The Stirring
Draco had always been one of those people whose mood was affected by the weather.
He couldn’t deal with humidity—his nose would tingle at the first bloom of spring, his skin would flush pink the moment he stepped outside in early April.
Hence, his invention of the world's strongest sunscreen.
Hence, his humble empire built on a simple business plan.
Now, as the rain dripped from the canopy above, heavy droplets slipping through the dense weave of leaves, landing in soft, muffled taps against the earth, he felt calm. The scent of damp soil, moss, and bark—of untouched wilderness—filled the air, grounding him in the present. The Forbidden Forest was alive in the rain, pulsing with quiet movement, shadows shifting between trees, creatures hidden just beyond sight.
He liked the rain.
But the heat—he loathed.
The way it clung to skin, thick and sticky, pressing in from every direction. How it filled his lungs with something heavy, suffocating, making every breath feel shallow, unsatisfying. No matter how still he stood, no matter how many windows were thrown open, how many layers he shed—he could never escape it. The heat was unbearable. And worse than that—it was familiar.
On May 2nd, 1998, even amidst the chaos, he couldn’t help but notice the sweat that clung to his skin like a second layer of clothing. It had been hot that day. Stifling. Even at night, when the sky should have cooled, the air had stayed thick, choked with smoke and magic and the scent of things he refused to name.
It had been dark in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of sunlight. Dark in a way where even the rain clouds—if there had been any—wouldn’t have been able to release their weight, only expanding, pressing in until the sky itself felt trapped. And it had been hot—so hot that the humidity rose until drying his face became a futile effort. No matter how many times he wiped at his skin, the sweat wouldn’t stop.
Dark in a way that wasn’t just the absence of light. Dark in a way made up of screams—shouts, wails, helplessness, and cruelty, raw and unrelenting.
He remembered standing in the middle of it all, his breath already unsteady before the first screams shattered the air. It hadn’t been a battle. It hadn’t even been a fight. It had been pure, unfiltered chaos.
Screams. So many screams.
They hadn’t been distant, hadn’t been ignorable. They had been everywhere—high and sharp, raw with agony, torn from throats he would never know the names of. Some had been cut off too soon. Others had dragged on, broken by sobs, by gasps, by final, desperate pleas that no one was listening to.
And over it all, the heat.
It pressed against him, coiled around his ribs like invisible chains. His skin had been damp, sticky—whether from sweat or the mist of spells exploding too close, he hadn’t known. He had wiped his face over and over, but it hadn’t helped. The sweat had kept prickling, burning into his eyes, mixing with the thick air that refused to give him relief. Every breath had felt like dragging a boulder uphill—each inhale too much effort, each exhale not enough to steady him.
His fingers had trembled, barely able to grip his wand. Not from fear—no, fear would have been easy. Fear was familiar, something he had carried all his life. This had been worse. This had been something deeper, something lodged in his chest like shattered glass.
The ground had shaken from spells slamming into stone, from bodies hitting the floor. He remembered stepping over them, not stopping, not looking. He couldn’t look. If he looked, he would see their faces, and if he saw their faces, he would have to accept that this was real. That it was happening. That he was standing in the middle of it, useless, trapped, waiting for something—someone—to end it.
He hadn’t fought. He hadn’t run. He had just stood there, breathing too fast, sweating too much, body too heavy to move but too light to feel real. Panic had curled around his throat, dug into his ribs, left him dizzy and detached, floating above his own body like a spectator.
And all the while—the heat.
Draco let out a slow breath, grounding himself in the present.
He was crouched now, fingers lightly brushing against the damp soil as he stared at the plant before him. Bloodroot.
Bright red, its petals wide and delicate, almost glowing against the dark green of the forest floor. It looked unnatural here, something that should have existed only in his books, in his old notes, in the ink-stained pages he had spent years flipping through in search of it. He had combed through apothecaries, through ancient texts, through markets in places that reeked of damp parchment and dried herbs—and yet, in the end, he had found it by accident.
A month ago, when he had stepped onto Hogwarts grounds for the first time in years, walking past the castle he never thought he would return to, Bloodroot had been waiting for him. Hidden, tucked away in the Forbidden Forest, as if it had been growing there all along, just out of reach.
Now, he was trying to keep it alive.
It wasn’t meant to be cut, he learned that when he had carefully unearthed a small sample, eager to study it further.
