Snow had blanketed Hogwarts overnight, transforming the grounds into a pristine white landscape. Icicles hung like glass teeth from the castle's towers, the lake had begun to freeze over, and even the wind through the stone halls felt sharper, edged with winter's bite. The warmth of the dungeons was a welcome reprieve.
Harry had zero intention of going to the match. He didn't care about Quidditch. He had perfectly good books to read, quieter corners to vanish into, and more important things to obsess over. Like why he couldn't sleep through a full night anymore. The dreams had returned with a strange, creeping regularity.
None of them made complete sense, but each left behind the same weight in his chest, an unease that clung to him long after he woke. Shadows slithered at the edges of his vision whenever he closed his eyes, thin and watchful. A scream ripping through the darkness like a tear in fabric. A flash of green light that left a metallic taste on his tongue. His mother's voice, strangled and distant.
And then, there was the room. Cold stone walls, every surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly like veins under skin. The symbols crawled across the floor and up the walls, all lines leading to a single point at the center. And there, laid bare beneath the sickly glow of torchlight, sat the stone. A blood-red smear against pale grey tile, as if the room itself had bled.
Harry always woke before he could reach it but the image never left him. He hadn't told anyone. Not even Gemma.
But Draco had noticed. Of course he had. The boy might have been a snarky menace, but he wasn't blind. He had started looking at Harry a little longer each morning, questions in his eyes he didn't quite ask. And every time Harry woke with a jolt, breath sharp and cold, he would find Draco already awake in the next bed, pretending not to be watching.
That awareness was what made Harry's current retreat into the common room feel fragile. He had picked the most isolated chair by the fireplace, curled up with a thick text on magical theory that was supposed to be soothing. Instead, he had reread the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
He heard Draco before he saw him.
"Harry," came the familiar drawl, smooth as ever and entirely too smug.
Harry didn't bother looking up. He was already bracing for the inevitable.
Draco stepped into view, positioning himself squarely in front of Harry's chair like a marble statue come to life. "You are coming to the match."
Harry turned a page with exaggerated calm. "No, I'm not."
"You didn't go to a single match last year," Draco said, sounding personally offended. "Not one. It's disgraceful. Tragic, really."
Harry blinked slowly, still not looking up. "I don't care."
Draco leaned down, elbows casually resting on the back of the chair. "Flint will make you scrub cauldrons for a month if you don't show up."
Harry gave a noncommittal hum, flipping another page. "No, he won't."
Draco's voice shifted. It was lighter now, calculating, amused.
"Alright," he said breezily, straightening the cuffs of his uniform. "Then I suppose I'll just go have a nice chat with Farley about your nightmares."
Harry's book snapped shut with a sharp thwack. Draco grinned.
Harry glared at him, his jaw tight.
"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll go."
"Excellent decision," Draco beamed, already turning toward the exit. "Bundle up. You'll freeze out there if you brood too long."
Harry sighed and stood, grabbing his cloak.
There were worse things than watching a Quidditch match. Like getting cornered in the corridor by Gemma Farley, arms folded and gaze sharp, asking pointed questions he wasn't ready to answer. Harry could already picture the way her eyes would narrow, how her voice would stay calm even as she dissected every lie he tried to offer.
So he had agreed to come. Better freezing in the stands than facing a lecture that would cut twice as deep as any cold wind. As they made their way toward the pitch, the distant roar of the crowd already building, Harry cast a glance at Draco.
"Just be careful," he muttered. "Charlie is going to be out for blood after your little stunt this week."
Draco snorted. "Please. He walked right into it."
Harry didn't argue. Charlie had been too quiet after being tricked into trying to break into Snape's private lab. Not yelling. Not confronting anyone. Just... quiet. And that kind of silence never meant surrender. Not with Charlie.
"You humiliated him," Harry said. "He won't let it go."
"I'm not worried about Charlie Potter," Draco said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If anything, I'm more concerned about the Weasley twins. Have you seen how accurate they are with those Bludgers? It's unnatural."
Harry didn't smile. The tension in his chest hadn't eased, even with Draco trying to make light of it. Something about the match felt off. He couldn't explain it. Maybe it was the dreams, or the way Charlie had looked at him in the Great Hall the night before. It had been too composed and patient.
There was no stopping it now. The match was happening, and Draco would never back out. So Harry said nothing more, even as the bad feeling settled deeper in his gut.
The Quidditch stands were packed.
