Isolation.
"I-" His words were cut off by the lingering thoughts of doubt in his mind.
"Forget it," Draco muttered, his voice suddenly weary. He turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode away, leaving Harry standing alone in the dimly lit corridor.
As the footsteps grew louder, signalling the arrival of someone else, Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with everything that had been left unsaid.
But the truth—whatever it was—would have to wait.
--------------------
Days passed in a blur, and the chasm between Harry and Draco only widened. They moved through the castle like ghosts, both painfully aware of the other's presence yet refusing to acknowledge it. The tension that once crackled between them had dulled into a heavy, oppressive silence, and each avoided the places where they might have to face the other.
Draco, for his part, was a mess. He'd barely been eating, the once-proud Slytherin now a shadow of his former self. His usual sharpness and wit were dulled, replaced by a hollow emptiness that he couldn't seem to shake. He knew he had only himself to blame—knew that his own arrogance, his own stupid pride, had led them to this point. And now, he didn't know how to undo it, how to go back to the way things were before.
He pushed his food around his plate during meals, unable to muster the appetite to actually eat. The Great Hall, usually filled with chatter and laughter, felt suffocating. Draco's gaze would drift toward the Gryffindor table, where Harry sat with his friends, pretending as if Draco didn't exist. Each time, it was like a knife to the chest, the guilt and regret weighing him down until it felt like he could barely breathe.
Pansy had noticed, of course, but even she couldn't coax him out of his misery. She'd tried, at first, to cheer him up with her usual snarky comments or by dragging him into conversations, but when it became clear that Draco wasn't interested, she backed off, giving him space to wallow in his self-made misery. Even Blaise, who had always been quick with a teasing remark or a knowing look, seemed at a loss for what to say.
In Potions class, the tension was palpable. Draco couldn't bring himself to look at Harry, and when Snape paired them up for another round of brewing, the silence between them was unbearable. They worked in a strained, mechanical rhythm, neither one acknowledging the other's presence beyond what was absolutely necessary. The easy camaraderie they had once shared, the tentative bond they had begun to form, was gone, replaced by a cold, awkward distance.
Draco's heart ached with every passing day. He missed the way things had been, missed the way Harry had started to smile at him, the way they'd exchanged quiet jokes over their cauldron. He missed the way Harry's eyes had softened when he let his guard down, the way they had begun to understand each other in a way that went beyond words.
But now, all of that was gone. Draco had ruined it, and the worst part was, he didn't know how to fix it. Every time he thought about trying to talk to Harry, to apologize, to explain, the words dried up in his throat, fear and shame holding him back.
The weight of it all was crushing, and Draco felt like he was drowning in his own guilt. He knew he should eat, should try to pull himself together, but nothing seemed to matter anymore. The bet, the lies, the manipulation—it had all spiralled out of control, and now, the one person he found himself caring about more than he ever expected was slipping further and further away.
And Draco didn't know if he could bear it.
-------------------
As the days continued to pass in a cold, strained silence, Harry found himself struggling with a confusing whirlwind of emotions. The more he tried to distance himself from Draco, the more he found his thoughts drawn to the Slytherin, almost against his will. It was infuriating—he should hate Draco for what he'd done, for the lies and the manipulation. And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about him.
Every time Harry saw Draco in the corridors or in class, his heart twisted in ways he didn't understand. He tried to convince himself that it was just anger, just the lingering sting of betrayal that made his chest ache every time Draco was near. But deep down, he knew there was something more to it, something he wasn't ready to admit to himself.
He would catch glimpses of Draco out of the corner of his eye—his usually confident stride now hesitant, his head bowed as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Harry noticed how Draco seemed to have withdrawn into himself, how his usual sharp remarks were fewer and far between, and how he barely touched his food during meals. And each time, Harry felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name—concern, maybe, or regret.
The distance between them, which had once seemed like the safest option, now felt suffocating. Harry found himself missing the moments they had shared, even if they had been built on a foundation of lies. He missed the sarcastic banter, the rare moments of vulnerability Draco had shown, and the surprising ease with which they had worked together. He missed the way Draco's eyes would light up with mischief, the way his smirk would soften into something almost... affectionate.
