The castle was unnervingly quiet at this hour.
Draco had never cared much for patrolling—not during his prefect days, and certainly not now. But this? This was something else entirely.
Because this week, he had to do it with Granger.
It had been weeks since the staircase incident, and the first couple of days were chaos.
Draco had seen Granger annoyed before. He'd seen her furious, argumentative, even borderline hysterical in a fit of righteous Gryffindor rage. But that?
That was something else. The way she moved—sharp, efficient, methodical—was almost unsettling. Like if she worked fast enough, hard enough, she could erase the entire disaster from existence. Like she could will away the fact that she'd been stuck with him, that he had caught her, that he had touched her.
Weeks of forced cooperation on the restoration project, of biting remarks and lingering glares, of working next to her but never with her.
And yet, despite all of that, they still managed not to kill each other. Which was a shame, really.
Fortunately, he wasn't the only one dealing with this disaster of a year.
Pansy had been losing her mind over having to partner with the younger Weasley, her rants becoming increasingly unhinged.
Zabini, on the other hand, had grown far too amused by Lovegood's nonsense, often recounting their conversations to the Slytherin table with an almost gleeful fascination.
And Theo was stuck with Abbott and spent half his time complaining about her Hufflepuff optimism and the shameful disgrace of her bloodline, as if Draco gave a single fuck about that anymore.
He didn't. What he did care about was the fact that he was already in a bad mood before this patrol even began.
First, he had to endure another gruelling day of pretending to work with Granger on their assigned restoration tasks—standing around while she meticulously documented every single crack in the castle, talking about stability charms and magical residue as if he actually gave a damn.
After that, he had to put up with Professor Bill Weasley in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Because two Weasleys at Hogwarts apparently wasn't enough—no, the universe had decided he needed to endure a third.
Unlike his siblings, he didn't go around picking fights or waving his moral superiority in Draco's face. He just did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs. Draco supposed he should be grateful for that, but it didn't change the fact that a Weasley had authority over him.
And now, he was stuck wandering the corridors with her—at night, no less.
Draco exhaled sharply as they walked side by side, boots clicking softly against the stone floor.
For once, Granger wasn't speaking. That alone should have been a blessing. But it wasn't.
It was her silence that made it worse. Not the stiff, focused kind, but the kind that felt deliberate. Like she was actively choosing not to acknowledge his existence.
She didn't walk too close. Didn't glance his way. Her jaw was tight, her movements sharp—brisker than usual, as if she had somewhere much more important to be. As if she wasn't currently patrolling the castle with him.
Draco sneered. "Oh, don't go all quiet on my account, Granger. I know how much you love the sound of your own voice."
Nothing.
Not a glare, not a snide remark. Not even a huff of irritation. She just kept walking, chin lifted, like he was beneath notice.
He had patrolled with the other Head Girls before—Weasley, Abbott, some seventh-year Ravenclaw. And sure, those had gone fine (if he ignored the way Ginny Weasley glared daggers at him the entire time).
Normally, she would have already scolded him for slacking off or accused him of not taking this seriously. He would expect her to be lecturing him about his responsibilities as Head Boy, or listing off some ridiculous guideline she expected him to follow.
But tonight something was wrong.
She wasn't completely silent, but she wasn't herself, either. No sharp reprimands, no irritated sighs, no forceful, self-righteous declarations of how he was the worst part of her day. Just—short, clipped words. And when she did speak, it was without her usual fight, like she couldn't summon the energy to argue properly.
It felt wrong.
And the worst part was that he had no fucking idea why it was bothering him so much.
He should be celebrating. No lectures, no nagging, no insufferable commentary about how he was an absolute waste of a Head Boy. But instead, the quiet felt thick. Stagnant. Like something had changed, and he hadn't noticed when.
Draco frowned, sneaking a glance at her. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her brows drawn in thought. She looked… tense. Not angry. Just tired.
That was new.
Not that he cared.
And even if he did—he didn't. So it didn't matter.
He tore his gaze away, staring straight ahead. The torches along the corridor flickered as they passed, throwing shadows across the walls.
The silence stretched too long, too strange.
Draco exhaled sharply. "You're unusually quiet, Granger. Lost your voice?"
Hermione let out a short breath through her nose, shaking her head. "Not tonight, Malfoy."
His brows twitched at the response. There was no real heat behind it—just dry, exhausted amusement.
And that? That was definitely new.
