What He Isn’t Saying
(Harry’s POV)
Harry wasn’t stupid.
It took him longer than it should have, but once he noticed something, he noticed it.
And right now?
Malfoy was hiding something.
It had started with little things. Malfoy’s silence, the way his hands lingered in his pockets, the way he moved slower than usual, careful like his body wasn’t quite his own.
But today?
Today confirmed it.
_________________________________________
Malfoy had run.
Harry had watched him turn, watched him shove past as if just being in the same space was unbearable.
And—it was weird.
Because Malfoy didn’t run.
Malfoy faced things head-on, usually with a sneer and an insult. But that wasn’t what happened today.
Harry had seen something—something small, something fast. The way Malfoy’s shoulders shook, the way his hand had been curled too tight, as if he was holding onto something.
And then there was the coughing.
Sharp, sudden, too much.
Harry had opened his mouth to say something, to ask again, but Malfoy was already gone.
Harry exhaled slowly, staring at the empty hallway where he’d disappeared.
Okay.
Fine.
Malfoy was sick.
That wasn’t his business.
Right?
Right?
___________________________________
Wrong.
Harry didn’t mean to care.
He really didn’t.
But the problem was, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And thinking about it led to watching.
And watching led to noticing.
And now, he couldn’t un-notice it.
Malfoy was getting worse.
The next day in class, it happened again.
Malfoy sat at his desk, stiff as stone, his face carefully blank. But Harry had caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched, restless.
And then—the coughing.
Small at first. Barely noticeable.
Then sharper. Painful.
Malfoy clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he forced himself to keep still.
He didn’t react.
He didn’t move.
But Harry saw the way his hands curled into fists beneath the table, how his breath hitched in his throat.
He was fighting something. Hard.
And for some reason, it made Harry’s stomach twist.
____________________________
It’s Not Just a Cold.
By dinnertime, Harry had decided.
This wasn’t just a cold.
This wasn’t just exhaustion.
Something was wrong.
And Harry needed to figure out what.
He sat at the Gryffindor table, poking at his food with his fork. Across the Great Hall, Malfoy barely touched his plate.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Malfoy wasn’t eating.
His fingers rested lightly against his temple, his face pale beneath the candlelight.
And then—a slight twitch of his shoulders, the faintest flinch.
A cough.
Harry almost missed it.
But then—Malfoy’s hand went to his mouth, too quick, too sharp.
He held it there.
For too long.
And when he pulled it away, his fingers clenched at his side like he was hiding something.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
Something was wrong.
Malfoy shoved his chair back and left the Great Hall without finishing his food.
Harry stood before he even realized what he was doing.
“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, eyebrows raised.
Harry hesitated. “Just—” He glanced toward the doors. “I’ll be back.”
Hermione frowned but didn’t stop him.
And so, Harry followed.
__________________________________________
He didn’t know why he did it.
Maybe it was because Malfoy looked like he was about to collapse.
Maybe it was because of that split second of something in his expression—something vulnerable, something exhausted.
Maybe it was because Harry was tired of pretending he didn’t notice.
He caught up to Malfoy just as he turned down the hall toward the dungeons.
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy didn’t stop.
“Oi,” Harry said, stepping closer. “You gonna ignore me now?”
Malfoy’s back went stiff.
For a second, Harry thought he might just keep walking.
But then—Malfoy turned.
Slowly.
His expression was carefully blank. But his eyes—his eyes were too sharp, too wary.
“What do you want, Potter?” he asked.
And yeah.
Yeah, that was different.
Because Malfoy usually said Potter’s name with venom, with irritation, with some level of amusement.
But now?
Now it was quiet.
Tired.
Harry stepped forward, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re sick,” he said.
Malfoy’s jaw tightened.
“I’m fine.”
Harry scoffed. “You’re coughing up your lungs in class.”
Malfoy’s shoulders twitched.
“You barely eat anymore.”
A pause.
Malfoy didn’t move.
Harry exhaled, tilting his head.
“What are you hiding?” he asked.
And for **one moment—just one—**Malfoy hesitated.
Something flickered in his expression. Something tired, something unguarded.
And then—the walls slammed back into place.
Malfoy straightened, lifting his chin just slightly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly.
And then—he turned.
And walked away.
Harry watched him go, a weight settling in his chest.
Something was wrong.
And if Malfoy wasn’t going to say what, Harry was going to figure it out himself.