside their own darkness?
The music lingered for what felt like hours, each note bleeding into the next, each pause aching with an unspoken weight. Harry knew this wasn't a game anymore. He wasn't just an observer; he was caught in this moment, tethered to Draco's fragile world. The silence between them, thick as fog, threatened to crush him. He needed to speak. Needed to ask what Draco was hiding.
But as always, it was Draco who spoke first.
"You're still here," Draco said, his voice sharp but quiet, his back to Harry as he kept his gaze fixed on the piano.
Harry hesitated for a moment, the words heavy on his tongue, but instead of answering directly, he asked, "Who taught you to play?"
The question was out before he could stop himself, but once it was asked, he realized it was the only one that mattered in this moment. The music, the quiet, the tension—it all pointed to this.
Draco's fingers twitched slightly at the keys, but he didn't look up. His shoulders stiffened for a brief second before he spoke, voice soft but laced with a quiet finality.
"My mum," he said, the words coming slowly, almost reluctant. "She taught me when I was younger." His voice faltered just for a moment, and Harry could hear the thin thread of something fragile in his tone. "She said it was a way to... to control the chaos."
Harry didn't know how to respond to that. There was something in Draco's answer—something raw—that made Harry realize this wasn't just a simple matter of music. It was something Draco had learned to do, something to keep the noise of the world outside at bay.
For a moment, the room was silent again, but this time it didn't feel as oppressive. Harry stayed where he was, watching Draco, trying to piece together the boy in front of him. The walls that Draco had built, the mask he wore, it was all there—but in the way Draco spoke about his mother, in the way he played the piano, Harry could see cracks in the surface.
"You've been playing for a long time," Harry said quietly, his gaze fixed on Draco's hands, still resting over the keys. "Do you ever stop?"
Draco's fingers flexed, his expression still hidden behind his hair, but there was a shift in his posture. For just a moment, Harry thought Draco might answer, but instead, the music started again. Softer this time, slower, more deliberate—a melody that spoke of resignation, of things left unsaid.
Harry's heart was beating louder now, the rhythm echoing in his chest as he watched Draco's fingers fly across the piano keys. The music was slow but intense, each note building upon the last, a haunting sequence that seemed to carry the weight of years—of secrets, of silence, and of things Harry didn't know how to ask about.
Without thinking, Harry moved closer, his feet taking him across the cold stone floor. He paused by the bench, the room still thick with the melancholy melody, before finally taking the seat next to Draco, close enough that he could see the subtle tremble in Draco's hands as they played.
For a moment, neither of them said anything, the music filling the space between them like a living thing. Harry's gaze was locked on Draco's hands, watching how his fingers moved so effortlessly across the keys, as if the piano was the only thing in the world that made sense. There was something mesmerizing about the way Draco played—each note delicate, each movement sharp, deliberate. It was like watching a quiet battle, an internal war being fought one key at a time.
Harry leaned in, almost unconsciously drawn to the movement, when something caught his eye. Draco's sleeve shifted just slightly, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Harry caught a glimpse of something—ink. The edge of a mark, dark and sinister, curled around Draco's wrist just below the cuff of his sleeve. The distinct shape of it, a serpent intertwined with a skull, was unmistakable.
The Dark Mark.
Harry's breath caught in his throat, his mind racing as the significance of what he'd just seen crashed into him like a wave. He knew, of course, what the Dark Mark meant, and the sight of it burned into his mind like an imprint. He had known, deep down, that something was wrong—something had always been wrong with Draco. But seeing that mark, that symbol of Voldemort's power and influence, confirmed it in a way words never could.
He froze, his hand gripping the edge of the chair, his mind spinning. Draco hadn't noticed, not yet. But Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the sliver of the mark beneath the fabric of Draco's sleeve. He felt like he'd been given a glimpse into something deeper, darker—something Draco had been hiding for far too long.
Draco's fingers faltered, the soft sound of the keys clashing together in an awkward, discordant note. Harry glanced up, meeting Draco's gaze for the first time in what felt like forever. The air between them seemed to thicken, like it was charged with something electric, something that made Harry's throat dry.
Draco's face remained expressionless, but his eyes—those cold, silver eyes—had hardened. The flicker of tension that ran through Draco's posture didn't go unnoticed by Harry. Draco had realized. He had noticed that Harry had seen.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was more oppressive now than before, thicker, filled with unspoken words. Harry could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him, the knowledge of the mark sitting heavy in his chest.
Finally, Draco's voice cut through the silence, low and controlled, with a sharp edge that Harry wasn't sure he could ignore.
"You saw it." The words were more of a statement than a question, his tone colder than before.
Harry swallowed, his pulse pounding in his ears. He didn't know how to respond—not when he could still see the faint outline of the Dark Mark in his mind's eye. He wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap that had just widened between them, but the words wouldn't come. He had always known there was more to Draco than what he showed on the surface, but this? This was a whole new level.
"I... I saw it," Harry finally managed, his voice hoarse. He didn't know why he said it, but he couldn't lie, not now. Not about this.
Draco's hands stilled on the keys, the room filled with the soft echo of a chord hanging unresolved in the air. For a moment, Harry thought Draco might just walk away, leave the room as he had so many times before. But Draco didn't move. He didn't even look at him.
"It's nothing," Draco muttered, his voice tight, almost defensive. "You don't need to—"
"Draco," Harry interrupted, the name slipping from his lips before he could think better of it. He reached out, hesitantly, but Draco recoiled slightly, his shoulders stiffening, his posture pulling away from Harry as though the distance was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
The word nothing sat between them, too heavy to ignore. Harry knew it wasn't nothing. Nothing about Draco's world ever was. It never had been. But Draco was shutting him out, just like he had from the start—distant, untouchable, hiding behind a wall of silence that Harry couldn't break through.
"Don't lie to me, Draco," Harry said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but firm all the same. "It's not nothing. It's the Dark Mark. You can't pretend it doesn't mean anything."
For a long moment, Draco didn't move. His expression remained cold, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but Harry could see the muscle in his jaw clenching. He could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands gripped the edges of the piano keys like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the present.
"I don't want you to understand," Draco said, his voice low, almost a growl. "I didn't ask for this." The words were almost bitter, but there was something else in his tone—something fragile, something that cracked beneath the surface.