It was maddening. The more Harry tried to ignore these feelings, the stronger they became, until he couldn't escape them no matter how hard he tried. They haunted him in his dreams, in the quiet moments between classes, in the flickering firelight of the Gryffindor common room. And the more he tried to push them down, the more he realized that maybe, just maybe, those feelings had been there all along, even before he knew about the bet.
But acknowledging that would mean admitting that he had let Draco get under his skin, that he had started to care about him in ways he hadn't anticipated. And that was something Harry wasn't sure he was ready to face.
So, he kept his distance, telling himself it was for the best. But with every day that passed, the gnawing ache in his chest only grew stronger, and he found himself longing for Draco in a way that terrified him. He wanted to hate him, to cling to the anger that had initially driven him to cut Draco off. But the truth was, Harry didn't hate him—not even close.
And that realization, more than anything else, was what made this whole situation so unbearable. The more Harry didn't speak to Draco, the more he wanted him. And the more he wanted him, the harder it became to keep up the walls he had built around his heart.
Harry's need to focus on the Order of the Phoenix became an urgent priority as the war against Voldemort intensified. The growing threat from the Death Eaters, combined with the looming danger of the Dark Lord's resurgence, meant that he couldn't afford to be distracted. Despite the turmoil in his personal life, his responsibilities with the Order demanded his full attention.
The Order's meetings were becoming increasingly frequent, and Harry threw himself into the work with a sense of grim determination. He attended briefings, helped plan strategies, and participated in covert operations, all with a single-minded focus. Every task, every bit of intelligence, every strategy session was a reminder of the larger fight that was at hand—a fight that was far more critical than his personal struggles.
The demands of the Order provided a temporary refuge from the confusion and longing he felt regarding Draco. When he was with the Order, when he was engaged in discussions about planning raids against Death Eater strongholds, he could momentarily push aside the ache in his chest. The adrenaline of danger, the urgency of their mission, the camaraderie with his fellow members—all of it served as a distraction from the personal turmoil he was grappling with.
During these meetings and missions, Harry was focused, almost obsessively so. He took on more responsibilities than ever, volunteering for risky tasks and pushing himself to the limit. The Order members, especially those close to him like Hermione and Ron, noticed the intensity of Harry's behaviour but didn't question it, understanding that the pressures of their fight against Voldemort could weigh heavily on anyone.
But as much as he tried to bury his emotions in his work, they would resurface in quieter moments. Late at night, when the common room was empty and the only sound was the crackle of the fire, Harry would find himself lost in thought. The longing for Draco, the unanswered questions, the regret—everything would come rushing back when he was alone.
It was during one of these restless nights, as he lay awake staring at the ceiling, that Harry realized how much he had let his personal issues affect his concentration. He knew that the war couldn't wait for him to sort out his feelings with Draco. The stakes were too high, and lives were at risk. He had to keep his head in the game, had to stay sharp and focused for the sake of the Order and everyone he cared about.
Determined to refocus, Harry began to compartmentalize his emotions more deliberately. He created strict boundaries between his work with the Order and his personal life. During the day, he threw himself into his responsibilities with renewed vigour. But at night, when the burden of his thoughts grew too heavy, he would bury himself in books, practice spells, or review their plans, trying to keep his mind from wandering back to Draco.
It was a difficult balancing act, but Harry knew he had no other choice. The Order needed him, and he couldn't afford to let his personal issues compromise their efforts. If he wanted to honour the memory of those who had fallen and fight for a better future, he had to stay focused, no matter how much it hurt to do so.
Yet, even as he worked tirelessly, part of him couldn't help but hope that, somehow, there might be a resolution to the mess with Draco—something that might allow him to reconcile his feelings while still staying true to his mission. But for now, he had to push that hope aside, dedicating himself fully to the fight against Voldemort and the Order's crucial work.
Harry understood that focusing on the Order was his immediate priority, and he did his best to make sure that personal matters didn't interfere with their critical mission. But deep down, he knew that sorting through his feelings with Draco would eventually need to be addressed—whether it was after the war or when the time was right. For now, though, survival and victory were the only goals that mattered.