But by the time he returned home to his private laboratory, the plant had already begun to wither. Within hours, its once vibrant red had faded to black, its structure collapsing inward like a dying star. Worse, a rancid, sulfurous odor filled the room, and when he touched the shriveled remains, his fingertips burned with a faint toxin. It was useless—decayed beyond any hope of preservation. The realization stung. He had found something extraordinary, only to watch it rot away before he could understand it. It was temperamental, finicky—something that had to be handled with care, patience. Upon securing another sample of Bloodroot—this time uprooting it with more precision and a sealed containment charm—he wasted no time in testing preservation methods. He needed to find a way to stop the plant from withering before he could even consider its use in potion-making.
First, he tried suspension in water. The logic was simple: keep the plant hydrated, as one would with a delicate herb. He placed the stem in a vial of distilled water and observed. Within three hours, the liquid had turned murky red, and the plant had begun to dissolve. A failure.
Next, he enchanted glass containment. If exposure to air caused decay, perhaps sealing it in an enchanted stasis jar would prolong its life. He placed a fresh Bloodroot inside a reinforced glass cylinder, layered with protective charms. At first, this seemed promising—there was no immediate change. But by the twelfth hour, the plant had begun releasing a noxious black vapor, its toxicity increasing even faster than before. Another failure.
Desperate for a breakthrough, Draco experimented with potion suspensions. He prepared solutions that had been known to preserve delicate magical ingredients—honey-based elixirs, neutral stasis potions, even a diluted version of Silverthorn Essence to enhance stability. None worked. Every sample died the same slow death, turning black and releasing poisonous fumes.
Frustration simmered beneath his carefully composed exterior. There had to be something he was missing.
He had done everything he could—careful preservation spells, precise mixtures of enchanted soil, controlled light exposure—but still, it struggled.
Draco exhaled, rubbing his fingers together, feeling the damp earth cling to his skin.
For years, he had searched for this plant, believing it was the missing piece—of what, he wasn’t sure. A breakthrough in potion-making? A milestone in his research? Or maybe something more.
But he was struggling with the simplest thing: keeping it alive.
Draco stepped out of the Forbidden Forest, tugging his cloak tighter against the crisp morning air. The damp earth clung to his boots, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were tangled in the problem at hand—the plant, the potion, the maddening lack of progress.
A familiar whoosh of air broke through his focus, followed by the soft thud of feet touching down on the grass. Draco didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
"Malfoy," Potter’s voice was warm, slightly breathless. "You’re up early."
Draco finally glanced over, and there he was—hair messier than usual from the wind, cheeks flushed from exertion, his flying robes still clinging damply to his frame. The sight sent an unwelcome flicker of heat through Draco’s chest, which he promptly ignored.
"I could say the same to you," Draco said, keeping his tone even.
Potter grinned, tapping his broom against his shoulder. "You know me. If I don’t get in a morning fly, I start feeling like an owl in a cage."
Draco huffed in amusement. "That’s a deeply unflattering comparison."
Potter shrugged, completely unbothered. "Still true." He tilted his head, studying Draco for a moment. "What about you? Didn’t take you for the ‘wandering the grounds at dawn’ type."
Draco hesitated. He had no desire to explain himself, not when he hadn’t worked out the answer yet. "I had things to think about."
Potter nodded as if that made perfect sense. Then, after a pause, "Come have tea in my office. I won’t even pester you about what’s on your mind."
Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides. It was a simple offer, just tea, nothing more. And yet, his pulse jumped the way it always did when Potter was too close, too familiar, too—Potter.
"I’d like to," he said honestly. "But I have an appointment."
Potter’s brow lifted slightly. "An appointment?"
"With Professor Greengrass," Draco clarified. "I promised to meet her in Greenhouse Three."
"Ah," Potter said, shifting his grip on his broom. "Some kind of secret Slytherin business?"
Draco smirked. "Something like that."
"Well, don’t let me keep you, then." Potter’s lips twitched. "But next time, Malfoy, no excuses."
Draco inclined his head. "We’ll see."
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the greenhouses, pointedly ignoring the warmth curling in his chest.
Greenhouse Three was tucked into the far side of the grounds, partially hidden by sprawling ivy and the shadow of an ancient oak. The scent of damp earth and fresh leaves curled in the air as Draco stepped inside, the thick warmth a stark contrast to the crisp morning outside. Shelves lined with various potted plants and vials of infused extracts crowded the space, and in the middle of it all, standing over a worktable, was Calla Greengrass.