Harry's chest tightened, his own heart breaking for reasons he couldn't entirely explain. He wanted to reach out, to say more, but Draco was so far gone, so far removed from the boy Harry once knew, that it felt impossible. How could Harry get through to him now?
"Then what do you want, Draco?" Harry asked, his voice quieter this time, almost pleading. "What do you want me to do?"
Draco's gaze flickered toward him then, eyes narrowing as though the question had cut him in a way he hadn't expected. There was something in Draco's expression, a crack in the cold mask he wore, and for the briefest moment, Harry thought he saw something like... regret.
But then it was gone.
"I want nothing from you, Potter," Draco replied, his voice a harsh whisper, his tone final. "Nothing at all."
And just like that, the space between them widened again, Draco retreating into himself like he always did, the faintest edge of the Dark Mark still visible beneath his sleeve, a symbol of the forces that controlled him in ways Harry could never fully understand.
The music resumed—quieter this time, more fragmented, as if even the piano was trying to piece itself back together. But Harry couldn't ignore the dark weight that lingered in the room, the unanswered questions that hung between them like a shroud.
And Draco? Draco just played, his fingers moving once more over the keys, his body rigid, as if he were trying to drown out everything, even the words that Harry couldn't seem to say.
Harry stayed for a moment longer, watching Draco, feeling the heavy silence between them, but when the final note hung in the air and the music stopped, Harry knew there was nothing left to say.
Not yet. So Harry left.
For the days that followed, Harry didn't return to the classroom. He couldn't bring himself to. It wasn't just the Dark Mark he had seen—the symbol that weighed heavily on his chest—but the way Draco had recoiled, the way his walls had gone up higher than ever before. That last look, that bitter, closed-off expression, had stayed with Harry like an invisible bruise.
It was easier, in a way, to avoid Draco. Easier to push the memory of that haunting melody and the unexpected, fragile conversation into the back of his mind. Easier not to acknowledge that something had changed, that the world had shifted on its axis in a way Harry couldn't quite grasp.
So, he focused on the usual—his classes, Quidditch practices, the endless swirl of homework and studying. He kept his eyes firmly on the people around him—Ron and Hermione, who were as unbothered by Draco Malfoy as ever, chatting about the latest in their studies, the new things they had learned in class. Everything was normal, everything was the same.
But it wasn't.
Every time he passed Draco in the corridors, Harry kept his gaze ahead, pretending he didn't feel the weight of Draco's presence like a tangible thing, pressing against him. Every time Draco sat down in the Great Hall, Harry made sure to look anywhere but at him, focusing on his food or on the conversation happening at his table. He even avoided looking at him during classes, pretending that Draco was just another student—another face in the crowd, another annoyance to get through.
And yet, every time Draco's silvery eyes flickered in his direction, Harry felt a pang of something he couldn't name—a mix of guilt, confusion, and... longing. He hated it. He hated how easily Draco had slipped under his skin, how he could still feel the weight of Draco's silence, the bitter, defensive edge in his voice, even when they were miles apart.
It was during Transfiguration, a week after the encounter in the classroom, that Harry's resolve finally started to crack.
Professor McGonagall was droning on about animagus transformations when Harry glanced up—only to find Draco sitting across the room, his head bent low over his notes. For a fleeting second, Draco's eyes met his, and Harry quickly looked away, focusing hard on the parchment in front of him, as though it could swallow him whole.
He could hear Draco's breathing, could feel the tension in the air between them, and yet he refused to look at him again. But something in Draco's posture—a slight slump in his shoulders, a sharp tension in the way his hand gripped his quill—made Harry's chest tighten. He could tell Draco was agitated, and yet, he remained as still as ever, pretending as though nothing had happened, as though Harry had never seen the mark that would haunt them both.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur, and when the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Harry grabbed his things quickly, hoping to escape before Draco could catch his gaze again.
But just as he was about to step out of the classroom, Draco's voice stopped him.
"Potter."
The name was like a snare, pulling him back into a world he was desperately trying to avoid.
Harry didn't turn around immediately, but he knew Draco was standing behind him, probably just a few feet away. He could feel the space between them shrink even though he wasn't looking.
"Yeah?" Harry asked, his voice sharper than he intended, still unwilling to meet Draco's eyes.
There was a long pause, the silence stretching until Harry felt like he might break under the weight of it.
"I didn't ask for your pity," Draco said, his voice quiet, but the sharpness was there—something defensive, something that Harry hadn't expected.
Harry's stomach tightened. "I never... I didn't—"
"Don't lie," Draco interrupted, and when Harry finally turned to look at him, Draco's face was impassive, but there was an undeniable flicker of something—anger, maybe, or hurt, or both. "You think I need your pity, Potter? You think I need anyone's sympathy?"
Harry felt his throat tighten. He wanted to explain, to say something, anything, that would make Draco understand that it wasn't pity—that it was just... confusion. And something else, something that he couldn't name.
But he couldn't find the words. He had never been good at this. Never good at this delicate thing between them, this line that had blurred from a rivalry to something else entirely.
Instead, Harry swallowed hard and finally spoke, though the words felt like they were being forced out. "I never said you did."
Draco's jaw clenched, his eyes flickering away, and for a moment, he looked like he was about to say something more. But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, he exhaled sharply and turned to leave, his back straight and rigid.
"You've said enough, Potter," Draco muttered, his voice barely audible, before he disappeared into the hall.
Harry stood there for a second, stunned, his hand gripping the doorframe. He had expected something, but not that. Not that cold finality in Draco's voice, the way his shoulders had stiffened, like a wall had gone up between them again.
And yet, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that things were far from over. That this, whatever this was, wasn't finished.
As he made his way out of the classroom, his mind raced, his thoughts tangled. Draco's words echoed in his head—I didn't ask for your pity. Was that what he thought this was? Was that why Draco had pulled away so completely, had shut him out so forcefully?
The hallways of Hogwarts seemed even colder now, the castle's stone walls pressing in on him. Harry kept his head down, avoiding the glances from his friends, his mind too full of thoughts about Draco, about the way he had reacted, about the way he hadn't reacted. The way he had disappeared, just as he always did.
But it wasn't the same anymore.
Harry couldn't just let it go. He knew he couldn't.
