Chapter 13
After January 3rd, everything changed.
Harry was busy.
Not the usual kind of busy, where he could still slip away for a few hours, meet Draco for a late dinner, or wander through the city taking ridiculous pictures.
No—this was real, relentless, exhausting.
He was either out on site, unravelling the strange inconsistencies in Prague’s magical landscape, or stuck in meetings at the Czech Ministry, arguing over ley lines, decaying wards, and theories about forgotten magic.
And through it all, he kept trying to make time for Draco.
But he couldn’t.
At first, Draco didn’t seem to mind. He rolled his eyes when Harry rushed out in the mornings, made a few sarcastic comments when Harry stumbled back late at night, exhausted.
But then the comments got sharper.
The eye rolls turned into pointed silences.
And one night, when Harry finally, finally made it back early enough to actually sit down with Draco, he saw it—
Draco was agitated.
And Harry wasn’t sure how to fix it.
Harry dragged himself back to the hotel well past midnight, his shoulders aching.
Draco was sitting on the sofa, a book in his lap, flipping through the pages without really reading.
Harry collapsed into the armchair opposite, exhaling heavily. “Long day.”
Draco didn’t look up. “Mmm.”
Harry frowned. “You alright?”
Draco turned a page. “Brilliant.”
The silence stretched.
Harry glanced at the clock. “…You waited up?”
Draco’s eyes flickered up, then back to his book. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter.”
But his tone was clipped, and it did something to Harry’s heart.
—
Three days later, Harry returned even later than the night before.
Draco was still awake, but this time he wasn’t reading. He was pacing the balcony, arms crossed, his expression tight with frustration.
Harry shut the door behind him and sighed. “Draco, I—”
“Don’t.”
Harry blinked. “Don’t what?”
Draco turned sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t give me whatever excuse you rehearsed on your way up here.”
Harry hesitated. “…It’s not an excuse.”
Draco scoffed. “Of course not. You just happen to be unavailable every second of the day. What a coincidence.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Draco, this is my job.”
“Yes, Potter, I’m aware. I just didn’t realise your job required you to vanish entirely.”
“I’m not vanishing.”
“Aren’t you?” Draco bit out.
Harry exhaled sharply. “It was a difficult project.”
“You should have told me that when you wrote that bloody letter asking me to come with you.”
“I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“Well,” Draco said coldly, “now you do. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve taken the photographs I needed for the magazine. I have a press to run, and I’d rather do it there than sit around here waiting for you.”
Harry stood frozen, the words striking deep. It hurt. And worse, he knew he’d hurt Draco first.
“Drac—”
“I’m going to bed, Potter.” And just like that, Draco was gone.
—
Harry barely slept. When morning came, he was at Draco’s door before he could talk himself out of it.
Draco opened it and Harry spoke immediately.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt small, inadequate, but he pushed on. “I didn’t know it would turn out like this. I didn’t think it through. I just wanted to spend time with you. But I couldn’t. I tried. I swear I did. And I know I hurt you. I know you chose me when you had a press to run. I know you chose to spend New Year’s with me instead of with Astoria and everyone else. And I—I did this to you. I’m so sorry.”
Draco was silent, gaze fixed on him. But he wasn’t looking at Harry like he had last night. The anger was gone.
“I’m sorry too,” Draco murmured. “I should have understood. But I—” He faltered, searching for the right words. “It’s just…”
“You’re still leaving, aren’t you?” Harry asked quietly.
Draco exhaled. “I am. And you’ll stay here, in the Ministry, doing your work—without worrying about me.”
“No, Draco—”
“Harry.”
It wasn’t Potter. Just Harry. Soft. Too soft.
The way Draco said his name —made Harry’s throat tighten.
Draco held his gaze, something warm and fragile in his expression.
"I’m alright," Draco said, stepping closer. "We’re alright. Just… finish your job and come back."
Draco looked different. Spoke differently, too. All soft edges where there had once been sharp corners.
Before Harry could think, he moved—threw himself at Draco, wrapping his arms around him. Draco went stiff in surprise, and Harry did too when he realised what he’d done. He started to pull away— Draco scoffed, trying for normalcy.
"Get your work done faster. You should be fine—I did give you the pendant, after all."
Harry nodded, suddenly unable to find words.