Students were nearly rabid with excitement, their cheers echoing across the pitch as banners of scarlet and gold clashed violently with emerald and silver. Enchanted flags waved from every direction, some depicting Gryffindor's roaring lion, others flaunting Slytherin's coiled serpent, all of them pulsing with house pride and challenge.
The rivalry in the air was more than just competitive. It felt volatile, like a hex waiting to go off. Harry wasn't sure if he had ever seen so much collective hostility confined to one space. He shivered beneath the thick cloak he had thrown over his uniform and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Every cheer rattled his ribs like a warning.
He had no idea why he let Draco drag him out here. Madam Hooch strode onto the pitch, silver hair catching the light as she raised her whistle.
"All right, teams, mount your brooms!"
Fourteen players mounted their broomsticks, tension crackling through the air. Each one was tense, focused, vibrating with anticipation. Harry barely breathed as the whistle blew.
The match exploded into motion. Brooms shot into the sky with a rush of wind and wood, streaking across the pitch in blurs of green and red. Gryffindor came out aggressive, their Chasers falling into ruthless patterns, diving and passing with a speed that caught even the Slytherins off-guard.
Bludgers shrieked through the air, knocking dangerously close to heads and broom handles. It was brutal. Nothing like their first-year flying lessons, where the biggest threat had been falling. This was war with goalposts.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the game, using the sharp bite of the wind as a tether, anything to pull him out of his own head. The cold stung his cheeks and numbed his fingers, but it was better than thinking about the dreams that plagued him almost every night.
Back on the pitch, Charlie flew past in a tight spiral, drawing Harry's eye. Charlie had been awful at flying last year. Genuinely terrible. Madam Hooch had once physically grabbed his broom to stop him from drifting straight into the castle wall. He had wobbled, panicked, and flailed through every flying lesson.
Now he was… not perfect, but nowhere near the disaster he had been during first-year lessons. And Harry wasn't the only one who noticed. The whispers about Gryffindor's mysterious new Seeker hadn't been exaggerated after all. Whoever had started the rumors clearly knew what they were talking about. Charlie wasn't just competent. He was fast, focused, and surprisingly agile in the air.
It wasn't the kind of performance anyone would have expected from him. Especially not Harry. He found himself wondering how much time Charlie had spent practicing, drilling moves again and again until they became instinct. That kind of precision took discipline, something Harry rarely associated with his brother. Charlie had never been one for long attention spans. He was impulsive, distracted by whatever shined brightest in the moment.
But this- this took work. More work than Harry had thought him capable of. And the realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.
Blaise leaned forward with a frown. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "And what is he flying?"
A second later, Theo let out a shocked breath.
"A Nimbus 2000? When did he get one of those?"
Harry's jaw tightened.
The Nimbus 2000 was a professional-grade broom. It was fast, responsive, and expensive. The Malfoys could afford it easily, of course, that was not in question seeing as Lucius Malfoy had forked over enough money for the upgraded Nimbus 2001 for the entire Slytherin team, but Charlie?
Charlie had his own vault. Harry had known that. Their inheritance had been divided fairly. But that didn't mean it was there to be spent on one of the most expensive brooms on the market. A new Cleansweeper would have been fine. That was the kind of purchase you made when you were thinking ahead but a Nimbus was different. That was a splurge. The kind of thing you bought when you needed to prove something.
Harry shoved the thought aside, deciding then and there that if Charlie emptied his vault on flashy broomsticks, he wouldn't be offering so much as a single knut to bail him out.
On the pitch, Slytherin's Beaters, Bole and Derrick, were launching Bludgers with violent precision, forcing the Gryffindor Chasers into scattered loops. Flint was shouting across the sky, dodging a Bludger by inches as he zeroed in on the goalposts.
Wood, the Gryffindor Keeper, was giving just as much back. He dove and twisted, blocking goal after goal with grim determination. High above the chaos, two figures circled like hawks. Charlie and Draco.
Both of them scanned the pitch, focused on the task at hand. For once, Harry couldn't tell who had the upper hand. Draco was sharper. Every movement honed, every shift of weight calculated. But Charlie had something else. He was unpredictable. He had a knack for spotting people's weaknesses and knew exactly when to dig into them. He just needed the right words, delivered bluntly enough to provoke a reaction.
Draco was an easier target than usual. He had a lot riding on this match, more than he let on. The pressure to meet his father's expectations clung to him, tightening with every glance from the stands. It had stripped away his usual air of practiced indifference, leaving something raw and exposed in its place.
