Heavy
Harry hadn’t meant to drink so much.
It had started innocently enough—just a casual post-dinner hangout with Dean, Seamus, and Neville in the Gryffindor common room. Someone had smuggled in a bottle of Firewhisky, and before Harry knew it, they were pouring shots and reminiscing about the war, about how everything had changed. It wasn’t until the fire in his chest started to feel more like a dull, numbing haze that Harry realized how much he’d had.
“Another toast!” Seamus declared, his face flushed and his grin wide. “To being alive, eh? And to not having to listen to Snape drone on about dungeons and cauldrons anymore!”
Harry laughed, raising his glass, though the mention of Snape made his stomach twist uncomfortably. The man had survived, but just barely. Harry hadn’t seen him since the war ended. The last he’d heard, Snape had retired somewhere remote, far from the prying eyes of the wizarding world.
“To being alive,” Harry echoed, downing his shot and wincing as the Firewhisky burned its way down.
The evening blurred after that. Neville started talking about his plants, Dean and Seamus got into a heated debate about Quidditch tactics, and somewhere in the mix, Harry found himself sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the plush armchairs and staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace.
It wasn’t enough. The fire, the warmth, the laughter—none of it filled the empty space that had settled inside him since the war ended. Everyone else seemed so eager to move on, to rebuild, to forget. But Harry couldn’t forget.
The castle still bore the scars of the battle. The cracks in the walls, the charred stone in some of the corridors—it was all a constant reminder of what they’d lost.
Before he knew what he was doing, Harry was on his feet. His head swam, and the world tilted slightly, but he managed to steady himself.
“Going somewhere, mate?” Seamus called, his voice slurring slightly.
“Just for a walk,” Harry mumbled, waving him off. “Clear my head.”
No one stopped him.
***
The corridors were quiet, save for the faint rustle of the tapestries and the occasional creak of the ancient stone under Harry’s feet. The chill of the evening air seeped through the walls, but Harry barely noticed. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and memories, and his body moved on autopilot. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going until he found himself standing in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
“What the hell am I doing here?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his already messy hair.
The last thing he wanted was to run into Malfoy, of all people. But as if summoned by Harry’s errant thought, the entrance slid open, and there he was.
Draco Malfoy.
He looked just as immaculate as ever, his silver-blond hair catching the light from the torches lining the corridor. He was wearing his usual Slytherin robes, but there was an ease in his posture that Harry didn’t remember from their school days.
Malfoy blinked, clearly startled to see Harry standing there. “Potter? What on earth are you doing here?”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words got tangled somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Instead, he blurted, “Malfoy. Fancy meeting you here.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “This is the entrance to my common room. Where else would I be?”
“Right,” Harry said, nodding sagely as if this made perfect sense.
Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over Harry. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. Too quickly. “Maybe.”
Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin’s beard, Potter. It’s barely past curfew, and you’re already stumbling around the castle like a—”
“Like a war hero?” Harry interrupted, a lopsided grin on his face.
“Like an idiot,” Draco corrected, crossing his arms.
Harry laughed, though the sound was tinged with bitterness. “Sounds about right.”
Draco stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he gestured for Harry to follow him. “Come on. You’re not wandering the castle in this state. Someone will report you to McGonagall.”
“Where are we going?” Harry asked, trailing after him.
“Somewhere quiet,” Draco said over his shoulder.
Harry wasn’t sure what surprised him more—the fact that Malfoy was willing to help him or the fact that he was letting him.
***
Draco led Harry to an empty classroom on the third floor, its desks and chairs neatly stacked against the walls. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and candle wax, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the tall windows.
“Sit,” Draco ordered, pointing to one of the chairs.
Harry obeyed, dropping into the seat with a graceless thud. Draco pulled out his wand and cast a quick charm, conjuring a glass of water, which he thrust into Harry’s hands.
“Drink,” Draco said, his tone brooking no argument.
Harry took a sip, grimacing as the cool water slid down his throat.
“You’re awfully bossy,” he muttered.
“And you’re awfully reckless,” Draco shot back, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of the desk. “What were you thinking, wandering around like this?”
Harry shrugged, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “Just needed some air.”
“You could have gotten air without ending up on my doorstep,” Draco said dryly.
“Didn’t mean to,” Harry admitted, his voice quiet.
They lapsed into silence, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy between them.
After a moment, Draco spoke, his tone softer than before. “Why are you really out here, Potter?”