—
Once Draco left, Harry threw himself into his work. He worked faster, harder, longer. But even when he was deep in research, surrounded by maps and magic, his mind wandered.
No. That was a lie.
His mind didn’t wander.
It went straight to Draco.
The way Draco had looked at him before leaving. The way he had spoken—soft and certain and different. The way it had all settled under Harry’s skin, warm and dangerous, like an ember waiting to catch fire.
And Harry didn’t know what to do with it.
—
When Harry got back, he Floo-called Draco almost immediately.
And at first, everything seemed the same. Draco spoke like usual—sharp, wry, with that effortless drawl that made everything sound vaguely condescending. Nothing in his tone suggested anything had changed.
And yet, Harry felt it. Something was different.
Or maybe, he thought, it was just him.
A few days later, without really knowing why, Harry found himself at The Arcane Observer. He hadn’t planned on going. He hadn’t even thought about it, really. He just… went.
Draco looked up when Harry stepped into his office, brows lifting in surprise. "Potter?"
Harry hesitated. "Er—should I not be here?"
Draco stared at him for a moment, then sighed, shaking his head. "No, no. Sit down. I suppose I’ll just work around the Saviour of the Wizarding World loitering in my office."
Harry smirked but said nothing, settling into the chair across from Draco’s desk. He picked up one of the magazines lying there and began flipping through it idly as Draco returned to his work.
They didn’t talk much. But that was alright.
Later, when Draco finally shut his files and stretched—his shirt riding up slightly, his fingers rubbing at the back of his neck—he stood and gestured for Harry to follow him.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the quiet clatter of plates and the scent of something vaguely spiced. They ate at the small table, conversation drifting in easy, familiar waves.
But Harry felt it now—more than before.
The way he noticed Draco’s voice, how it shifted in pitch when he spoke about something he liked. The way his hands moved when he talked, elegant and sure. The way he scrunched his nose slightly when chewing, as if tasting something critically.
Harry had never noticed these things before.
And yet, now, they were all he could see.
When he finally got ready to leave, he hesitated. He almost asked Draco if he was free on Saturday. But then—
"You free this Saturday, Potter?"
Harry blinked. "Yes." The answer came a little too quickly.
Draco didn’t comment. He just tilted his head, considering. "What do you want to eat?"
Harry raised a brow. "You’re cooking for me?"
Draco smirked. "Yes."
"Oh." Harry’s stomach did something odd. "Well—anything, I suppose."
"Alright."
And that was it. Simple. Easy.
Yet somehow, as Harry left, his heart was racing like he’d just agreed to something much bigger than dinner.
—
When Draco arrived on Saturday, arms full of groceries, he barely spared Harry a glance before heading straight to the kitchen.
"You need help?" Harry offered, already knowing the answer.
Draco shot him a look over his shoulder. "No."
Harry raised a brow. "Not even a little—"
"It’s a surprise, Potter." Draco disappeared into the kitchen, the door shutting with a quiet finality.
Harry sighed, dropping onto the sofa. There was something both uneasy and thrilling about being shut out of his own kitchen. He had no idea what Draco was planning, but the anticipation curled warm in his chest.
After a while, Draco reappeared and wordlessly sat beside Harry, opening one of his own magazines while Harry attempted to focus on his book.
"Finished cooking?" Harry asked.
Draco didn’t look up. "No."
Harry nodded and went back to reading, stretching his legs onto the coffee table.
The silence between them felt different now—weighted, humming with something just beneath the surface.
Then, without warning, Harry’s breath caught.
Draco stretched his legs out too, mirroring Harry’s posture. But that wasn’t what made Harry freeze. It was the slight touch—the faint, barely-there brush of Draco’s foot against his.
Harry’s first instinct was to shift away. To move. To do something. But for some reason, he didn’t. Instead, he sat there, heartbeat drumming in his ears, waiting for Draco to be the one to pull away.
But Draco didn’t move either.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. The touch was fleeting, light, almost accidental—except neither of them made any effort to break it.
And then—Draco moved. Not away. Just the slightest graze, the softest shift of contact.
Harry shivered. Goosebumps rose along his arms, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t move.
And then, just as suddenly, Draco stood.
"Food will be ready soon," he said, voice perfectly even, before disappearing into the kitchen again.
Harry stared at his book, unseeing, trying to remember how breathing worked.