And yet, he wasn't sure how to fix it. How to close the distance between them. How to undo whatever had broken, or whether it could even be fixed at all.
For now, though, he could do nothing but move forward, each step heavier than the last, as the space between him and Draco seemed to grow wider. Every day, more silence, more distance.
And Harry, despite everything, couldn't bring himself to step back into that classroom again. Not yet.
It was late. The castle was quiet, the usual sounds of Hogwarts—students talking, footsteps echoing in the halls—long faded into silence. The only noise was the faint hiss of the torches on the walls, their flames flickering in the cool night air. Harry's footsteps echoed softly in the corridor as he walked, making his way toward the abandoned classroom.
He had promised himself he wouldn't return. He had made excuses, avoided the classroom, pretended he was too busy with his own life to deal with what lingered in the air between him and Draco. But the haunting sound of that music—the soft, sorrowful melody that had wrapped itself around him like a shadow—hadn't let him go. It had clung to him, snaked its way into his thoughts and refused to leave.
So, he found himself there now, standing before the door to the classroom, the cold stone pressing against his back as he hesitated. He had told himself this moment wouldn't come. But now that it had, he wasn't sure what to expect. The door creaked as it swung open, the space beyond empty, untouched. The room, quiet and still, was as he remembered it. But there was something else tonight.
The soft strains of piano music reached his ears before he even saw Draco.
The music, slower tonight, was quieter, more deliberate—each note a careful brushstroke in a painting of aching resignation. Harry stepped into the room, breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight. Draco was at the piano, hunched slightly over the keys, his fingers moving with a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the room. His usual tension, the sharp edge of his presence, was gone, replaced by something almost fragile, like a piece of glass held together by nothing but a trembling hand.
The melody was different, more haunting than before. The same notes, but rearranged—familiar, but new. Each chord felt like a confession, a secret Draco was unraveling, note by note.
Harry stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, listening to the delicate notes echoing off the stone walls, knowing this was his only chance to understand. He didn't dare speak. Not yet. He simply let the music wash over him, each passing second stirring something deep inside him. Something he didn't know how to name.
Draco didn't seem to notice him at first, his concentration fixed entirely on the piano, his movements fluid despite the tightness in his posture. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as the music filled the space, something about it tugging at him, making him ache with an emotion he couldn't quite grasp.
Slowly, almost cautiously, Harry approached, his shoes silent on the cold stone floor. The room felt smaller now, the space between him and Draco narrowing as the music held them together in an unspoken bond. Harry's gaze flickered over Draco's shoulders, his fingers grazing the keys in a quiet dance. The silver strands of Draco's hair fell loosely over his face, obscuring his expression, but Harry could still sense the emotion behind his every note. The pain. The grief. It was there, woven into the music like a tapestry of memories Harry couldn't touch, couldn't undo.
He wanted to say something. To bridge the gap that had formed between them. But the words caught in his throat, tangled and heavy. What could he say? What could he do to make sense of this?
Finally, Draco's fingers faltered, and the music came to a brief, awkward halt. Harry flinched at the sudden silence, but before he could speak, Draco's voice—quiet, almost hesitant—broke through the stillness.
"You came back," he said, his words carrying an odd weight. He didn't turn around, didn't even acknowledge Harry's presence fully. It was as though he was speaking more to the room, to the music, than to Harry himself.
Harry felt a flicker of uncertainty in his chest, but he forced himself to speak anyway. "I had to," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. About you."
Draco's shoulders tensed at the words, but he didn't move. The silence between them stretched out, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The piano continued, the notes softer now, but carrying a sorrow so deep Harry could feel it in his own bones. Draco's fingers played with a sort of delicate care, as though the music itself was the only thing holding him together.
"I never asked for your pity, Potter," Draco muttered, his voice low but still edged with something sharp. "I didn't ask for anyone's help."
Harry's chest tightened at the words, but he couldn't ignore the rawness in Draco's tone. He could hear the vulnerability there, hiding beneath the defensive armor Draco had built up for so long.
"I don't pity you," Harry replied, the words coming out more forcefully than he intended. "I never did. I just... I don't understand. Why didn't you—why didn't you say something?"
Draco's hands stilled over the keys for a moment, and Harry thought, for a second, that he would turn and face him. But instead, Draco only let out a soft breath, the music continuing again, softer than before.
"I don't know how to explain it, Potter," Draco said quietly. "I don't even know if I can."
Harry took a step closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of the words hanging between them, the silence pushing them further apart even as he tried to bridge the gap. "I don't want to force you to explain anything. But I can't just pretend it doesn't matter. I can't ignore that mark, Draco. I can't just... pretend everything is okay when I know it's not."
Draco's fingers faltered again, the music spilling into dissonance before it found its way back to a steady rhythm. Harry felt the shift, the change in Draco's demeanor. The walls were going back up, but there was something different about the way he carried himself tonight. Something broken, something raw.
"I didn't choose it, Potter," Draco's voice was barely audible now, the pain evident in his tone. "I never chose this."
Harry's throat tightened at the words. "I know," he said softly. "But that doesn't mean it has to define you."
The music grew softer, like the dying breath of something trying to hold on. Draco didn't reply. He just played, each note a whisper, each chord a memory he couldn't let go of.
The room felt suspended in time, the music swirling around them like a delicate web, pulling Harry deeper into a quiet place between them. Draco's fingers lingered on the piano keys, but he didn't seem to be playing anymore. The silence hung heavy, and Harry could feel the tension rising in the space between them.
The words they'd exchanged echoed in Harry's mind, but now they seemed to fade into the background as the music took on a life of its own. It was softer now, quieter, like the very air in the room was listening.
Draco's shoulders shifted slightly, and for the first time, he turned his head, just enough to meet Harry's eyes. His gaze was a mixture of something vulnerable and something resigned, like he was waiting for Harry to understand something unspoken.
"I didn't choose it, Potter," Draco said again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never chose this."
Harry felt a pang of something deep in his chest. He opened his mouth to reply, but before the words could form, Draco's fingers tapped gently on the keys, a single note that rang out softly in the silence.
Then, without warning, Draco's voice broke through the tension. "Harry... dance with me."
Harry blinked, not quite understanding the request. "What?"
Draco's eyes softened just a fraction, but the hint of something mischievous flickered there. "Dance with me. I can't play like this forever."