Harry hesitated, the alcohol loosening his tongue but also making it harder to find the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Everything just feels...heavy, you know? Like I’m supposed to be okay, but I’m not. And everyone keeps acting like it’s over, like it’s time to move on, but I don’t know how to.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “It’s not just you.”
Harry looked up, meeting Draco’s gaze. There was something in his expression—a flicker of understanding, of shared pain—that made Harry’s chest tighten.
“I thought it would be easier,” Draco continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Once the war was over, once everything was...settled. But it’s not.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Maybe it never will be,” Harry said finally, his voice tinged with melancholy.
Draco’s lips quirked in a faint, bitter smile. “Maybe not.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared experiences filling the space. Harry found himself staring at Draco, wondering how they’d ended up here—two former enemies, sitting in an empty classroom in the middle of the night, talking about things they’d never admitted to anyone else. It didn’t make sense. But then again, nothing about the past few months had. And maybe, Harry thought, that was okay. Draco looked at Harry for a moment longer, then shook his head and straightened up. His usual mask of indifference slipped back into place, though his voice was still softer than Harry remembered.
“You should probably get back to your common room before anyone notices you’re gone.”
Harry made a face, slouching further into the chair. “Don’t feel like it.”
“Potter,” Draco said, his tone exasperated. “Do you want to lose house points? Because I’m more than happy to report you myself if it means getting you out of my hair.”
Harry snorted, swirling the water in his glass. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
But there was no real heat in Draco’s voice, and Harry knew it. It was odd, seeing him like this—calm, composed, but without the sharp-edged cruelty that had defined their interactions in the past.
“I think you secretly like having me around,” Harry said, a teasing grin spreading across his face.
Draco rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “If by ‘like,’ you mean ‘barely tolerate,’ then sure.”
Harry chuckled, the sound echoing faintly in the empty room. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the sheer absurdity of the situation, but he felt oddly at ease.
“Why were you in the corridor anyway?” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
Draco hesitated, his expression unreadable. “I was heading to the library.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes, at this hour,” Draco said, his tone sharp. “Some of us value our education, unlike certain people who spend their evenings drowning themselves in Firewhisky.”
Harry winced, though there was no real malice in Draco’s words. “Fair point.”
Draco glanced toward the door, then back at Harry. “If you’re done interrogating me, can we move this along? I’d rather not spend the entire night babysitting you.”
“Babysitting?” Harry repeated, grinning. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Not in the slightest,” Draco said, arching a brow. “You’re a menace when sober. Add alcohol to the mix, and you’re downright insufferable.”
Harry laughed, though the sound was quieter this time. “You’re not so bad yourself, Malfoy.”
Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard by the comment. For a moment, he looked like he didn’t know how to respond.
“Don’t get used to this,” Draco said finally, his tone clipped.
Harry smirked. “What, us not fighting? Or you being nice to me?”
“Either,” Draco said, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust off his robes.
The room fell quiet again, the air between them surprisingly comfortable. Harry took another sip of his water, feeling the alcohol’s grip on him start to loosen.
“You’re different,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Draco frowned, his brows knitting together. “What are you on about?”
Harry gestured vaguely, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know. You’re just...not the same as you were before.”
Draco’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Harry thought he’d pushed too far. But then Draco sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“None of us are the same, Potter,” he said quietly. “The war changed everything.”
Harry nodded, the weight of Draco’s words settling over him. “Yeah. It did.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air.
“Do you ever think about it?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco’s gaze flicked to him, something wary and guarded in his expression. “All the time.”
“Me too,” Harry admitted, his fingers tightening around the glass.
Draco didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything.
Harry wasn’t sure how long they sat there, the silence stretching between them. But for the first time in months, he didn’t feel so alone.
Draco cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “You should go.”
Harry nodded, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, but Draco didn’t move to steady him.
“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said, offering a small smile.
Draco looked like he wanted to say something, but he just nodded and turned away.
As Harry stumbled back toward Gryffindor Tower, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. It wasn’t friendship, not yet. But it was something. And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t completely lost.
***
Draco stayed in the classroom long after Harry had gone, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected this—any of it. He hadn’t expected to find Potter standing outside the Slytherin common room, drunk and vulnerable. He hadn’t expected to let him in, to talk to him, to see the raw, unguarded truth in his eyes. And he certainly hadn’t expected to feel...something. Draco shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Whatever this was, it wasn’t important. Potter was still Potter. And Draco had enough to deal with without adding Harry bloody Potter to the mix. But as he left the classroom and headed back to the dungeons, he couldn’t help but wonder if things would ever be the same again.