Harry could already see the plan taking shape on Charlie's face. He had been on the receiving end of that look too many times not to recognize it. That slight tilt of the head and smirk was a prelude to something sharp and deliberate.
Charlie said something, just loud enough for Draco to hear. Whatever it was, it hit the mark. Draco snapped back, his composure slipping for a heartbeat. But that single second of distraction was all Charlie needed.
The crowd roared as he dropped into a steep, daring plummet. Draco reacted a beat too late, his broom surging forward as he accelerated after him, but the damage was done. Charlie's fingers closed around the Snitch, and just like that, the whistle blew. Gryffindor had won.
The explosion of sound from the stands was deafening. Harry didn't move at first.
He stood frozen, eyes fixed on the pitch as Draco descended from the sky. His posture was stiff, each movement sharp and controlled in a way that betrayed just how angry he was. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with a quiet fury. The moment his boots touched down, he yanked off his gloves and threw them to the ground, fists curling tight at his sides.
Flint was already marching across the pitch toward him, his expression a thundercloud of its own, every step heavy with frustration.
Harry exhaled and began weaving his way through the crowded stands, slipping between excited students as they poured down the steps. He ignored the cheers, the red and gold banners waving high above the field, and made his way to the edge of the pitch. His pace quickened as he stepped onto the grass, eyes still locked on Draco, who stood unmoving.
"You had it!" Flint barked as Harry approached. "You were right there!"
Draco's face flushed, not with exertion, but with raw, humiliated anger.
"He cheated," he bit out, voice sharp and thin.
Harry stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "I think getting inside your opponent's head is part of the game, not cheating."
Draco turned on him, glare cutting. "Not helping."
But Harry wasn't trying to be cruel. He had seen it unfold with perfect clarity.
He had read Draco's tension and used it against him. One sentence, one well-placed jab, and it had been enough to tilt the entire match. Harry almost had to admire it. It was strategic and unpredictable. It was something a Slytherin might have done.
Before Draco could respond, the crowd began spilling down from the stands. Cheers still echoed across the pitch, but the energy had shifted. The Gryffindor team was celebrating with thunderous enthusiasm, clapping Charlie on the back as he dismounted, triumphant and grinning.
Charlie didn't waste time. He made a beeline toward Draco, brushing past Harry with barely a glance. His expression wasn't mocking, but there was a satisfaction in his eyes that made Harry tense instantly.
"For someone who acts all high and mighty," Charlie said, his voice rising above the fading cheers, "you're not nearly as good as you think you are. Too bad your father couldn't buy you talent."
Draco's head jerked up. The shift in him was immediate. He took a step forward, posture tight and dangerous, the fingers of his right hand curling with intent. His wand arm twitched like it was itching to move.
"Say that again," he said, voice low and steady, but laced with warning.
Charlie didn't flinch. He took another step closer, smirking now. "You heard me."
The air between them snapped taut.
A charged silence fell across the pitch, heavy as a storm about to break. Players on both teams stopped moving. Wands slipped into hands, quiet and ready. The line between a match and a duel was vanishing fast. Gemma was stuck in the Hospital Wing assisting Pomfrey, but Harry doubted even she could have stopped the impending disaster.
Slytherin players moved in behind Draco, their expressions hard. Flint cracked his knuckles. Bole and Derrick shifted their weight like they were seconds from launching themselves forward. On the other side, the Gryffindor team bristled. Fred and George stepped closer, arms folded, ready.
This was no longer just a rivalry. It was about to become a fight.
The air around them had shifted, heavy with the kind of heat that came before a storm. Harry glanced at Draco, and what he saw made his stomach twist. Draco's jaw was clenched, his posture coiled like a spring. But it wasn't just anger in his eyes. It was something colder. Deeper. Humiliation.
And Harry knew that kind of fury didn't burn out. It sat under the skin and festered. Before it could go any further, Harry stepped between them, planting himself squarely in the space that was rapidly shrinking. He pressed a hand to Draco's chest, nudging him back just enough to break the line of tension.
He opened his mouth, ready to say something, anything that might defuse it. Then the whistle blew. It sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and shrill, echoing across the pitch and snapping every head toward its source.
"Enough!" Madam Hooch barked, striding onto the field with the authority of a thunderclap.
Behind her, Professor McGonagall appeared at the edge of the stands, lips pressed into a thin line. She looked seconds from hexing someone herself. Snape emerged a moment later from the opposite side of the pitch, robes billowing and expression carved from stone.