"Should I be concerned?" he drawled, tilting his head. "It's unlike you to suffer in silence. Normally, I can't get you to shut up."
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't rise to the bait. "Malfoy, I don't have the energy for this today."
It should have been cutting. Should have stung. But it didn't—it just sounded tired.
Draco smirked—automatically, out of habit—but it lacked its usual bite. Because the truth was, he didn't feel like arguing either.
And that? That was probably the worst part.
They passed by the library, its towering doors looming in the dim light.
Draco didn't care.
But—
He glanced at her anyway.
Instinct. Nothing more.
And for a fleeting moment, he saw something different. She always looked different when she wasn't talking. Less sharp edges. Less fire. More exhaustion.
Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her fingers gripping her arms just a little too tightly—like she was holding herself together by force.
She wasn't just ignoring him. There was something else. Something off.
Draco ignored the strange feeling stirring in his chest—irrelevant. Not something he needed to care about.
They walked the rest of the way with the occasional exchange—his snark met with an empty retort, her words lacking their usual sharpness.
And Draco hated it.
Even as he lay in bed later that night, staring up at the green canopy above him, the quiet still felt unnatural.
He scowled, rolling onto his side, forcing the thought away. It wasn't important. He had Quidditch tomorrow. Something that actually fucking mattered.
And yet, even with that certainty, the quiet still felt wrong.
Not the castle's quiet. He was used to that. Liked it, even. But hers. It clung to him, intrusive and unwelcome, long after they'd parted ways.
Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair.
He needed to shake this off. Get his head straight. Focus on something that wasn't Granger.
So, before the sun had even begun to rise, he dragged himself out of bed, grabbed his broom, and left.
The air was sharp and bitingly cold when Draco stepped onto the Quidditch pitch. The sky was still a dull grey, the castle just beginning to stir in the distance. Most of the school was still asleep, tucked away in their warm beds. But Draco had been awake for hours.
Because he needed this. The cold air biting at his skin. The solid weight of his broom. The certainty of the pitch beneath his feet.
This was the only place he still felt like himself.
He took a slow breath, exhaling as he stepped onto the field, his boots crunching against the dewy grass.
Everything else—the stares, the whispers, the suffocating tension of being back at Hogwarts— all of it disappeared here.
This was his escape. His sanctuary.
He flew for hours, pushing his broom faster, higher, the cold air biting at his skin. Here, in the sky, nothing else mattered. Not the stares, not the whispers, not bloody Granger and her silence. Just speed, precision, control.
Eventually, the sun began to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows across the pitch. Soon, the rest of the team would arrive, and the real work would begin.
And Slytherin's team was an absolute mess.
Not that it mattered as much this year. The new Quidditch schedule—McGonagall's brilliant idea to make the matches fairer—meant there were more chances to recover from a bad game. Twelve matches instead of six.
The first half of the season from November to February, the second from March to June. And then, in the end, the two highest-scoring teams would fight for the Cup.
It made sense, he supposed. A single disaster of a match wouldn't kill a team's chances anymore. You had to be consistent, not just lucky.
Still. It also meant more games. More practice. More pressure. And right now, with a team that could barely keep up, Slytherin had a long way to go before they were anywhere near that final match.
Draco exhaled, tightening his grip on his broom. They didn't have time to fall apart. Slytherin had already lost everything else. If they lost their reputation on the pitch too—if they became a joke—
He wouldn't let that happen.
Draco scowled as he reached the ground and surveyed the players who had bothered to show up for practice.
Most of their best players hadn't returned this year. Some were dead, others on the run. And the ones who had come back were not at their best. It was painfully obvious that their team had no direction. No leadership. No identity.
Slytherin used to be feared. Respected. Even when people hated them, they at least knew better than to underestimate them. Now they were just another team. Another name on the board. And Draco fucking hated it.
And even worst, he was their captain now.
Flint would have whipped them into shape. Montague would have kept them in line. But they were gone, and the rest of the returning players were either unmotivated or bloody useless. If Slytherin wanted to stand a chance this season, someone had to take control.
So fine. He'd do it.
Draco pushed them harder than ever, barking orders, merciless in his expectations. He had no patience for mediocrity. Not this year.
Not when the entire school was waiting for them to fail. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.
By the time he finally called an end to practice, the team looked wrecked. Players collapsed onto the grass, panting and sweat-drenched. But he had a team.
Blaise wiped his face with his sleeve, shooting Draco a knowing look.