Draco surprised Harry with treacle tart, and Harry wanted to love it. He wanted to sit there, eat it in peace, let the familiar taste ground him. But he couldn’t.
Not after what had just happened.
His mind kept circling back to it—the press of Draco’s foot against his own, light as a breath, lingering just long enough to make Harry notice. Really notice. And now, every second that passed felt like something unfinished, something unresolved.
But he tried. For Draco.
He forced himself to take another bite, to act normal, to ignore the way his pulse felt too quick, too unsteady. Draco, for his part, didn’t mention it. Didn’t smirk or sneer or do anything that suggested he had felt it too.
Which was fine. Completely fine.
Harry nearly sighed in relief when Draco finally stood, stretching lazily before heading towards the Floo.
But as soon as Draco walked away, Harry felt it—that quiet, creeping absence. That strange, unfamiliar longing.
And then, before he could even process it, the fireplace flared green.
Ron and Hermione stepped out, dusting soot off their coats. Ron barely had time to take in the scene before his eyes landed on Draco. His expression instantly hardened.
Draco, in turn, went rigid, his face smoothing into something unreadable. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Ron—sharp, impassive, detached. The air between them tightened.
Harry’s stomach clenched.
"Draco?" His voice came out before he even thought about it.
Draco turned, and the moment their eyes met, Harry forgot how to breathe.
It was just a look—nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic—but something in it knocked the air out of Harry’s lungs.
Draco’s face was set, his expression carefully blank, but there was something underneath it. Something almost questioning. Almost waiting.
And for a split second, Harry wanted to—
No.
"Nothing," he said quickly, forcing himself to look away. Because if he didn’t, he might say something he wouldn’t understand. Something he wouldn’t be able to take back.
Draco held his gaze for a moment longer, then—without another word—stepped into the Floo and disappeared.
Silence.
Then—
"What the hell was that?" Ron said, his brow furrowed.
Harry swallowed. "What was what?"
Ron shot him a look. "That. That. Since when do you call Malfoy like—" He waved his hands vaguely. "—like that?"
Harry frowned, shifting in his seat. "Like what?"
Ron narrowed his eyes, studying Harry. "I don’t know," he muttered, almost to himself.
Harry shrugged, forcing nonchalance. "Well, if you don’t know, then I certainly don’t."
But the truth was—he didn’t know either.
Not really. Not yet.
—
The next day, Draco Floo-called.
"Are you free?"
Harry wanted to say no. He should have said no. He hadn't slept properly, his mind restless, body on edge, and he knew that seeing Draco again would only make it worse.
But he said yes instead.
Draco stepped through minutes later, looking far too bright for this hour of the morning. "Breakfast ready?"
"No."
"Well, let’s go cook then," Draco said, already moving towards the kitchen.
Harry hesitated. Something about him was different today—lighter, more at ease, too enthusiastic in a way that made Harry wary.
Still, he followed.
They made sandwiches and coffee. It was simple, easy, the kind of thing they’d done a dozen times before. But when Draco moved behind him to fetch something—Harry didn’t even know what—something inside him locked up.
Draco was too close.
His voice, his breath, his hands moving just within reach—Harry felt all of it too much. Even his shadow stretching along the counter, brushing against Harry’s own, made something deep in his stomach twist.
He barely tasted his food, eating fast just to escape.
Harry went straight to the sofa, ready to pace or leave the room entirely—but before he could, Draco flopped down beside him, stretching his legs out on the coffee table.
Harry stilled.
It was the same as yesterday. Except… different. Because now, Harry was waiting for it.
And then he did it.
Harry stretched his legs too.
Not quite touching. Not quite enough.
And it bothered him. Bothered him so much he could feel the absence of it like an itch under his skin.
Draco, completely oblivious, switched on the telly and kept talking, casual, relaxed, as if Harry wasn’t currently coming apart at the seams beside him.
Until finally—"I have a headache."
Draco turned to him immediately. "Oh, I know a spell—"
"No." Too fast. Too sharp.
Draco blinked. "Alright, alright. Sleep then."
Harry didn’t argue. He moved to the other sofa, curled up, and willed his body to calm.
When he woke, Draco was still there.
They had dinner, the atmosphere quiet, steady. Normal.
And then Draco left.
The moment he did, Harry sank to the floor, head in his hands, heart pounding, breath uneven—like something inside him had just cracked open.
And he didn’t know how to close it back up.