For a moment, Harry didn't move, didn't know what to say. They were standing in an abandoned classroom, Draco Malfoy was playing a piano, and the world outside felt miles away. What was he supposed to do with this?
But Draco's gaze didn't waver, and Harry could sense the quiet plea in his eyes. Slowly, Harry took a step forward, drawn toward him without fully understanding why. He hadn't expected this, not in a thousand years. But here, now, in the stillness of the room, it felt like the only thing that made sense.
Draco's fingers moved over the piano again, and this time a soft glow emanated from his wand, a gentle flick of his wrist. The spell was silent, but the effect was immediate—the music flowed effortlessly, the melody lingering in the air like it was part of the very fabric of the room.
With a final, lingering note, Draco stood up from the piano bench, his expression unreadable, his eyes never leaving Harry. He stepped toward him, and, almost without thinking, Harry reached out to meet him halfway.
The music surrounded them, soft and haunting, as Draco placed his hands carefully on Harry's shoulders. Harry hesitated, unsure of what to do, but the look in Draco's eyes held him there.
"Just follow me," Draco murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. "It's simple, really. Just trust the music."
Before Harry could respond, Draco stepped closer, guiding him into the slow, sweeping rhythm of the dance. It wasn't fast or complicated; it was more like floating, like drifting in time with the music that filled the space around them. Harry's heart beat a little faster, the sensation of Draco's presence so close to him almost dizzying.
They moved together, carefully, not speaking, just allowing the melody to guide them. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as they danced across the floor, Draco's steps light, fluid, and Harry following with a surprising ease, his body responding to the rhythm as though it had always known it. It was surreal—the two of them, here, in the quiet, abandoned classroom, dancing to a melody that felt like something both old and new, something neither of them could quite explain.
The moment stretched, timeless and fragile, as they moved in the soft glow of the candles flickering around them. Draco's hand rested lightly on Harry's back, his other hand holding Harry's gently but firmly. Harry could feel the heat from Draco's body, the steady rhythm of his heart, and something inside Harry seemed to quiet, settling into the slow, gentle beat of the music.
The silence between them, now, was not uncomfortable. It wasn't heavy or awkward—it was an understanding, unspoken, that neither of them could name but both could feel.
Harry's breath came a little faster, and he couldn't tell if it was the proximity, the weight of their shared history, or something else entirely, but he didn't mind it. For the first time, there was no need for words between them. The music was enough. Draco was enough. And somehow, Harry felt that he might be, too.
They danced, the melody winding through the air, and time slipped away. The sound of the piano and the soft steps on the stone floor were all that remained—no past, no future, just the present moment, the two of them lost in it.
As the song began to slow, Draco's hand on Harry's back gave a slight, reassuring squeeze, his eyes meeting Harry's again. There was an unspoken question there—one Harry didn't have the answer to yet, but somehow didn't need to have.
Harry's chest rose and fell with each breath, his eyes meeting Draco's, and for a moment, the whole world outside the classroom felt impossibly distant.
Finally, as the last note of the music drifted into the night, Draco paused, his fingers lingering on Harry's hand as the final chord hummed in the silence between them.
"Thank you," Draco said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of something more than just the dance.
Harry's heart beat a little faster as he looked at Draco, unsure of what he was feeling but certain that it wasn't something he could simply walk away from.
"I—" Harry started, but the words faltered.
Draco didn't give him a chance to finish. Instead, he stepped back, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of something neither of them had expected.
As Draco turned back to the piano, the music lingered in the air, filling the abandoned classroom with a soft, unspoken promise, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, their lives had changed forever.
But for now, they were still here. Together. And that was enough.
It had been many weeks since Harry had first wandered into that abandoned classroom, where Draco's music seemed to reach something deep inside him—something he couldn't quite name. Since then, Harry had returned, but never for long. Just enough to hear Draco play, to feel the pull of something he didn't fully understand. But Harry wasn't ready to admit that to anyone, least of all to himself.
That afternoon, Harry sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall for lunch, his book open in front of him but his thoughts miles away. Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, Draco sat with Blaise, the two of them talking quietly. Harry couldn't help but glance up every few seconds, his gaze drawn to Draco despite himself. Draco was laughing at something Blaise said, his silver-blonde hair falling slightly across his face. There was something in the way he moved, something different, and Harry didn't know how to place it.
Every time Harry tried to focus on his food or his homework, his thoughts slipped back to that moment in the classroom—the quiet beauty of Draco at the piano, the unexpected closeness they'd shared when they danced. The weight of it all sat heavily in Harry's chest, but he didn't know what it meant. He didn't know what to do with it.
The sound of Hermione's voice broke him from his thoughts.
"Harry."
He blinked, looking up to find Hermione sitting beside him, a worried expression on her face. Harry quickly tried to look away, but his gaze landed right on Draco again, across the hall, just as Draco's eyes lifted to meet his. Harry's heart skipped, and he quickly tore his gaze away, focusing on his book. His cheeks felt warm.
"You've been disappearing at night," Hermione said, her voice gentle but insistent. "Where have you been, Harry?"
Harry froze, suddenly feeling cornered. He hadn't been trying to hide anything, but he hadn't exactly volunteered any explanations, either. He had been sneaking around a bit lately, avoiding his friends' questions, trying to figure out his feelings on his own. And now, it seemed like they had noticed.
"I've just been studying," Harry said quickly, avoiding Hermione's gaze. He didn't know why he felt so guilty. It wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong.
Hermione arched an eyebrow. "You're studying in the middle of the night, Harry? You can't even get through a meal without staring off into space. Something's going on, and we're your friends, so you can tell us."
Ron, who had been watching the exchange from across the table, leaned in with a frown. "Yeah, mate. You've been looking a bit... off lately. And you keep sneaking off to some random corner of the castle. What gives?"
Harry sighed, closing his book and trying to ignore the sudden anxiety bubbling up inside him. He knew they weren't going to drop it.
"There's nothing wrong," Harry said with a forced smile. "I'm just... I don't know. Maybe I'm just a bit tired."
Ron gave him a skeptical look. "You're tired? Mate, we've been spending every night together for the past week, and you've been fine. What's really going on?"