"Bloody hell, Malfoy," he muttered. "You trying to kill us?"
Draco smirked, but there was no humour in it. "If you can't handle it, Zabini, maybe you should sit this year out."
Blaise raised an eyebrow, studying him. "So you're taking this seriously?"
Draco exhaled, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "Quidditch is the only thing that still makes sense."
Blaise didn't argue, because he knew it was true.
Thanks to the practice, his body ached with exhaustion, but for the first time in weeks, his mind was quiet.
At least, it was quiet until he reached the castle.
The soreness in his limbs was a welcome distraction, grounding, familiar. But as he walked through the courtyard, the tension in his shoulders crept back in, the silence of the castle pressing against his ribs like a weight.
That was when he saw it.
The Hogwarts Memorial.
His steps faltered—just slightly. Just enough to feel it. A flicker of something that didn't belong there, something intrusive and unwelcome.
So he went to the courtyard, boots scuffing against the damp stone. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going—until his gaze caught on something just beyond the archway.
The Hogwarts Memorial.
It stood near the entrance, polished and solemn, carved names stretching in endless columns. Students. Professors. Fighters. Dead.
He hadn't really looked at it before. Had avoided it, mostly.
His eyes flickered over the names—Potter's people, mostly. The ones everyone whispered about in the halls. The ones whose absence was noticeable, whose deaths were mourned in public.
Then—Vincent Crabbe.
His stomach twisted. It was brief, just a flicker of something in his chest, gone before he could name it.
Crabbe had been stupid. Reckless. A blunt instrument more than a friend. But he had been there, always there, following Draco's orders like it was all that mattered.
Draco swallowed, forcing his gaze away. He barely realized his feet had started moving again, carrying him toward the castle. Away from the names. Away from the weight pressing against his ribs.
By the time he reached the doors, the cold air had settled in his lungs, sharp and grounding. Better.
He kept walking, to shake that feeling. Not aimlessly—he wasn't that pathetic—but just far enough to clear his head.
And that was how he ended up near the library. Not looking for her. Obviously. That would be ridiculous.
But when he passed the library, he heard her voice—soft, muttering—half-hidden behind a tower of books.
Granger was still working. Obviously. Her quill moved in sharp, efficient strokes. There were at least six open books surrounding her, parchment stacked so high it nearly toppled when she reached for another reference.
As she flipped a page, her fingers twitched—just slightly. The movement was so brief he almost missed it, but then she did it again, this time curling her fingers into a fist before smoothing them out. Like she was trying to steady them.
"This should have been done weeks ago," she huffed, flipping through another page with sharp, practiced movements.
Every note, every figure, every recalculation—done by her. Draco rolled his eyes. Classic Granger, but something about the way she said it sat wrong.
That something sat heavy in his ribs, low and unfamiliar. Like a memory he didn't want to look at too closely.
Because it was stupid. He wasn't the reason she was like this. He hadn't made her this way.
Except—hadn't he? He spent years tearing her down, mocking her, making her life just a little bit harder every chance he got.
And now she was sitting here, voice edged with exhaustion, muttering about how she couldn't trust anyone else to get things done properly. As if she was the only one who still cared enough to fix things.
Draco scowled. He should leave. Shouldn't waste another second standing here, watching her scratch out notes like the world would end if she got something wrong.
But something about the way she muttered to herself, voice low and edged with frustration, made him hesitate.
"Of course, no one else bothers to double-check these things," she said, rubbing her forehead.
Her left hand flexed against the table, fingers twitching absently before she curled them into a fist—just for a second.
Draco's gaze flicked to the pale, raised letters on her arm, half-hidden beneath her sleeve.
Mudblood.
His entire posture went rigid, the tension locking in his throat like something wedged too deep to swallow. His fingers twitched at his sides, an old habit from duelling—ready to move, to react. Except there was nothing to react to. Just scars. Just consequences.
His grip on the bookshelf tightened, knuckles aching. There was a dull, unpleasant buzzing at the base of his skull, a pressure he couldn't quite shake.
His fingers twitched again—more than a twitch, this time. A sharp, involuntary spasm that sent an uncomfortable jolt up his wrist. He curled his hands into fists, willing the tension out of them, but it didn't work.
Because he couldn't unsee it.
The library air felt thick, suffocating. The dim candlelight flickered against the inked scars on her skin, and something ugly twisted in his gut. His breath came sharper, too fast, and he forced himself to exhale slowly. Steady. Colder. He curled his fingers into a fist before forcing them to relax, looking away before he could think about it too much.