Professor Calla Greengrass had the quiet presence of someone who noticed everything but spoke only when necessary. Her sharp eyes were on the table she prepared for them as he entered, a faint smile ghosting her lips as she poured a steaming cup of tea with a sprig of something fragrant. "You’re late," she remarked without looking up.
Draco unfastened his cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. "By three minutes. I hardly think that counts."
Calla hummed, pouring steaming tea into both cups. "For you, that’s practically an eternity."
Draco sat across from her, accepting his cup. "I had a brief delay."
Calla’s gaze flickered up. "A certain flying ex-Auror, perhaps?"
Draco schooled his expression into something impassive. Of course she saw that. "Unrelated."
She smirked knowingly but let it drop, instead taking a slow sip of her tea. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the soft clink of porcelain against wood filling the space between them.
Finally, Draco leaned back, exhaling. "I need your insight."
Calla leaned against the worktable, her keen gaze studying him. "That’s why you always come here, isn’t it?"
"It’s a rare plant," he began carefully. "Highly sensitive. It decays almost immediately once removed from its habitat, regardless of preservation methods. Water suspension, potion stabilization, even controlled temperature environments—nothing works."
Calla studied him over the rim of her cup. "No name?"
Draco merely raised a brow in response.
Calla tilted her head, considering. "And you’re certain you’ve accounted for every known environmental factor?"
Draco exhaled. "As far as I can tell."
"Then perhaps," she mused, "you're thinking about it too mechanically."
Draco frowned. "Explain."
"Some plants rely on more than just soil and water," she said, stirring her tea absently. "There are elements you can’t always replicate in a greenhouse or a laboratory. Some respond to the time of year, to unseen forces in their environment… to things we don’t always measure in traditional horticulture."
Draco stilled slightly, her words settling in his mind.
"You mean magic," he said slowly.
"Possibly," Calla replied. "Or something that mimics the conditions it originally grew under. Light, air, even reflections of something it's accustomed to."
Draco pressed his fingers against his temple, turning her words over. He had accounted for everything physical. What was he missing?
"You're not going to tell me the answer, are you?" he muttered.
Calla smirked faintly. "You asked for insight, not a solution."
Then, after a pause, she took another sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.
"But I am curious," she added. "Whatever this plant is—it must be something remarkable if it's giving you trouble."
Draco smirked despite himself. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
Calla merely arched a brow, waiting.
But Draco only finished his tea and said nothing.
Calla set her tea down, crossing her arms. "Have you considered that the plant might not be meant to survive outside of its environment?"
Draco stiffened. He had, of course. He just refused to accept it.
"I don’t believe in absolutes," he muttered.
Calla smirked. "You believe in control."
Draco narrowed his eyes, but she only continued, her tone mild. "There are some plants that can’t be tamed, no matter how skilled the hands that try. The best we can do is adapt to them, rather than force them to adapt to us."
Draco exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his cup. He wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. But he could at least acknowledge that Calla’s insight, frustrating as it was, had given him something new to consider.
"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.
Calla took another sip of her tea, unruffled. "I’ve no doubt you will."
They fell into a quiet rhythm after that, discussing less troublesome plants, exchanging theories on herbal infusions, and—at Calla’s insistence—letting the tea settle him before he returned to his work.
It was only when the morning light had shifted enough to mark the passage of time that Draco finally stood, refastening his cloak.
"Thank you," he said, a rare note of sincerity in his voice.
Calla nodded once. "Anytime, Draco."
And with that, he left the greenhouse, mind still turning, but heart just a little steadier.
Sundays at Hogwarts carried a peculiar quietness, a rare stillness that settled over the castle like dust on an old tome. The students took their time rising, some lingering in their dormitories, others wandering the grounds in pursuit of stolen moments of peace before the rhythm of the week resumed. Professors, too, moved at a slower pace, and those who resided within the castle found solace in their quarters—sanctuaries carved out within the stone walls, offering a semblance of home amidst the ever-turning wheel of academia.