Hermione's voice softened, but her concern didn't fade. "Harry, if something's bothering you, you can tell us. You don't have to keep it all inside."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mind was racing—he couldn't tell them the truth. Not yet, not when he barely understood it himself. He couldn't explain to them that he felt a pull toward Draco, that every time he thought about their dance, about the way Draco had played the piano with such emotion, his heart beat a little faster. He couldn't tell them that the night he'd learned about Draco's Dark Mark, he'd almost walked away—but something in him had stopped. Something had changed between them, and Harry didn't know how to process it. He didn't want to deal with it, not yet.
"Seriously, there's nothing to tell," Harry said, shaking his head and looking at them both, forcing a casual tone. "I'm just... distracted, I guess. I don't know. It's nothing to worry about."
Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, but neither of them pushed further. Hermione finally sighed, though her expression still held concern. "Alright, if you say so, Harry. But just remember, you don't have to hide things from us. We're here for you."
Ron gave him a half-smile. "Yeah, mate. We won't bite. Just don't go pulling a disappearing act for no reason, alright?"
Harry managed a small smile, grateful that they were at least letting him off the hook for now. "I won't, I promise."
He glanced across the hall again, and this time, Draco's gaze wasn't on him anymore. Draco was talking to Pansy, his attention clearly elsewhere. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something between them had changed, and he wasn't sure what it meant or where it would lead.
As the conversation turned back to the usual school gossip, Harry returned his focus to his meal, trying to act normal. But inside, he couldn't shake the knot of unease. The pull toward Draco was stronger than ever, and he wasn't sure how long he could keep pretending that it didn't matter.
Across the room, Draco glanced back at Harry for just a moment, their eyes locking for the briefest second before Draco turned away again. But that small exchange left Harry feeling more unsettled than ever. What did it all mean? What was he supposed to do with this feeling?
For now, he pushed it all down. He wasn't ready to face it yet—not when he couldn't even figure it out himself. He just had to keep going, act like nothing was wrong. But deep down, Harry knew that sooner or later, he would have to face whatever this was.
And when that moment came, he wasn't sure if he'd be ready for it.
The castle was quiet under the moonlit sky as Harry made his way to the abandoned classroom. Harry found himself drawn back to the same place, the same pull, even as his emotions grew more complicated. Every visit left him with more questions than answers, but the one thing that remained constant was Draco's presence.
When Harry pushed open the door, the room was filled with silence, no music echoing off the walls like usual. Draco wasn't at the piano this time. Instead, he was sitting by the window, staring out into the dark night. The faint moonlight illuminated his profile, casting long shadows across his face. He looked distant, lost in thought, and for a moment, Harry hesitated, unsure of what to do next.
But the pull toward him was stronger than his hesitation, and Harry crossed the room, standing beside Draco, though keeping his distance.
"Draco?" Harry's voice was gentle, breaking the silence that hung heavy between them.
Draco didn't immediately turn, but he shifted just slightly, enough for Harry to see the small frown tugging at his lips. There was an unfamiliar vulnerability in the way he sat, and it unsettled Harry more than he expected.
"I wasn't sure you'd come tonight," Draco finally said, his voice quieter than usual, like he was almost afraid of what Harry's response might be.
Harry moved a little closer, his heart pounding in his chest. "Why wouldn't I?"
Draco glanced over at him then, his silver eyes searching Harry's face with a quiet intensity. There was something in Draco's gaze that made Harry's pulse quicken—something more than just the usual tension between them. It was a rawness, an openness, that Harry wasn't sure how to handle.
"I thought... maybe you'd stop coming," Draco confessed, the words slipping out almost involuntarily. "Maybe after everything that's happened. Maybe after the last time."
Harry could feel the weight of those words settle in his chest. The last time—they had danced together, and Harry had felt something shift between them. But Harry hadn't stopped coming. He couldn't, even if he was afraid of what it all meant.
"I haven't stopped coming," Harry said quietly, his voice soft. He closed the gap between them, standing just beside Draco, watching him as if he could find the answers in his eyes. "I just... needed to think."
Draco didn't answer immediately, his gaze returning to the window. Harry could see the conflict behind his eyes, and it made him feel more uncertain than ever. But Draco's silence was too much for Harry to bear. There were too many things unsaid, too many things Harry had to know.
"Are you... okay?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco's breath caught, and for a moment, he looked like he might turn away again. But instead, he let out a long, shuddering breath and finally looked at Harry, his expression unreadable.
"No," Draco said softly. "I'm not okay. Not really."
Harry's chest tightened, and he stepped a little closer, wanting to reach out, but unsure if it was the right thing to do. "Draco, what's going on?"
There was a pause before Draco turned fully toward him, his eyes not quite meeting Harry's but not looking away, either. The air between them seemed charged, heavy with something neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
"I've been trying to ignore it. Pretending it's not happening," Draco began, his voice tight. "But I can't anymore. Harry... I can't keep pretending like it's nothing. Like you don't mean something to me."
Harry's heart skipped a beat, and he took another step forward, suddenly feeling the closeness between them more than ever. The space between them felt electric, but he wasn't sure if it was his own feelings or if Draco felt it too.
"I—" Harry started, but Draco held up a hand, stopping him.
"Don't," Draco said softly, but with a certain urgency. "I don't know when it happened. I don't know how it happened. But I care about you, Harry. I do. And I know... I know it's dangerous, but I can't stop it. I can't stop feeling this way about you."
Harry froze. The words hung between them, thick with meaning, and Harry's mind raced to catch up. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Draco that he felt the same way, but the moment was so charged, so full of the unknown, that Harry couldn't find the words.
But before he could speak, Draco's face hardened, the softness disappearing from his features. He stepped back, his shoulders tight.
"Listen," Draco said quickly, his voice more urgent now, "there's something you need to know. You need to understand what's coming."
Harry's pulse quickened as Draco's words took a darker turn. "What do you mean? What's going on?"
Draco's eyes darkened as he looked at Harry, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside had closed in around them. "Voldemort is planning something... something bigger than we could imagine. And I—" Draco's voice faltered, and he swallowed hard. "I'm involved. I've been helping him. Gathering information. But now... now it's bigger than me. Bigger than anything I can control."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Draco, you don't have to—"
"I have to," Draco cut him off, his voice sharp now. "I don't have a choice. I've already made my bed, Harry. And you don't want to be part of it. Not now. Not after everything I've done. Voldemort... he's planning something catastrophic. I've seen it. And I'm afraid that no matter how much I want to protect you, I'm too far gone. I won't let him drag you into this."