The shape of the word burned behind his eyes. Raised, permanent.
Just like the way she had screamed.
The memory hit without warning—Bellatrix's laughter, Hermione's voice breaking in a way that shouldn't have been possible. And him. Standing there. Watching.
He had done nothing.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and suddenly, the library felt too small. Too fucking suffocating.
He closed his eyes. Not my business.
So without another glance at Granger, he strode toward the exit, his footsteps sharp against the stone.
The castle corridors were quieter now, most students either in their dorms or still buried in their books. Draco barely registered where he was going. He just walked, taking the long way back to the dungeons, hoping that if he moved fast enough, thought about anything else, the weight in his chest would disappear.
It didn't.
Even after he collapsed into bed hours later, exhaustion settling deep in his bones, sleep refused to come easily. His mind churned restlessly, fragments of the day pressing in too close.
Too much.
He rolled onto his side, forcing his breathing to steady.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow would be better.
The next morning, Draco slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table, the familiar hum of the Great Hall filling the space around him. He didn't look for her. He didn't care.
And yet— His eyes landed on her immediately. Not on purpose. Just out of habit.
That was what he told himself.
Granger sat at the Gryffindor table, sandwiched between Potter and Weasley, as always.
Weasley was grinning at her, laughing at something she had just said, his entire freckled face stretched into a stupid, lopsided smile.
And Granger was smiling back. It was small. Faint. Not her usual wide, blinding, know-it-all grin.
And Draco didn't like it.
It was absurd. Utterly pointless. And yet, the irritation sat in his ribs like a curse that wouldn't lift.
It wasn't just the sight of Weasley, all grins and easy laughter. It was the way Hermione looked at him—like she wanted to be laughing, like she was trying to force something back into place.
And that was more annoying than anything else.
Across from him, Blaise stretched lazily, lifting his goblet to his lips before side-eyeing Draco with his usual obnoxious amusement.
"Merlin, you're brooding already?" Blaise muttered, dragging his fork through his eggs. "It's barely morning."
Draco didn't look up. Just took a slow sip of his coffee, ignoring the amused tilt of Blaise's voice.
It didn't matter. Not worth a reaction.
But Blaise was already following his gaze. And then—the smirk.
Ah, fuck.
Draco immediately looked away, but it was too late. Blaise saw. Of course he did.
Draco should have expected it.
Blaise was an expert at reading people—which was deeply unfortunate, because Draco had no intention of explaining why he had been staring at Granger.
Not that he had been. Not really.
Pansy, ever eager to insert herself into things that were none of her concern, leaned forward with an arched brow.
"Malfoy," she said sharply, dragging out the syllables like she was biting into them. "You were staring at Granger."
Draco scoffed, reaching for his goblet. "As if. I was glaring at Weasley."
Pansy let out an exasperated sigh, tapping her nails against the table. "Right. Because you always glare at Weasley. And that's definitely why you've been looking in that direction for the past five minutes."
Draco's fingers twitched around his fork. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Theo, who had been half-listening while buttering a scone, let out a disgruntled noise. "What we're talking about is the fact that you're being obvious." He set down his knife with a pointed clink. "And it's distracting."
Draco shot him a glare. "Distracting you from what, exactly?"
Theo gave him a flat look. "From enjoying my damn breakfast without watching you have an existential crisis over a Mudblood."
Draco stiffened. The insult landed wrong. Too sharp. Too forced.
Blaise, lazily swirling the wine in his goblet, let out a low chuckle. "Funny thing about habits," he murmured. "Sometimes we don't even realize we've picked them up."
Draco's grip tightened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Blaise smirked, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Nothing at all."
Pansy scoffed, flicking her gaze toward the Gryffindor table with a look of pure disdain. "Honestly, if we're talking about annoying faces, Granger's always looks like she's solving a life-or-death equation." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "And now, apparently, it's our problem.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself not to react.
Because fuck them.
And fuck the fact that, for once, they might be right.
But then, from across the hall, Weasley said something else. Something stupid, no doubt. And Granger laughed.
It wasn't a loud laugh. Not obnoxious. Not over-the-top, but real. Unfiltered, which make Draco's stomach twisted. He hated it, but he didn't know why.
Weasley was still grinning, looking like Granger just hung the fucking moon—until something in his expression wavered. Not much. Just a flicker of hesitation, like a thought creeping in before he could push it away.