-----------------------
Harry found himself standing in a graveyard, the same one from that fateful night. The moonlight cast an eerie glow over the scene, illuminating the weathered tombstones and the tangled undergrowth. The air was cold, and a sense of foreboding hung heavy, suffocating.
Harry looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alone, but he could feel an oppressive presence, as though the very ground beneath him was alive with dark magic. The graveyard seemed strangely familiar, yet twisted and distorted, as if it were a macabre reflection of the real place.
He heard a sound—a distant, muffled scream that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Harry turned, his eyes darting around, but he couldn't see where it was coming from. Panic began to rise within him, and he took a step forward, his feet moving almost on their own.
The ground trembled slightly, and Harry stumbled, catching sight of something just ahead—a figure lying on the ground. As he approached, the figure became clearer, and Harry's heart sank. It was Cedric Diggory, his face twisted in pain, his eyes wide and lifeless. The sight was both haunting and all too real.
"No," Harry whispered, his voice trembling. He knelt beside Cedric, his hands shaking as he reached out. "Cedric, wake up. Wake up!"
But Cedric remained still, unresponsive. Harry's hands found the bloodied form of his friend, and the sight was almost too much to bear. The memory of Cedric's death, the moment when the Dark Mark had appeared in the sky, the terror and despair—all of it came flooding back in a surge of raw emotion.
Suddenly, a cold, sinister laughter echoed through the graveyard, chilling Harry to his core. He looked up, and there, emerging from the shadows, was Voldemort, his red eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. The Dark Lord's presence was overwhelming, his form both commanding and terrifying.
"You failed him, Potter," Voldemort said, his voice a sibilant hiss that seemed to reverberate through Harry's very soul. "You couldn't save him. You're responsible for his death."
"No!" Harry cried out, but the words felt hollow, lost in the oppressive darkness. "It wasn't my fault. I tried—I tried to save him!"
Voldemort's laughter grew louder, more mocking. "You're weak, Potter. You're not strong enough to protect those you care about. They die, and you are left with nothing."
As the laughter echoed around him, Harry felt a crushing weight of guilt and helplessness. The nightmare intensified, the scene blurring and distorting until it was a swirling vortex of pain and regret. He saw flashes of Cedric's lifeless body, the cold graveyard, and the taunting figure of Voldemort.
Desperately, Harry reached out, trying to grasp onto anything that would pull him away from this hellish dream. His hands met nothing but emptiness, and he felt himself sinking, drowning in his own fears and failures.
Just when he thought he couldn't bear it any longer, a sudden jolt of cold air woke him from the nightmare. He sat up in bed, gasping for breath, his heart racing. The room was dark and still, the familiar surroundings of his dormitory offering little comfort.
Harry's hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The images from the nightmare were still vivid, the guilt and sorrow palpable. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, noting that it was still early. He tried to calm his breathing, the fear slowly ebbing away as he forced himself to focus on the present.
But the nightmare had left its mark. The pain of Cedric's death, the crushing weight of his own perceived failure, lingered in Harry's chest, a painful reminder of the losses and burdens he carried. The dream had been a harsh reminder of the past, a past that haunted him and drove him to fight on, even when the weight of it all seemed almost too much to bear.
As he lay back down, trying to find solace in the darkness of his room, Harry knew that these nightmares would come again. They were part of the fight, part of the heavy toll that the war had taken on him. And as he closed his eyes once more, he steeled himself for whatever might come next, determined to honor Cedric's memory and fight for a future where such horrors might finally come to an end.
-----------------------
Draco had been observant, more so lately than ever before. It wasn't just that he was watching Harry—he was watching because he couldn't help it. The sight of Harry in Potions, his eyes shadowed and his movements sluggish, was becoming harder to ignore. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that Harry was hiding something, and it was beginning to affect him more deeply than he cared to admit.
One afternoon, Draco slumped into a plush armchair in the Slytherin common room, the dim light casting long shadows across his face. Pansy and Blaise were lounging nearby, engaged in their usual banter. Draco's expression was darker than usual, his mind clearly preoccupied.