Draco's eyes were filled with fear and regret, and Harry's chest tightened with an ache he couldn't quite describe. He wanted to tell Draco that he didn't care about the danger, that he wouldn't back down, that they could fight this together. But before Harry could voice any of it, Draco was already stepping away, his hand on the door.
"Draco, don't—" Harry began, taking a step forward.
"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "But this isn't something I can pull you into. You need to stay away from me, Harry. Please. For your own sake."
Before Harry could respond, Draco was gone, leaving the room empty and heavy with the weight of his words. Harry stood there, alone in the stillness, his heart racing as the realization hit him: Draco was more lost in this than Harry had ever imagined—and Harry didn't know if he could save him.
The corridors of Hogwarts felt both familiar and distant as Harry made his way to the common room. The war had been over for months now, but coming back to the castle for his 8th year, to finish what had been interrupted, was a strange experience. It was almost like stepping back into a past he thought he'd left behind.
It was still a place where memories clung to the walls. And for Harry, that meant a particular memory that he couldn't seem to shake.
As he entered the classroom, the usual buzz of students filled the air, but his eyes immediately went to the far corner where Draco Malfoy sat, alone in the corner, a textbook open in front of him. It had been years since they'd spoken, since that night they shared the dance. That night when Draco had said those words to him—words Harry hadn't been able to forget.
He couldn't ignore the pull he felt when he saw Draco sitting there. Even now, even after everything that had happened, after the war, after all the years that had passed, there was something about Draco that made Harry's heart flutter with uncertainty. It was that same mix of confusion, curiosity, and—maybe—something more.
Harry didn't approach him. He couldn't. He wasn't ready to confront those feelings, not yet. Instead, he made his way to an empty seat a few rows away from Draco and sat down, his eyes drifting back to him, watching from a distance.
Draco was absorbed in his textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. The flickering light from the fire cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features. The war had changed him—his posture wasn't quite as rigid, his demeanor more subdued. Yet there was still that air of distance, as though he carried something heavy inside. Harry wondered if it was the same thing that had haunted him all this time, the weight of Draco's confession and the memory of their dance.
The music they had shared, the brief, tentative moments where it felt like there was something real between them, kept playing in Harry's mind. The way Draco had held his hand, the way their bodies had moved together in time with the music, like something delicate was unfolding between them. It had felt like the start of something—something Harry wasn't sure he understood, but wanted to. But then, everything had shifted so quickly, and the moment had slipped away.
Draco didn't know, of course. He didn't know how Harry had kept that night with him, replaying it in his thoughts when everything else seemed so far removed. He didn't know that Harry had never stopped thinking about it, about him. That night had been a spark in the darkness for Harry—a moment where everything felt possible, before reality, before the war, before all of the complications that had come after.
He found himself wondering, as he watched Draco from afar, what happened between us?
Draco had confessed his feelings, but Harry had never been able to reciprocate, not fully. He didn't get the chance to. At the time, Harry had been overwhelmed. He had barely understood the gravity of Draco's confession, too caught up in the chaos of their world to really grasp the depth of what Draco had been trying to convey. It had been a moment of vulnerability, of truth, something Harry had never expected from Draco.
But then came the invasion, the final push. And everything that Draco had warned him about suddenly became clear.
Without Draco's warning, Harry realized, many more would have died that night. He had been prepared when the Death Eaters arrived at Hogwarts, knowing that Voldemort had a plan far darker than anyone had anticipated. It was that warning—that brief moment of honesty between them—that had helped Harry and the Order to prepare for the attack. It had allowed them to secure key areas of the castle, to evacuate students and get ready for the onslaught that they all knew was coming.
Draco had risked everything to give him that warning, knowing the danger to himself. He had defied his father, defied Voldemort, and done something no one had expected. And Harry would never forget it.
For all Draco's faults, his arrogance, his coldness, Harry had come to understand that there had always been more to him than met the eye. And it had taken a war, and a confession in a dark, abandoned classroom, for Harry to finally see it.
Now as they sat in the same room, time had given Harry a distance to reflect on that moment. A part of him still wanted to confront it, wanted to reach out to Draco and say something—anything—but another part of him held back, unsure. What was left to say now? What was there to explore after so much time had passed, after so much had changed?
Draco's head shifted slightly, his silver eyes glancing up from his book for just a moment, as if sensing someone watching him. For a brief instant, his gaze met Harry's, and Harry felt a jolt in his chest. He quickly looked away, his heart pounding, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.
But Draco didn't move, didn't make a sound. Instead, he turned back to his book, the faintest of sighs escaping him. Harry's chest tightened, and he couldn't help but wonder what Draco was thinking, what had changed for him. Was he still carrying that same burden, the same unspoken feelings that Harry wasn't sure how to handle? Or had he let it go, moved on, forgotten the moment they'd shared?
Harry stared at Draco for a little longer, his thoughts swirling. So much had happened in the years since that night—so much that had torn their lives apart. Yet, in this moment, in this shared space of the common room, they were both still here, still trying to make sense of everything.
But Harry wasn't ready to face that yet. He wasn't ready to confront the feelings, the questions that had been swirling inside him for so long. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, glancing out the window at the moonlit sky, lost in thought.
He didn't know what the future held, or if there was even a place for him and Draco to figure things out, but for now, he could only watch from afar.
Drarry Scene – Library Confrontation
The library was quieter than usual, the only sound being the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scribble of quills. Harry had come to the library with a single purpose in mind—to grab a book for his upcoming Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. He didn't expect to find himself tangled in something much more complicated than essays or magic, but the moment he stepped between the aisles of bookshelves, he saw him.
Draco Malfoy.
Harry froze. He hadn't expected to see Draco here, not like this. Draco was usually with a group of students or sitting in one of the common areas, never hiding away in the quiet corners of the library. Yet, there he was, pressed against a shelf, his back to the books, his face partially obscured as if trying to stay out of sight.
Harry's heart gave an unbidden jolt, the familiar ache of unspoken things rising in his chest. His mind raced back to that night—the dance, Draco's confession, the warning, everything that had passed between them. He'd watched Draco from afar for weeks, but had never been brave enough to approach him.
