The Proposal

The days following their conversation were strangely quiet. Draco kept his distance, but Harry could feel the tension building like the storm before a thunderclap. It wasn't the physical distance that bothered Harry so much—it was the emotional one. Draco had always been distant in some ways, but there was something sharper about his coldness now. The space between them had become palpable.

Harry couldn't quite place why it bothered him so much. It wasn't like he cared for Draco—at least, not in the way one would care for someone they were truly in love with. Right? But the way Draco avoided his gaze, the way he no longer seemed to care whether they spent time together, it made something twist uncomfortably in Harry's chest.

That's what it was, Harry thought. This entire charade had begun as an obligation—a political maneuver. But the more they spent time together, the more complicated everything had become. It wasn't just a pretend engagement anymore.

But that didn't mean anything.

Or at least, that's what Harry kept telling himself as he sat in the drawing room, pretending to enjoy a conversation with Narcissa Malfoy. She was always pleasant to him, offering tea and chatting about her latest charity endeavors. Harry liked her well enough. She was calm, thoughtful, a little distant, but not in an unpleasant way.

It wasn't that she didn't care—quite the opposite, in fact. Narcissa cared deeply about her family, especially Draco, but she had learned the art of controlling her emotions. She was a Malfoy, after all.

"And how are things at Hogwarts, Harry?" Narcissa asked, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

"Oh, you know, just the usual," Harry replied, forcing a smile. "Nothing too exciting." He had been back at school briefly, but it had been a quiet year so far.

"I imagine the press keeps you busy," she commented, her expression turning sly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Rita Skeeter had been relentless, writing pieces about him and Draco almost weekly, speculating about their relationship with alarming accuracy. Some of the articles were just outright ridiculous—others, however, bordered on uncomfortable truths. The more the world believed their engagement, the harder it was to keep up the façade.

Narcissa, seemingly sensing his discomfort, offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure you're used to it by now, though. The press has always had an interest in you, Harry."

He gave a tight nod, but inside, something about that made him uneasy. The press had been one thing when he was just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. But now, as he was supposedly preparing to marry Draco Malfoy, it felt more invasive, like his every move was under scrutiny.

The sound of footsteps broke his thoughts, and Harry turned to see Draco entering the room. He looked... different. Tired, perhaps. His face was drawn, the sharp edges of his jaw more pronounced than usual, his eyes dark. His gaze flickered briefly toward Harry before he focused on his mother.

"Mother, I'll be in my study for the rest of the evening," Draco said, his voice tight.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "Not joining us for dinner?"

"I'll eat later," he replied shortly, and without another word, he turned and exited the room.

Harry didn't miss the way Narcissa's expression tightened as she watched her son leave. There was something there—something beneath the surface of her calm exterior. She was worried, and Harry wasn't sure why, but it made him uneasy.

Later that evening, Draco was nowhere to be found.

It was getting late, and Harry had begun to grow restless. He was tired of this endless pretending, tired of the silence that had fallen between him and Draco. He needed to talk to him—no, demand to know what was really going on.

He left the drawing room and wandered through the halls of Malfoy Manor, unsure of where exactly he was going. His steps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent house, and he wondered just how long it would be before the cracks in their façade became too big to hide.

When he found Draco, it wasn't in his study, but instead in the library—again.

Draco was leaning over a stack of books, looking utterly absorbed in something. Harry hesitated in the doorway, watching him for a moment. The way Draco's brow furrowed, the way his lips twitched when he was lost in thought—it was all so... normal. It was easy to forget that this was Draco Malfoy, the same boy who had once been his enemy, who had been cruel to him in school.

But the Draco standing here now seemed different. Less certain. More... vulnerable.

"Draco?" Harry called, his voice uncertain.

Draco didn't turn right away. It took a few more moments before he looked up, his expression unreadable. "Potter."

"You've been avoiding me," Harry said, walking further into the room, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice. "I'm starting to think you're avoiding something a lot more important than just me."

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't argue. Instead, he stood and stepped toward Harry, his voice low. "I'm not avoiding anything, Potter. I'm just... dealing with things in my own way."

"What things?" Harry shot back. "You've been acting strange for days. Like you're ready to just... throw this whole thing away."

Draco's jaw tightened at Harry's words, and for a moment, Harry thought he was going to snap. But instead, Draco let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, his face momentarily softening. "It's not that simple."

Harry stepped closer, their proximity closing the gap that had felt so wide earlier. "Then make it simple, Draco. I need to understand what's going on."

For a long moment, Draco didn't say anything. The tension between them was thick, palpable. Finally, Draco spoke in a low voice, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "I don't know how much longer I can pretend that this... engagement means nothing. That we're not really—"

His words hung in the air, and Harry could feel his heart beat harder in his chest.

"What?" he whispered, barely able to comprehend the shift in Draco's tone.

Draco's gaze flickered to Harry's, his eyes dark with something Harry couldn't quite name. "I can't keep pretending like I don't care, Harry. Like this is just some... game."

The words hit Harry like a spell, short-circuiting his brain. "You... care?"

Draco swallowed, his gaze falling away for a moment. "More than I thought I would," he muttered. "More than I should."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to come. There was too much swirling inside him, too much uncertainty. But one thing was clear: Draco had just admitted something that Harry hadn't expected.

And suddenly, pretending like none of this mattered didn't seem possible anymore.