Harry was fortunate enough not to see anyone as he fled the Slytherin rooms, though he met a group of younger students a few paces outside the door. They stared at him as he walked past; he resisted the urge to run away when he heard them whispering behind him. He felt as though the expressionless mask he donned had sunk in, making his mind dark and fuzzy.
Later, he remembered shouting the password at the Fat Lady; he didn't remember utterly ignoring Ron and Hermione, or their questions and pleas. He remembered casting a Protection Charm and a Silencing Charm.
Thankfully, he didn't remember how he spent the rest of the day, though when he woke up the next morning, his swollen eyes and sore throat gave him a hint. As he sat up in bed, his head began to throb painfully, and he let out a groan of pain.
"Harry?" He heard Hermione's voice from outside his curtains.
"Hermione?" She flung open the curtains.
"You're awake."
She bit her lip. She clearly wanted to ask him what had happened, or crawl into his bed and comfort him–or both. Harry realized just how distant he had been lately; before, she wouldn't have hesitated. The fresh tears forming in his eyes reminded him of the previous day's events and he began to cry in earnest.
"Hermione," he said as he held out his arms to her. She didn't hesitate this time.
Draco wasn't really sure how long he stared at the door before someone thought to check on him. His heart began to race when he heard the knock at his door, but he was disappointed when he heard Pansy's voice. He ignored her and slumped back into his stupor. It wasn't until she opened the door that he arranged his features, steeled his voice, and snarled at her to get out.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she said.
"I said get out," he repeated. She stared. He flew out of his bed, suddenly furious. "GET OUT!"
She backed out of the room quickly, slamming the door behind her.
He was alone.
Harry told Hermione everything, with her promise not to tell anyone. Over the next few weeks, Harry did his best not to think of Malfoy. Despite his attempts, he still felt miserable and lonely. He buried himself in his work and, even better, he began working alongside Dumbledore more and more often to solve the riddle of the Horcruxes.
Malfoy didn't try to talk to Harry, although the latter sometimes looked up at a meal and caught the tail end of a gaze that lingered too long. When they had to work together in Potions, they were absolutely silent and avoided eye contact.
One day, however, Draco arrived at class looking haggard and sleep-deprived. He moved sluggishly and his contributions to the potion he and Harry were brewing were sub-par. Harry became frustrated by the lack of help. Aided by his already short temper and bad mood, he snapped.
"Been out trying to kill the Headmaster, Malfoy?" he hissed in a low tone.
When he answered, it was without venom; not, however, because he didn't mean it. He truly seemed too tired to answer viciously. "Fuck off."
"You'll never succeed. Even Voldemort is afraid of Dumbledore. He knew you were going to fail; that's why he gave you this task." Harry gave a short, bitter laugh. "How pathetic."
Malfoy didn't answer.
The next morning, Harry received a parcel in the post. Hedwig dropped the letter in front of him. It held no return address nor signature. When he opened it, it was a single piece of parchment, blank but for what seemed to be a drawing on one side. It was four lines: nearly equal length, set in two parallel pairs towards the outside of the paper. The outside lines curved ever so gently while the inside lines remained nearly straight. The lines pointed with a gentle angle to one end of the paper, though the gaps between the outside and inside lines were only slightly smaller at this end than the other. It was lightly shaded inside the lines, as if to indicate depth.
Harry studied it all day. He asked Hermione and Ron repeatedly what they thought it was. Finally, Hermione snapped, "We don't know what it is Harry. Now please stop asking us!"
Harry sulked. No one seemed to notice and he realized he had probably been doing a lot of sulking recently. He stared at the drawing but nothing came to him.
It wasn't until that night that he realized what it was. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees and staring at his palms. His gaze drifted downwards and he realized he had been staring at a similar sight all day.
The drawing was a pair of forearms.