Pansy noticed his mood and raised an eyebrow. "What's got you all broody, Draco? You've been like this for days."
Draco sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's Potter," he said finally, his voice low. "He looks like he's barely slept. I've seen him in the corridors, in class—he's exhausted. It's not just a bit of tiredness; he's... it's like he's running on empty."
Blaise glanced up from his book, his interest piqued. "Potter? Really? I thought you two were barely speaking. How would you even notice?"
"I notice," Draco snapped, his voice sharper than intended. "It's hard not to. His eyes are dark, like he hasn't had a full night's sleep in ages. He's been off, and it's... it's unsettling."
Pansy exchanged a look with Blaise before turning her attention back to Draco. "And you care why? You've been avoiding him for weeks."
Draco's jaw clenched. "It's not that I care. It's just... he looks like he's going through something. It's not just exhaustion. It's like he's got this weight on him, and it's starting to affect everything around him."
Blaise leaned back, considering Draco's words. "Maybe he's just overworking himself. You know he's got all those extracurriculars, and whatever else he's involved in."
Pansy nodded thoughtfully. "It's possible. But if he's really struggling, maybe it's worth finding out what's going on. Though, I'm not sure if now is the right time for you to be the one to help him."
Draco's expression hardened. "I'm not planning on 'helping' him. I just—" He stopped, catching himself. "I just want to know why he's so different. It's bothering me, that's all."
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "And why does it bother you? You were the one who wanted nothing to do with him. Now you're practically obsessed."
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just curious. Or maybe it's the guilt eating at me. I can't just pretend like everything is fine."
Blaise regarded Draco with a thoughtful expression. "You might be right to be concerned. If Potter's in trouble or if he's struggling, it might be more than just physical exhaustion. Sometimes people go through things that affect them in ways we don't always see right away."
Draco's shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his concern becoming more apparent. "I don't know what to do about it. I don't want to make things worse. But I can't just ignore it, either."
Pansy sighed and patted Draco's arm. "Well, if you're genuinely concerned, maybe you should talk to him. But be careful. He's already angry and hurt. Don't make things more complicated."
Draco nodded, though his mind was already racing with possibilities. The thought of approaching Harry filled him with a mixture of anxiety and reluctant determination. He knew that bridging the gap between them wouldn't be easy, especially given the circumstances. But the more he observed Harry's suffering, the more he felt compelled to do something—anything—to help, even if it meant confronting his own feelings and fears.
As the conversation drifted back to lighter topics, Draco's thoughts remained with Harry. He knew he had to make a decision soon, whether to confront Harry directly or to keep his distance. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but one thing was clear: whatever was happening with Harry, it was beginning to affect Draco more deeply than he had anticipated. And no matter how he tried to avoid it, the need to address the situation was growing stronger by the day.
------------------------
It was an unusually tense day at Hogwarts, filled with a simmering undercurrent of frustration and unease. Harry and Draco both found themselves at the receiving end of Snape's infamous ire, leading to a shared fate of detention that neither had anticipated.
The confrontation began in Potions class, which had become an increasingly uncomfortable experience for both of them. Snape, ever perceptive to any disturbances in his class, had noticed the silent animosity between the two, as well as the tension that hung over their interactions. Today, however, it was a simple mistake—a potion misstep, a miscalculation—that led to an explosive accident in the classroom.
As the smoke cleared and the chaos settled, Snape's eyes narrowed in frustration. "Potter! Malfoy! A word, if you please."
Both Harry and Draco stood before Snape's desk, their faces flushed with a mix of embarrassment and defiance.
"This is the second time in a week that you two have managed to cause a disruption," Snape said, his voice dripping with disdain. "And it's clear that neither of you has taken this class seriously. You will both serve detention tonight in the dungeons. Perhaps the quiet of the dungeons will help you focus on your responsibilities."
With that, Snape turned away, his robes swishing dismissively as he walked back to his own desk. Harry and Draco exchanged glances, both silently cursing their luck. The thought of spending hours together in the dungeons, far away from the comforts of their respective common rooms, was less than appealing.