Hogwarts, in its endless accommodations, offered quarters to each professor, should they wish to accept it. Those with families or ties elsewhere often commuted, but for those unattached, the castle itself became their home. Professor Calla Greengrass had accepted such an arrangement without hesitation, her modest quarters tucked away near the greenhouses, where she could tend to her plants without disturbance. Others, like McGonagall, maintained residence out of duty and tradition, their presence a silent testament to the unwavering pillars of the school.
Draco’s own quarter was situated in the eastern wing, overlooking the Black Lake. It was a space of measured elegance—pragmatic but refined, much like the man himself. Shelves of meticulously organized books lined one wall, a blend of Potions, Herbology, and Alchemical texts. A dark oak writing desk stood near the arched window, its surface strewn with parchment detailing his latest research. A velvet settee of deep green sat beside the fireplace, a reminder of the warmth he often forgot to indulge in. On the far side, a cabinet stocked with various tinctures, phials, and neatly labeled jars bore witness to his ceaseless experimentation. It was a scholar’s retreat, one that carried the faintest traces of something softer, something human—perhaps the rare book left open, or the single enchanted candle that flickered long after he’d fallen asleep.
As the morning wore on, hunger eventually drew him from the sanctuary of his quarters, leading him to the Great Hall.
Breakfast at Hogwarts had always been an affair of plenty. Platters of eggs, golden and soft, sat alongside thick slices of toasted bread, fresh from the kitchens. Jars of preserves—strawberry, blackcurrant, marmalade—glowed under the enchanted ceiling’s light. Bacon curled in crisped perfection, accompanied by roasted tomatoes and sautéed mushrooms. Pitchers of pumpkin juice and tea stood at intervals along the tables, steam curling in lazy wisps.
Draco sat at the High Table, content in the quiet hum of the morning. He reached for a teapot, pouring himself a strong, black brew when the bench beside him creaked slightly.
Draco didn’t startle, though he might have if he weren’t so practiced at maintaining composure. Their friendship—if one dared call it that—had been tentative at best, an odd sort of camaraderie born out of reluctant respect. It had been just over a month since their paths had begun crossing more frequently, and though they still traded barbs, there was a civility now, a strange kind of understanding between them.
“Morning, Malfoy,” Potter greeted, reaching for a plate.
Draco arched an eyebrow. “No flying this morning?”
“No, I slept in,” Potter admitted, taking a sip of his tea. His hair was slightly less disastrous than usual, though not by much. “Figured I’d have a proper breakfast for once.”
Draco hummed in acknowledgment, stirring his tea with measured precision.
Potter piled his plate with eggs and toast, glancing at Draco’s sparse selection. “You always eat like a bird?”
Draco arched a brow. “And you always eat like you haven't seen food in weeks?”
Potter smirked but didn’t argue. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the clinking of cutlery against porcelain the only sound between them. As Potter finished the last of his tea, he stood, brushing crumbs off his robes. “You should drop by my office this afternoon.”
Draco glanced up, mildly intrigued. “Any particular reason?”
Potter shrugged, a smirk playing at his lips. “Let’s call it an invitation for tea. No obligations, of course.”
He turned to leave, then threw one last glance over his shoulder, eyes glinting with something Draco couldn’t quite place. “But, remember, Malfoy—no excuses.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving Draco staring after him, the remnants of his breakfast forgotten.
Draco stood before the full-length mirror in his quarters, adjusting the collar of his high-necked sweater with precise, almost obsessive movements. His reflection scowled back at him. He looked fine—more than fine, actually. He had chosen a deep emerald-green sweater, one that complemented his complexion and his sharp, aristocratic features, and paired it with dark trousers and polished leather boots. Casual, but refined. Appropriate for tea, appropriate for Potter.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his neatly combed hair.
Why, exactly, was Potter insisting on these little meetings?
He squared his shoulders, picked up his wand, and stepped out into the corridor, heading toward Potter’s office at a steady, even pace with an acute sense of irritation directed mostly at himself. It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous—that he was overthinking something as simple as afternoon tea.
And yet, he was.
Potter had insisted on this. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t suggested, just declared it as though it were inevitable. And maybe that was just Potter being Potter, but the ease of it unsettled Draco more than it should have. They weren’t enemies anymore, but they weren’t close either. So why the insistence?
He caught sight of himself in the reflection of a passing window. His posture was stiff, shoulders drawn too tight. He forced himself to relax them, rolling them back and schooling his features into a mask of nonchalance.
This was nothing. A casual, friendly invitation. That was all.