But now, seeing him so alone, so distant, something inside Harry snapped. Maybe it was the weight of the years, or maybe it was the endless questions that had been building up inside him ever since they'd last spoken. Either way, Harry knew this was it. This was the moment.
Without thinking, Harry walked toward the row of bookshelves where Draco was standing, his footsteps echoing softly through the aisle.
As Harry rounded the corner, Draco's head snapped up in surprise, and their eyes locked immediately. For a split second, Harry felt the familiar pull—something between them that had never quite gone away.
"Malfoy," Harry said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. He stood a few feet from Draco, waiting for him to say something, but Draco remained silent, his gaze flicking to the floor and then back up to Harry, his mouth set in a thin line.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, his voice softer now, more cautious.
Draco didn't answer right away. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, as if trying to dismiss the question. But Harry could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted uncomfortably.
"I'm hiding," Draco finally said, his voice low and barely audible. "What does it look like?"
Harry couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. "Hiding from what?"
Draco didn't answer, but Harry noticed the way his hands twitched, as if wanting to do something but not knowing how to act. Harry took a step closer, his thoughts clouded with all the things he wanted to say.
"This isn't like you, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice more serious now. "You've never been the one to hide."
Draco met his gaze then, a flicker of something dangerous, something raw in his eyes. "Well, maybe I'm tired of being what everyone expects me to be, Potter."
Harry took a breath, stepping closer again, until he was standing right in front of Draco. "What are you then, Malfoy?"
For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was just the hum of the library, the tension between them thickening.
Draco's eyes softened, and he looked away for a second, his voice barely above a whisper when he spoke again. "I'm trying to figure that out."
Harry's chest tightened. "You still haven't answered my question," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Why did you warn me? Why did you—" He hesitated, his words getting caught in his throat. "Why did you tell me all of that? Knowing what it might cost you?"
Draco's jaw clenched, and for a moment, Harry thought he wouldn't answer at all. But then, slowly, Draco spoke, his voice rough, as if dragging the words from deep inside him.
"Because I... I couldn't just stand by and do nothing," Draco said, his eyes locking with Harry's again. "I couldn't let you die, couldn't let the people I—" He cut himself off, shaking his head in frustration. "Look, Potter, I knew what I was doing. I knew it might get me killed. But you... you deserved to know. And maybe, just maybe, I thought... that I could make up for everything I've done."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He'd never seen Draco like this—vulnerable, torn, and honest. It was a side of him that Harry had never expected, not after everything that had happened between them. But it was there, laid bare in front of him.
"You think you can make up for it?" Harry asked, his voice quiet, the words coming out before he could stop them.
Draco's face hardened, and for a moment, Harry thought he would shut him out again. But then, Draco looked away, his gaze dropping to the ground as if ashamed.
"I don't know," he admitted softly. "But I had to try."
A long silence stretched between them, and Harry felt the weight of everything—of the war, of the choices they'd made, of the moments they'd shared and left unsaid.
Harry stepped forward again, closing the distance between them, his heart racing. "You don't have to try alone, you know. I—" He stopped himself, feeling foolish. "I don't know what to say, Malfoy. But I can't stop thinking about that night. About what you said. And about what we... What that meant."
Draco's eyes flicked to Harry's, and Harry could see the conflict swirling in them. For a moment, it looked like Draco might say something, might answer all of the questions Harry had been carrying for so long. But instead, Draco exhaled, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly.
"I don't know, Potter," Draco said, almost in a whisper. "I don't know what it meant either. But I think... I think I need to find out."
Harry felt a strange sense of relief at those words, even though they didn't come with any answers. There was still so much they didn't know, still so many things left unsaid between them. But in that moment, in the quiet of the library, it felt like maybe—just maybe—they were both ready to figure it out. Together.
"You don't have to hide, Draco," Harry said quietly, his voice steady now. "Not from me. Not anymore."
Draco met his gaze again, and this time, there was something softer in his eyes. "I know," he said. "But maybe... maybe it's not just the hiding that's the problem."
Harry didn't know what that meant, but as Draco turned and walked past him, Harry's heart raced in his chest. He had no answers yet, no clear path forward. But something in Draco's words, in the look he had given him, made Harry feel like the possibility of something more was finally within reach.
The weight of the months since the war had changed everything about Hogwarts, but somehow, the castle still felt like home. Some parts had been rebuilt, yes, whole sections were new, yet the layout remained unchanged, and the familiar corridors still carried the echoes of the past. For Harry, one memory stood out more than any other—one room that had become a quiet sanctuary for him, a place where he'd felt something he never thought he would.
The abandoned classroom, now hidden away in the quieter wings of the school, was still standing. Despite all the destruction the war had caused, the layout remained the same. The once-forgotten room, where Draco had played the piano, was still here. Even if the instrument had been lost in the rubble, the space was still full of the strange weight it had carried in those last few months of the war.
Harry didn't know why he'd come back to the classroom tonight. Maybe it was the pull of memories, or maybe it was the hope that something had changed, something in him that would make things right. He knew that he hadn't really faced what had happened between him and Draco—the confession, the dance, everything that came after. He had pushed it all away, convinced that moving on was the only way to survive.
But now, after everything, after coming back to Hogwarts to finish his last year, Harry knew that part of him had never really moved on.
With a hesitant breath, Harry reached for the door of the classroom and pushed it open. The familiar creak of the door was just as it had been years ago. He stepped inside, the cool air of the room brushing past him, and for a moment, he stood still, letting the silence of the room surround him.
The furniture had been replaced, some of the windows had been mended, but there was still that same quiet, abandoned air to it. It felt like nothing had really changed, despite the world outside moving on.
And there, sitting by the window, was Draco.
He wasn't at a piano—there was no instrument here—but he was still unmistakably Draco. His figure was framed by the soft light coming through the window, his posture just as familiar as it had been. His arms were crossed, his eyes distant, as if he was lost in thought, and Harry could see the faintest trace of sadness in the set of his shoulders.
Harry didn't know how long he stood there, just watching Draco. The sight of him sent an unexpected pang through his chest, a mix of longing and confusion, of memories he wasn't sure how to handle.