That evening, as the shadows grew long and the castle grew quiet, Harry and Draco made their way to the dungeons for their detention. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken tension as they approached the dimly lit room where Snape awaited them.
The dungeon was cold and dank, the stone walls lined with shelves of old, dusty ingredients and ancient tomes. A single table stood in the center, covered with various ingredients and a stack of old parchment. Snape, who had been waiting for them, gestured to the table.
"Your task," Snape intoned, "is to inventory these ingredients and organize them properly. I trust you both can manage that without further incident."
Harry and Draco exchanged weary looks before setting to work, each taking a side of the table. The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the sound of rustling parchment and the occasional clink of glass vials.
As the minutes ticked by, the silence became almost unbearable. Draco found himself stealing glances at Harry, who seemed preoccupied with his work, his brow furrowed in concentration. The exhaustion that Harry had been carrying seemed to weigh even more heavily under the harsh, flickering light of the dungeon.
Draco's own guilt about the state Harry was in gnawed at him. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, he spoke up.
"Potter," Draco began tentatively, "you've been looking rough lately. Are you alright?"
Harry looked up, his eyes meeting Draco's with a mixture of surprise and guarded irritation. "Why do you care?"
"I don't know," Draco admitted, his voice softer than he intended. "Maybe I just don't like seeing someone looking like they're at the end of their rope."
Harry's expression hardened. "It's none of your business."
Draco's jaw tightened. "Look, I know things haven't been great between us. But I'm not trying to make it worse. I just—"
"Just what?" Harry cut in, his voice sharp. "You want to make amends now, after everything? It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"
Draco's frustration boiled over. "It's not about making amends. It's about—" He paused, searching for the right words. "It's about not wanting to see you like this. It's—" He stopped abruptly, realizing he was about to reveal too much.
"Oh cut the act. I'm not falling for it ever again." He bit.
"I'm trying to be concerned about you. But apparently, you'd rather just shut everyone out and wallow in whatever mess you're in."
"Concerned?" Harry's voice trembled with a mix of anger and hurt. "Is that what you call it? Because it felt more like manipulation and games to me. I don't need your pity or your help."
Draco's jaw tightened, his frustration boiling over. "You don't get it, Potter! I didn't want things to be like this. I didn't want to hurt you. But you're so wrapped up in your own little world that you can't see anything beyond your own pain."
Harry's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. "And you think you understand my pain? Do you think you can just waltz in and make everything better? You don't know what I'm going through."
Draco's expression hardened, his voice rising in intensity. "Maybe I don't know everything, but I'm trying to help. I'm trying to reach out, and all I get from you is silence and rejection. I'm fed up with it!"
The two boys stood there, inches apart, their faces flushed with anger and frustration. The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the air thick with unresolved emotions.
Before either of them could say anything more, Snape's cold voice cut through the tension. "Enough."
Both Harry and Draco turned to see Snape standing in the doorway, his expression inscrutable. He had been watching their argument with a mix of disdain and curiosity.
"You will both finish your tasks and then leave," Snape continued, his tone brooking no argument. "I suggest you use the remaining time to reflect on your behaviour, rather than squabbling like children."
Without another word, Snape turned on his heel and walked away, the door closing with a resounding thud behind him. The room fell into a heavy silence, the remnants of their argument hanging in the air like a dense fog.
Draco and Harry stood there, both breathing heavily, their faces flushed with the aftermath of their confrontation. Draco's anger had left him feeling drained, and Harry's eyes were filled with a mixture of frustration and sadness.
The remaining time in detention was spent in tense silence. They worked side by side, their movements mechanical and devoid of the earlier intensity. The argument had left both of them emotionally raw, and neither was willing to address the underlying issues that had been exposed.
When the detention finally ended, Draco gathered his things, his mind racing with the fallout of their argument. He glanced at Harry, but Harry avoided his gaze, his expression distant and closed off.
As they left the dungeons, the weight of their confrontation lingered between them, unresolved and heavy. The argument exposed the fragility of their relationship and the depth of their unresolved issues. Both boys were left to grapple with their emotions, the path forward uncertain and fraught with the complications of their recent exchange.