"Step back," McGonagall commanded, her voice sharp as steel. "All of you."
There was a pause. Flint and Wood locked eyes across the pitch, neither eager to be the first to back down. Then, with visible reluctance, they each raised a hand and signaled to their teams. Players began to separate, though not without glares and muttered curses under their breath.
Draco didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on Charlie, unblinking, burning with something dark and unspoken. Even as Madam Hooch stepped forward, placing herself squarely between them like a living barrier, he didn't shift his gaze. His whole body was rigid, the muscles in his jaw tight.
Harry remained in front of him, still holding the line. He didn't look at Draco. He didn't have to. His focus was on Charlie, who hadn't stepped back either.
"I don't care who started it," she snapped. "If anyone throws a single hex, the entire team forfeits their next match. Am I clear?"
Grumbling answers came from both sides. Wands lowered. Tempers simmered, but for now, it was over. Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His gaze drifted to the edge of the pitch, where Lucius Malfoy stood beneath the shadow of a viewing arch. He hadn't intervened. He hadn't even moved. Just stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching everything unfold with cold detachment.
The team marched off toward the locker rooms, but before Draco could disappear with the others, Lucius stepped into the path. Draco froze mid-step. His posture stiffened, spine straightening on instinct. For a fleeting moment, Harry thought he might say something kind. Draco had played well. Not perfectly, but well. Surely even Lucius could admit that.
Instead, Lucius said quietly, "I suppose I should be grateful you didn't make a complete spectacle of yourself."
Draco flinched as if slapped. Harry bristled. Lucius brushed a gloved hand across the front of his coat, as though dusting away something beneath him. His voice remained calm, clinical.
"You had the better broom. The superior training. You should have won."
Draco's mouth parted slightly, breath visible in the cold. "I-"
Lucius cut him off with a soft hum. "It would be disappointing to have invested so much into your success only for it to mean nothing."
Harry's fists curled at his sides. It wasn't anger. Lucius's voice hadn't risen. But it was colder than any scream. Colder than the wind biting through their cloaks. Charlie had drawn blood, but Lucius had twisted the knife. Lucius gave his son one final look, then turned away. His cane tapped rhythmically against the frozen ground as he strode toward the castle.
Draco didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, staring ahead with no focus in his eyes.
Harry let out a sharp breath. "Come on."
Draco didn't respond, so Harry gently nudged him toward the locker room. He followed without resistance. They didn't speak as Draco changed out of his Quidditch robes. The silence hung between them like fog.
Draco didn't say a word the entire walk back to the dungeons. Harry didn't press him. The common room was quiet, dimly lit by the green flicker of the Black Lake outside the windows and the low crackle of the fireplace. Most students were still in the Great Hall, celebrating Gryffindor's win or pretending it hadn't mattered in the first place.
Draco dropped onto one of the black leather couches like his legs had given out. He didn't sprawl. He didn't sigh. He just sat, staring into the fire, his face completely unreadable. Harry sank down next to him, quiet, thoughtful.
Draco could be arrogant. Dramatic. Infuriating. But he was also one of the few constants Harry had come to rely on. He pulled Harry out of the library when he forgot to eat. Dragged him to lunch when he went too quiet. Pried him out of his own head when he tried to sink into it. Being associated with a Malfoy came with certain protections too. Most of the upper years knew better than to cross him, and the ones who didn't….Gemma took care of them.
He reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed Cauldron Cake. It wasn't much, certainly not the imported luxury chocolate Draco's mother sent him every few weeks, but it was something. Without a word, he tossed it at Draco. The cake bounced off Draco's arm and landed in his lap.
Draco blinked. "What the hell, Harry?"
Harry leaned back, already tearing off a piece of his own cake. "Eat it."
Draco scowled. "I'm not a child."
"No," Harry said, "but you're sulking like one."
Draco shot him a glare, but didn't move to throw it back. After a pause, he unwrapped it. Harry watched from the corner of his eye. Draco didn't eat it immediately. He just turned it over in his hands, like he wasn't sure if he wanted it or needed to throw it.
Then, finally, in a voice low and rough, he said, "He expected me to win."
Harry looked over at him, but didn't speak. Draco's fingers tightened around the wrapper.
"He always does."
Harry didn't respond. He knew that kind of weight. Knew what it felt like to stand beneath someone else's version of who you should be and fail to reach it.
Draco gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "I had the better broom. I should have won. That's all that matters to him."
Harry's brows knit together. "That's not all that matters."
Draco scoffed. "Please."
