The Slytherin common room was dim and unusually quiet. Draco sat near the hearth, a book open in his lap that he wasn't really reading. The words blurred together, his thoughts far from the page.
He didn't know what he was doing anymore.
Every time he saw Harry, something in him flinched and pulled at the same time. Like a rubber band stretched too tight—tension that built with every glance, every almost-conversation. He hated it. He hated that he didn't hate it more.
Pansy had noticed. So had Blaise. But neither of them had pushed—yet.
"Planning to sit there all night?" Blaise asked, dropping into the armchair beside him with the casual grace only he could pull off.
Draco didn't answer.
Blaise leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "This isn't about homework."
"I didn't ask for commentary," Draco muttered.
"You didn't have to."
Draco sighed and snapped the book shut. "Drop it."
"Fine." Blaise held up his hands in mock surrender. "But if you keep moping like this, someone's going to hex you just to see if you still feel anything."
Draco snorted—a reluctant sound, but real.
Pansy peeked over the top of a magazine nearby. "You know, if you're going to be weird about it, at least tell us what 'it' is."
"There is no 'it,'" Draco said too quickly.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "That's not a denial. That's a confession with extra steps."
"Is it Potter?" Pansy asked.
Draco's silence was louder than any answer.
"Merlin's robes," she breathed, blinking. "It is, isn't it?"
Draco stood abruptly. "I'm going to bed."
"You're going to regret not talking about it eventually," Blaise said as Draco stormed toward the dormitory stairs.
Draco didn't look back.
Meanwhile – Gryffindor Tower
Harry sat on his bed, arms crossed, staring at the closed curtains around his four-poster. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and Ron's occasional snore.
He should've been asleep hours ago.
Instead, his thoughts spun in circles—memories looping like enchanted tapestries: Draco scowling in the hallway, Draco hesitating before speaking, Draco walking away from the tower with that look on his face like he hated himself for something.
"Why can't I stop thinking about him?" Harry whispered to the ceiling.
The feeling wasn't like the hatred they used to trade. It wasn't simple. It wasn't clean.
It was messy. Complicated. And it was growing.
He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.
The Next Morning – Outside the Potions Classroom
Snape's footsteps echoed through the hallway as he approached the dungeon corridor. His robe swirled behind him in practiced elegance. But as he neared the classroom, he slowed.
Two voices reached his ears—low, uncertain.
He stepped silently into the shadow of a pillar and waited.
Draco's voice: "You don't have to pretend you're not curious."
Harry's reply came after a pause. "I'm not pretending anything."
"You look at me like you want to say something."
"Maybe I do."
Snape didn't move.
Draco's tone shifted. "Then why don't you?"
"Because I don't know what I'm supposed to say," Harry admitted. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."
There was a pause—no shouting, no accusations. Just vulnerability.
Draco said quietly, "Same."
Snape turned and walked into the classroom then, making enough noise to signal his presence. He didn't need to hear more.
So. It had begun.
Not with declarations. Not with drama or confessions.
But with silence.
And glances.
And the slow weight of something unspoken hanging between them like a question that no one dared to answer.