He reached Potter’s door faster than he’d anticipated, pulse flickering traitorously in his throat. He raised a hand, rapping his knuckles against the wood, and barely had time to compose himself before the door swung open.
Potter stood there, leaning lightly against the doorframe, his lips curled into an easy, almost charming smile. His dark hair was its usual untidy mess, slightly damp as though he had run a hand through it too many times after a recent shower. He was dressed comfortably in a simple, well-fitted navy jumper and trousers, looking effortlessly put together in a way that made Draco irrationally annoyed.
“Malfoy,” Potter greeted, his voice warm, expectant.
Draco inhaled, careful to keep his expression neutral, and stepped forward into whatever this was.
As Draco stepped into Potter’s office, his eyes immediately drawn to the large, full-length three-corner windows that dominated one side of the room. They overlooked the Quidditch pitch, stretching wide and open, bathing the space in natural light. In front of the windows sat a round table flanked by two comfortably cushioned chairs, arranged as if meant for long conversations. It was a surprisingly warm and inviting space, though the rest of the office still bore the usual Gryffindor messiness.
Potter raised a hand behind his neck and sighed. “I cleaned as much as I could, but—well, just excuse the rest.”
Draco hummed noncommittally, still taking in the room. There were shelves filled with books—some expected, like Defense Against the Dark Arts tomes, but others more surprising, including old Quidditch journals and even a well-worn copy of Moste Potente Potions. Trinkets from different parts of the world were scattered about, likely souvenirs from his Auror days. And in the far corner, a familiar-looking broomstick leaned against the wall.
“So,” Potter said, drawing his attention back. “How do you take your tea?”
Draco, still absorbed in his silent study of the office, answered absentmindedly, “No sugar, a dash of milk.”
Potter made a soft noise—one that, had Draco been paying attention, might have seemed far too knowing for a casual question. Instead, he wandered to one of the chairs and sat down, fingers lightly tapping the armrest as his gaze returned to the vast windows. “Your office gets great light,” he commented.
Potter returned with two cups of tea, carefully setting them down beside a small plate of desserts. “You should see it at night,” he said, his tone quieter than before. Draco blinked to the answer with nothing to follow.
For a brief moment, silence settled between them, something caught between invitation and uncertainty. Draco wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Potter cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “So,” he said, “have you gotten used to the school yet?”
Draco hummed, wrapping his hands around the warmth of his tea. "More or less. The teachers have been surprisingly kind. It’s... odd, in a way, but teaching feels natural. I never thought it would, but it does. It's—" he hesitated, searching for the right word. "—instinctual. Like something I should have done long ago."
Potter watched him, quiet but attentive, his lips curving into a small smile that sent an unexpected flicker of something down Draco's spine. He forced himself to keep talking, to push past whatever strange feeling that look sparked in him.
"Though the students are another matter entirely," he continued, shifting his tone to something wry. "They pester me incessantly about the formulas for my potions. As if I’d just hand over trade secrets to a bunch of nosy twelve-year-olds. The number of times I've had to deflect questions about the Daylight Draught alone is ridiculous. I suppose I should be flattered that they think I brewed up something so impressive that even vampires use it."
Potter's smile widened just slightly, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup. "Aurelius Alchemia," he murmured, as if tasting the name of Draco’s company on his tongue. "Your Chromavox Serum is particularly popular, I hear."
Draco huffed. "Yes, well, it turns out wizards are just as vain about their hair as Muggles are. A colour-changing potion that actually holds without damage? It was bound to be a success."
He hadn't realized how much he was rambling until he saw the way Potter was watching him—intently, listening to every word, that small smile never quite leaving his lips. And suddenly, it was too much. The warmth in Potter’s gaze, the quiet, steady attention—it made something in Draco’s chest twist unexpectedly.
His words stuttered to a halt. He swallowed, suddenly feeling too warm, too exposed. He lowered his gaze to his tea, swirling it idly, as if that might somehow steady the sudden nervous flutter in his stomach.
The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged with something Draco couldn't quite name. Potter didn't push, didn't comment—just waited, watching him with that same quiet focus.
Draco exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax. He had no reason to feel unsettled. It was just tea. Just a conversation. Nothing more.
And yet, when Potter finally spoke again, his voice was softer, more careful. "Sounds like you’ve settled in well, then."