Harry was quiet for a moment, then said simply, "You flew well."
Draco turned to him, startled.
Harry shrugged. "Charlie just got under your skin."
Draco muttered something that might have been agreement, though it was too low to catch clearly.
"Typical Gryffindor behavior, honestly," Harry added, glancing at him. "Maybe we should ask for a resort."
That earned a quiet huff. The corner of Draco's mouth twitched upward in the faintest suggestion of a smile. Some of the tension in his posture eased. He picked up a nearby silk pillow and tossed it at Harry without much force. Harry caught it one-handed, unimpressed. They didn't speak for a while after that.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing green shadows across the stone walls. The quiet between them felt easy, the kind that didn't demand to be filled. Draco leaned back into the cushions and slowly picked at the Cauldron Cake in his lap, eating in small, absent-minded bites. His expression was unreadable again, but at least the sharp edge had dulled.
.
Snow had transformed the castle. Icicles clung to the towers, and the enchanted suits of armor had taken to singing carols, loudly and off-key, much to Filch's dismay. The Great Hall sparkled with silver and gold, and enchanted snowflakes drifted slowly from the ceiling like feathers. It should have felt festive but the tension that had settled over the school in recent weeks had not gone anywhere.
The Slytherins were still watching Harry, more curious than afraid now, but still cautious. The other houses were still whispering about him, like he might sprout horns and declare himself the next Dark Lord before breakfast.
Draco's ego, which had been thoroughly bruised after the match, was only just beginning to recover. Nearly every Gryffindor he passed in the corridors had something to say about his loss, and most of it was loud, smug, and impossible to ignore.
"I'm staying for the holidays," Draco announced one evening, flopping dramatically onto a leather couch in the common room. "Mother is off in France again, and Father is staying at the castle anyway, so really, what's the point of leaving?"
Blaise, stretched out in the armchair closest to the fire, smirked. "Didn't want to spend the holidays in France?"
Draco sniffed. "I'd prefer not to, between Aunt Cassiopeia's weird house elves and the endless tours of muggle gardens Mother insists on visiting..."
Millicent rolled her eyes. "You just don't want to go shopping."
Draco let out a theatrical groan and tipped his head back. "How am I supposed to find something proper for Mother when I'm not even allowed in Hogsmeade yet? Catalogs are completely useless. They don't tell you anything about texture or finish. What if the lace is cheap or the charms are uneven?"
Harry didn't bother looking up from his book. Of course Draco was worried about textures and finishes. It was almost laughably on-brand. The finest silk, imported inks, rare wood polish, dragonhide, anything less would be a personal offense to the Malfoy household.
"Honestly," Draco went on, arms flung across the back of the couch, "what do you even buy for someone like my mother? She already has everything."
Harry turned a page without blinking. "Then don't get her anything."
Draco lifted his head, horrified. "Brilliant. And die a slow, spectacular death when she realizes I didn't get her anything personal. Excellent advice, Harry."
Blaise chuckled. "At least she's in France. You have time before she can get here to murder you."
"Unless she tells your father," Millicent said with a smirk, "and he ends up doing her dirty work for her."
"That would require him to actually speak to Draco," Blaise added, his tone light but pointed. "Instead of stalking the corridors like some paranoid ghost. Honestly, the way he's been prowling the castle, you'd think he expected trolls to burst out of the stonework. He's examined every brick in the place twice over."
Draco's mouth pulled into a thin line, but he didn't respond.
Harry glanced up from his book, letting it close gently in his lap. That silence meant more than any sarcastic comeback would have. Draco could be dramatic, even theatrical when it suited him, but when it came to Lucius, he rarely said anything at all.
He never criticized. Never mocked. Never raised his voice in frustration. His tone, whenever the topic came up, was always clipped and careful. Measured to the syllable. Which told Harry more than Draco probably realized.
Whatever he felt about his father, it was complicated. And keeping it buried took effort. He watched Draco for a beat longer, then looked away, pretending not to notice the tension in his shoulders or the tight way he gripped the edge of the couch cushion. Some things didn't need to be said aloud to be understood.
Lucius Malfoy didn't simply occupy space. His presence pressed against it, warping the air around him like a spell that never quite wore off. Students whispered about seeing him in strange places. Roaming empty corridors late at night. Appearing in the library without warning, pausing before blank stone walls as if he were waiting for something to appear. He watched everyone with a cold, precise sort of detachment that made even the professors uneasy.