***
The morning continued with an odd weight pressing on Harry’s shoulders. The hall was abuzz with activity, laughter, and the clash of different accents as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students mingled with their Hogwarts counterparts. It should have felt exciting—a sign of a new era—but Harry felt detached, his thoughts constantly circling back to Draco.
He hated that Draco had occupied so much of his headspace lately. It wasn’t logical. Draco wasn’t supposed to matter. Not anymore.
Seamus’s voice cut through Harry’s inner monologue. “Oi, Harry, you’re staring again.”
Harry snapped his head toward Seamus, his face heating. “What are you on about?”
Seamus smirked and nudged Harry with his elbow. “You’ve been glancing over at the Slytherin table all morning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve developed a soft spot for Malfoy.”
Harry froze, scrambling for a retort. “I was not—”
Neville looked up from his plate, his expression mild but curious. “You kind of were, Harry. Is something going on with Malfoy?”
“No!” Harry said quickly, too quickly. His face burned hotter as he reached for his pumpkin juice, avoiding both their gazes. “Just...he’s been acting weird lately, that’s all.”
“Weird how?” Seamus asked, leaning in with the sort of interest that made Harry wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
“It’s nothing,” Harry mumbled, glaring at his plate. “Just...I saw him talking to some Durmstrang students earlier. He’s...I don’t know. Friendly with them, I guess.”
Seamus frowned, confused. “And that’s weird because...?”
Harry sighed. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Seamus shrugged, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth pressing, but the glint in his eyes suggested he wasn’t entirely done with the topic.
***
The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and rebuilding assignments. By the time evening rolled around, Harry felt exhausted but restless, his mind still buzzing. After dinner, instead of heading back to Gryffindor Tower, he found himself wandering the castle corridors again, letting his feet carry him without much thought.
He ended up in one of the quieter wings of the castle, where the Durmstrang students had been temporarily housed. The air here felt different—cooler, with a faint scent of pine and something sharp that Harry couldn’t quite place.
He was about to turn back when he heard voices ahead, low and muffled. Curiosity prickled at him, and before he could second-guess himself, he stepped closer, keeping to the shadows.
It didn’t take long to recognize Draco’s voice.
“I told you, Niko, stop asking about it,” Draco was saying, his tone clipped. “It’s none of your business.”
“But it’s interesting,” the younger Durmstrang student replied, his voice full of that same mischievous energy Harry had noticed earlier. “You and Potter? Who would’ve thought?”
“There is no ‘me and Potter,’” Draco snapped, his voice icy.
“Then why help him?” another voice asked, deeper and calmer. Harry recognized it as belonging to the lanky boy with wild black hair—Leonid, if he remembered correctly.
Draco hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough for Harry to feel a knot of unease in his stomach.
“Because it was the right thing to do,” Draco finally said, though his tone made it clear he didn’t want to elaborate.
The right thing to do. Harry’s chest tightened. He didn’t know why that simple statement affected him so much, but it did.
“Strange words coming from you,” Leonid said, his voice laced with quiet amusement.
“Believe what you like,” Draco said tersely. “Now, if you’re done prying into my personal life, I have work to do.”
There was the sound of footsteps, and Harry quickly stepped back, pressing himself against the cold stone wall as Draco strode past, his expression stormy. Harry waited until he was sure Draco was gone before emerging from his hiding spot. He felt a strange mix of emotions—confusion, guilt, and something he couldn’t quite name. He turned to leave, but a voice stopped him.
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Potter.”
Harry froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Slowly, he turned to see Draco standing a few feet away, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
“I wasn’t—” Harry started, but Draco cut him off with a sharp laugh.
“Don’t bother lying. I know you were there.” Draco’s voice was calm, almost bored, but his eyes were sharp, watching Harry closely.
Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to say. “I...didn’t mean to. I was just walking, and I heard—”
“Save it,” Draco said, waving a hand dismissively. “If you’re so curious about me, just ask. Though I can’t imagine why you of all people would care.”
Harry bristled at Draco’s tone but forced himself to stay calm. “I don’t care,” he said, though the words felt hollow even as he said them. “I just...I don’t get you, Malfoy. Why help me that night? Why act like this?”
Draco’s expression flickered—just for a moment—but it was enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of something unguarded.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Potter,” Draco said quietly, his voice lacking its usual edge. “But maybe...maybe not everything is about you.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Draco turned and walked away, his robes billowing behind him. Harry stood there for a long moment, staring after him, feeling more confused than ever. He didn’t understand Draco Malfoy, but for some reason, he wanted to. And that scared him more than anything.