Draco forced a small, sharp smirk, lifting his gaze just enough to meet Potter’s eyes. "More or less."
Potter’s lips twitched, amusement flickering across his face before he took another sip of tea. And Draco, despite himself, found his grip on the cup tightening just slightly.
Draco absently eyed the cookie he was about to pick up, still lost in thought, when Potter broke the silence.
“You know,” Potter said casually, “Luna and Pansy are having one of their little get-togethers this Saturday.”
Draco’s brow furrowed as he set his cup down. “Right, yeah, Pansy’s mentioned it... Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d even do there. It’s not really my thing, all that socializing."
Potter snorted, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Yeah, I know. Luna drags me along sometimes, too. She’s got a certain charm about her. People can’t help but be drawn to it, even if it is a bit... unconventional.” Potter’s eyes twinkled slightly talking about her, even though his words could have count as complaining, his voice carried a fondness.
Draco couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Luna’s a bit of a puzzle. I can’t say no to her either. Guess I’m lucky she is not the one persisting. They make an interesting pair."
Potter nodded in agreement, sipping his tea. “That’s one way to put it. I don’t know... I’ve only been to a few, and it’s mostly just people talking about random things. Pansy’s always got some agenda though, doesn’t she?”
Potter was being extremely generous calling them 'agendas'. Draco remembered those few encounters between Potter and Pansy and almost broke his composure. Almost.
“It could be fun this time though.” Potter carried on. “You should come."
Draco blinked, the casual invitation catching him off guard. "You? You're actually planning to go?"
"Yeah." Potter shrugged. "Ginny’s coming back this Wednesday for a short break between matches. I’m heading out to pick her up after classes."
Draco’s stomach twisted, an unpleasant tightness settling in his chest. He hadn't heard anything about Potter and Weasley in years—not a single whisper in the papers, no speculation, no sightings. It had been easy to assume they'd quietly broken things off, especially with how separate their lives seemed. Potter choosing to live at Hogwarts, secluded in the professor’s quarters, while Weasley was constantly traveling with her Quidditch team. It made sense.
Or so he’d thought.
Potter kept talking, unaware of the way Draco's thoughts were spiraling. "I’ve got Thursday and Friday off, so I’ll be home. And Ginny always makes me go to these things when she’s around."
Home.
The word landed with an almost physical weight. Draco swallowed, suddenly feeling ridiculous. Of course, Potter and Weasley shared a home. Just because one of them was never there didn’t mean it ceased to exist. And Draco—Draco had spent a fleeting, stupid second entertaining the idea that maybe—
He clamped down on the thought before it could fully form, feeling heat rise to his face. He had been doing so well at pretending that Potter’s interest meant nothing. That the easy way he listened, the way he smiled, the way he always seemed to be paying attention, watching—it was just professional courtesy. Maybe an attempt at some belated goodwill. Nothing else.
"Pansy's been trying to convince me for two years," Draco said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. "No luck yet."
"Would you come if I asked?" Potter asked, tilting his head slightly.
Draco blinked, momentarily taken aback. “You? Asking me to go?”
Potter gave a soft shrug, clearly unfazed by the question. “Why not? Maybe it’s time for you to stop avoiding,” Potter suggested lightly, his voice warm but still teasing. “Come on, it could be a good time.”
Draco stared at his teacup, trying to gather himself. He didn’t know why it bothered him. Potter and Ginny were together, that was fine. But then why had he been foolish enough to read more into their conversations? More into the tea? He was being an idiot.
“I’m not sure,” Draco said at last, his voice sounding colder than he intended. “We’ll see.”
The silence hung between them for a moment. Potter seemed to notice the shift in Draco’s mood, his expression softening. He opened his mouth to say something, but Draco, suddenly feeling like he needed air, stood up quickly, almost too quickly.
“Look, I should... I should go,” Draco said, his voice tight. “I’ve got a potion I need to tend to. Thank you for the tea.”
Potter blinked, surprised by the sudden change in Draco’s demeanor, but he didn’t push. “Of course. Anytime, Malfoy.”
Draco gave a brief nod, his mind racing with more questions than answers. He wasn’t sure what to feel, but he was certain that whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to deal with it just yet.
As he left the office, the door closing softly behind him, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he’d missed—something that would make all of this make sense, but for now, it felt like he was stumbling through a fog of his own making.