And through all of it, he hadn't spoken a single word to Draco. Not since the match. That silence, more than anything, seemed to echo louder than Lucius's cane tapping down the stone halls.
Harry couldn't even escape Lucius Malfoy in his dreams. Perhaps it was the man's constant looming presence at Hogwarts, slipping through corridors with silent purpose and cold eyes. Or maybe it was how often his name echoed through the Slytherin common room, always spoken with some mixture of reverence, fear, or ambition. Even when Lucius wasn't physically there, his influence was. He clung to the air like a curse.
Maybe Harry had just eaten too much treacle tart at dinner. Maybe his nerves had frayed too thin after too many nights without proper sleep. Either way, the dreams returned. And this time, they weren't fragments.
There was no fading mist or half-remembered flashes. Not just a scream or a flicker of green. This time, the dream had shape. It had weight. He saw more than he wanted to. He heard every word. He felt the cold pulse of something ancient creeping beneath the surface of his thoughts.
The older wizard stood in a dimly lit chamber, his silver cane clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. The sound echoed, sharp and deliberate, like punctuation in a silence that felt more dangerous than noise. The walls around him were marked with age and shadow, crumbling with time yet humming with the presence of old magic. Barely visible through the flicker of torchlight, the space felt suffocating. Watching.
A darker presence loomed ahead. It wasn't a man. It was an absence, a shape made from fear and power, its voice like cracked ice in midwinter.
"You will find what was lost."
Lucius bowed low, his head dipping like a servant who still thought himself above kneeling. "I have been..."
The spell came without warning.
A violent crack of energy, pure and raw, slammed into him and sent him sprawling to the floor. His cane clattered across the stone like brittle bone. His gasp echoed, too human and too weak.
"You have been failing me."
The room darkened. Not in the way light dims, but as if something deeper had closed in. The edges of the dream folded inward, heavy and pulsing. The shadow moved forward, not walking but gliding, hunger radiating from it in waves.
"Find the hidden room. Or do not return."
Harry jolted awake, the breath tearing from his throat like he had been drowning. He was upright before he knew it, hands clutching at his blanket like a lifeline. His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged bursts. Sweat beaded at his temples, cold and stinging. His heart pounded against his ribs, each thud louder than the last, echoing in his ears like a drumline warning of danger.
For a moment, he was still in the dream. Still seeing Lucius fall. Still hearing that voice, sharp and unyielding. Still feeling that terrible pressure in the room, like the weight of an ocean pressing down on stone.
His body remained frozen in place, muscles locked, breath shallow. The darkness of the dormitory pressed in around him, unfamiliar in its stillness. And then a blur of pale blond moved across the room.
In his haze, his heart lurched. For one terrifying second, he thought it was Lucius. The silhouette was too tall, too deliberate. His fingers twitched toward his wand, ready to defend himself, even as his mind tried to claw its way back to reality.
But then the figure shifted, the movement softer, less precise. Not Lucius. Draco. Harry lowered his hand slowly, the phantom tension in his shoulders beginning to fade. He didn't even need to look to confirm it. He could feel it, the familiar weight of Draco's gaze in the dark. The quiet alertness between them. The silence that wasn't empty but waiting.
Draco was always the first to notice. The first to stir. The first to track Harry's breathing with quiet scrutiny, like he expected something to go wrong.
"Do I need to get Farley?"
Harry shut his eyes, forcing a breath through clenched teeth. "No."
There was a pause, just long enough to let Harry feel the weight of doubt settle in.
"Harry."
"I said I'm fine."
The words came out harsher than intended. A reflex. A defense. And it wasn't even close to true. Draco muttered something under his breath, too quiet to catch, and then flopped back into his bed. The rustle of fabric was loud in the stillness.
Harry didn't move. He sat there, spine straight and eyes wide, staring at the stone ceiling. Hoping it might offer answers. It didn't. Find what was lost.
The words echoed, curling into the corners of his mind like smoke. He wasn't sure if they were from the dream or something older, something buried deeper inside him. Something that had always been there.
Harry thought of Lucius pacing through the corridors. Not walking, prowling. Watching the walls. Pausing in strange places. Looking for something only he could sense. Harry had seen him in the library late at night. In the unused classrooms on the upper floors. Near the seventh corridor, staring at a blank stone wall like it might open to him if he looked hard enough.
He hadn't just been inspecting the school. He had been hunting. Desperate and quiet, like a man running out of time. Harry's thoughts spun. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned back into his pillow, but he didn't lie down.