Harry stood by the window of the Gryffindor common room, his forehead resting against the cold glass as he looked out into the endless darkness beyond the grounds. The castle was quiet this late—too quiet. The only sound was the wind rattling the panes, and his own breathing, steady but strained, like he was trying too hard to hold something back.
Draco was somewhere in the castle. He knew that. He could feel it.
His eyes drifted, unfocused, out toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the shadows of the trees blurred into the night. His heart raced, an involuntary thing, like it always did when his mind wandered to him.
Malfoy.
He sighed softly, his breath fogging up the glass. It had been like this for months now—this constant, gnawing pull that Harry couldn’t quite shake. It was as if Draco had become a part of the air he breathed, always there, always lingering just out of reach.
He didn’t know when it had started. He couldn’t remember the exact moment when his focus had shifted, when Malfoy had become more than just… Malfoy. More than the sneering, cold boy he had known for years. It was like it had happened gradually, in moments Harry hadn’t been paying attention to—quiet glances in the hall, fleeting brushes of hands during Quidditch, the way Draco’s gaze would linger on him for just a second too long.
And yet, every time Harry looked in Draco’s direction, he was met with indifference. A blank expression. Like he didn’t even notice.
But he did. Harry knew he did. There were times when Draco’s mask would slip—just for a moment—and Harry would catch it. That flicker in his eyes, the slightest twitch of his mouth, like there was something there, something real, buried beneath all the layers of arrogance and indifference.
But then it would be gone, and Draco would turn away, like nothing had ever happened.
They were in the library the next day when it happened again.
Harry sat at the far end of the table, pretending to be engrossed in his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay, but his attention was elsewhere. Draco was at the other end, a stack of books in front of him, his quill scratching lazily against parchment.
Harry could feel him. Could feel the weight of Draco’s presence in the room, like gravity pulling him in, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Every time he glanced up, his eyes were drawn to Draco—his pale, elegant hands moving effortlessly across the page, the furrow of concentration in his brow, the way his lips pressed together, just slightly, when he was thinking too hard.
And Harry watched. He watched, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
It wasn’t like it used to be. The hostility, the glares, the pointed insults—it was all gone now, replaced by something quieter. Something heavier.
They didn’t speak to each other anymore. Not really. But Harry didn’t need words. He just needed these moments—these stolen, quiet moments when it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
Draco shifted in his chair, his eyes flicking up, and Harry quickly looked down at his parchment, his heart racing. He felt like a fool. Like a schoolboy with a crush—waiting, hoping, aching for something he didn’t even know if he wanted.
But he did want it. Merlin, he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything.
The next time he saw Draco, it was in the courtyard.
The sky was a dull, overcast gray, the kind of weather that seemed to settle into your bones, making everything feel heavier. Harry had been out for a walk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying to clear his mind. But then he had seen Draco—leaning against the stone wall, staring up at the sky like he was searching for something in the clouds.
Harry stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat.
Draco didn’t notice him at first. He stood there, still and quiet, his hair tousled by the wind, his face tilted upward, eyes distant and thoughtful. There was something about the way he looked in that moment—something raw and vulnerable, like he wasn’t hiding behind all the usual masks.
And Harry’s chest tightened.
He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was the way the world seemed to stop around them, the way the air felt charged with something unspoken. Or maybe it was the months of pent-up tension, the quiet yearning that had been building inside him like a slow, burning flame.
But before he knew it, Harry was moving, walking toward Draco, his heart pounding in his ears.
Draco’s eyes flicked toward him as he approached, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, watching Harry with that same unreadable expression.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them faded into the background, and it was just the two of them—standing there in the cold, the space between them heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
Harry’s throat tightened. He could feel the words bubbling up inside him, the ones he had kept buried for so long, the ones that felt too dangerous to let out.
“I—” Harry started, his voice catching in his throat.
But Draco shook his head, just slightly, cutting him off. His eyes softened for the briefest second, and Harry’s heart ached at the sight of it.
“Don’t,” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. His gaze dropped to the ground, and Harry felt the distance between them grow, even though they were standing so close.
And it hurt. God, it hurt more than Harry had ever expected it to.
He wanted to reach out, to close the gap, to grab Draco by the shoulders and force him to look at him, to tell him what the hell was going on between them, why it felt like they were both drowning in something neither of them could name.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Instead, he stood there, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, his chest tight with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
Draco glanced up again, and this time, his eyes met Harry’s. And in that moment, Harry saw it—the same thing he had seen all those other times. The same flicker of something deep and unspoken, something Draco was too afraid to let out.
It was there, just beneath the surface, waiting. Waiting.
And Harry realized then that he wasn’t the only one holding back.
The days passed in a blur after that. The tension between them only grew, thick and suffocating, like a storm brewing on the horizon, always there but never breaking.
Every glance, every accidental touch, every word exchanged—it all felt charged with something electric, something that made Harry’s skin tingle and his heart race.
And yet, neither of them did anything. They waited, circling each other like two stars caught in the same orbit, both too afraid to make the first move.
But the waiting was killing Harry. It was like a slow burn, eating away at him from the inside, until all he could think about was Draco—Draco’s eyes, Draco’s voice, Draco’s touch, just out of reach, always just out of reach.