Finally, Draco's voice broke the silence, low and almost hesitant. "I knew you'd come back."
Harry stepped forward, unsure of what to say, but the words spilled out before he could stop them. "I never should've left. I never should've—"
Draco didn't let him finish. He stood up slowly, turning to face Harry, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if seeing him for the first time in years. "You didn't have to come here," Draco said, his voice quieter now. "I didn't expect you to, not after everything."
Harry swallowed, feeling the weight of those words more than he cared to admit. He hadn't expected to be here, not really. But something about Draco, about the way he had looked that night in the common room—guarded and distant, yet still undeniably Draco—had drawn him back to this room. This place.
"I had to," Harry replied, his voice shaky, unsure. "I couldn't just leave it like that."
Draco didn't say anything for a long moment. He walked toward Harry, slow and measured, as though he were trying to decide whether or not to close the distance between them. He stopped just a few feet away, his gaze steady and searching, as if looking for something in Harry he couldn't quite place.
"You don't have to say anything, Harry," Draco said finally. "You don't have to make any grand declarations. I just... I needed you to know that I didn't regret what I did. I never did."
The words hung in the air, and Harry found himself unable to respond right away. He didn't know if it was the war or the things they'd both been through, or just the sheer weight of the moment, but something inside him seemed to snap.
"I never did either," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't know what we were."
Draco's eyes softened for the briefest of moments, but then he stepped closer, closing the gap between them. "Does it matter what we were?" Draco asked, his voice low but steady. "We were two people trying to make sense of everything we were forced to face. But now... I don't want to think about what we were, Harry. I just want to know what we could be."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure if he could even say anything without sounding like a fool. But in that moment, as Draco stood just inches away, looking at him with something raw, something vulnerable in his eyes, Harry knew. He knew it didn't matter that the piano was gone or that so much had changed. The space between them still held the same pull. The same connection.
"I don't know what's next," Harry said quietly. "But I don't want to leave it behind again. Not this time."
Draco's lips quirked up at the corners, a faint smile breaking through the tension. "Good," he replied softly. "Because neither do I."
The air around them seemed to shift, the silence stretching between them like an invitation. Harry felt the weight of everything they had shared—their confession, the dance, the quiet understanding—and for the first time, it felt like maybe they had a chance to find what had been left unsaid.
And as Harry stood there, staring into Draco's eyes, it didn't matter that the piano was gone, that the room was just a shadow of what it had been. All that mattered was that Draco was still here, still him, and for the first time in a long while, Harry was ready to let that truth settle in.
The silence between them deepened as Harry took a step closer, unsure of what he was doing, but feeling like he had no other choice. The distance between them felt too vast, yet every inch of it seemed to burn, urging him to close it. His heart pounded in his chest as Draco's eyes flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes, and Harry couldn't help but feel like something was shifting between them.
Draco swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. Harry took another step forward, closing the distance between them. His pulse raced. He didn't have a clear answer to the mess of emotions swirling inside him, but he did know one thing. He couldn't stand the distance anymore.
"I couldn't stay away, Draco," Harry whispered, his breath shallow. "I couldn't just leave it hanging. I—"
Before Harry could finish his sentence, Draco moved. It was sudden—urgent. Draco leaned in quickly, cupping Harry's face with his hands, and in that moment, their lips met.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though neither of them were sure what it meant. But then it deepened, and all of Harry's doubts seemed to melt away as he responded to Draco's touch. The way their lips moved together felt familiar and new all at once. It was like a memory long forgotten, yet one Harry was willing to remember, to pull into himself.
For a moment, the world outside the classroom didn't matter. The past, the war, the time they'd spent apart—none of it existed in this one stolen moment.
But then, just as quickly as it had happened, Draco pulled away, his eyes wide, a look of panic flashing across his face.
"What did I just do?" Draco whispered, almost to himself. "You don't want this, Potter. I... I shouldn't have..."
Harry's chest tightened, and for a brief, painful second, he thought Draco might pull away entirely, retreat back into that cold shell that Harry had seen so many times before. The vulnerability in Draco's eyes made Harry's stomach twist in a way he couldn't quite explain.
"Draco..." Harry began, but before he could say anything more, Draco took a step back, his eyes darting around the room as if he were searching for an escape.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," Draco murmured, his voice strained, his shoulders stiff with tension. "You don't—" He paused, swallowing hard, eyes avoiding Harry's. "You don't want me like that. I—"
Before Draco could finish, Harry was moving again, taking a step forward, closing the space between them. His hand reached out and cupped Draco's face, gently but firmly pulling him in. Their eyes locked for a brief moment—Harry's filled with uncertainty but also something fierce, something that wouldn't let go.
"I want you, Draco," Harry breathed, cutting off the protests that were about to spill from Draco's lips. "I don't know what this is, or what's going to happen. But I want you."
The words felt like a weight lifting from his chest. For too long, Harry had buried this feeling, had pushed it away out of fear or confusion. But now, standing there, with Draco so close, Harry realized that he didn't want to run from it anymore.
Draco's eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face before Harry leaned in again, this time with more certainty, and kissed him. This kiss wasn't tentative or unsure—it was deep, raw, and full of everything Harry had been holding back for so long.
Draco responded instantly, his hands gripping Harry's shirt, pulling him closer, as if he were afraid Harry would disappear if he didn't hold on tightly enough. The kiss was everything Harry hadn't known he was craving—comfort, desire, a connection that felt inevitable, even after all the time and distance.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and still trembling, Harry kept his forehead pressed against Draco's, his eyes closed for a moment.
"Don't ever pull away like that again," Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Please."
Draco's hand gently brushed over Harry's cheek, his thumb softly stroking his skin. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice quieter now. "I didn't think..."
"You don't have to think about it anymore," Harry said, opening his eyes and meeting Draco's gaze. "You don't have to push me away."
Draco's lips parted, and for a moment, Harry thought he might say something else—something that would break the moment—but then Draco just nodded, his face softening in a way that made Harry's heart race again.
"I don't know what this is, Harry," Draco murmured, his voice low. "But I don't want to stop finding out."
Harry smiled, a warmth spreading through him. "Neither do I."
And with that, they kissed again, this time with no hesitation, as if the past and the future didn't matter—only the present. The space between them had finally disappeared.