His laughter slowed. His eyes flicked toward Hermione—then past her.
And then, they landed on Draco. The shift was instant. His grip on his fork tightened, his entire posture bristling as if Draco had said something rather than just looked.
Draco arched a brow, smirking just to be an arse about it. Weasley's scowl deepened, his grip on his fork tightening, before he turned away.
Draco rolled his shoulders, forcing his gaze back to his plate. It was nothing. Just an irritating, insignificant moment that meant absolutely nothing.
And yet, the tension lingered.
Conversations buzzed around him, forks clinking against plates, but his mind kept circling back to that laugh. To the way it sat wrong in his chest. To the way Weasley had looked at him, all fire and suspicion, as if he could see something that wasn't there.
Because there was nothing there.
Draco exhaled sharply and pushed his plate away, appetite gone.
The Great Hall suddenly felt too loud—too crowded, too stifling. He needed air.
"Skipping breakfast, Malfoy?" Blaise murmured, ever watchful.
Draco shot him a glare. "I have things to do."
Blaise smirked like he knew that was a lie but didn't press.
He didn't think about where he was going. Just kept moving, out of the hall, past the stone corridors, until the cold breeze off the Black Lake bit at his skin.
The surface barely rippled, dark and glassy beneath the fading light. The castle loomed behind him, the glow of torches flickering in the windows, but out here, everything felt quieter. Further away.
Draco exhaled slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stared out over the water. He hadn't meant to end up here. But somehow, his feet always took him places he didn't want to think about until it was too fucking late.
A sharp breeze rolled in from across the lake, biting against his skin. He barely felt it.
Because in his mind, all he could see was her hand on the table, fingers twitching. That split-second hesitation before she curled them into a fist.
And the pale, raised letters beneath her sleeve. His stomach twisted.
He'd never seen it up close before. Never let himself look long enough to really register it. But now the image burned behind his eyes, stark and undeniable.
Mudblood.
His word.
No, not his—he hadn't done it, but he was there when she'd been held down and carved into. And he did nothing. And now it was on her skin forever.
Draco's muscles tensed, and his nails bit into his palms. The wind picked up again, sending ripples skittering across the surface of the lake.
He had told himself, over and over, that there had been nothing he could have done. But that never stopped the sick twist in his stomach when he thought about it.
The war was over. Everyone had their scars—he was no better off.
His reflection wavered in the water, distorted by the wind, shifting and stretching into something unrecognizable.
Draco exhaled sharply and turned away.
He had things to do. Classes, patrol, Quidditch practice. Real things. Present things.
Not old ghosts. Not her. Never her.
By the time he returned to the castle, the day had passed in a blur of classes and idle conversation. It was easy to get lost in routine, to let muscle memory carry him through the motions.
Until practice.
Quidditch had been a salvation. A way to push everything else aside, let instinct take over, let exhaustion claim whatever restless energy still burned beneath his skin. He flew for hours, stretching the practice longer than necessary, until the rest of the team had long since left the pitch.
And now, as he walked back through the dim corridors, broom slung over his shoulder, reality settled back in.
Granger.
Weasley.
That stupid fucking laugh.
Draco exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing instead on the steady click of his boots against the stone.
And then— Voices. Sharp, tense and familiar voices. Just ahead.
He slowed his steps, lingering in the shadows, listening. He should have kept walking, but he didn't.
Instead, he stood just beyond the curve of the hallway, using the shadow to hide while he listened.
Weasley's voice cut through the quiet corridor, sharp and frustrated.
"Why do you always have to be like this?"
Draco lifted an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. Oh. Interesting.
Granger's reply came fast, exasperation dripping from every clipped syllable.
"Like what, Ron? Like someone who actually cares about her future?"
Draco almost laughed. Merlin. She didn't even hesitate.
Weasley exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders were already tense, his jaw tight—like this wasn't the first time they'd had this argument.
"Right, because studying twenty hours a day is really going to fix everything."
Hermione exhaled, shoulders shifting as if she was trying to shake off the tension. "Ron, this isn't—"
"Oh, here we go," he interrupted, voice thick with frustration. "Another lecture?"
Her lips pressed together, the flicker of patience in her expression snuffing out like a candle in the wind.
Then came the pause. A dangerous one.
Draco had heard silences like that before—tensed and heavy, stretched thin between two people standing on opposite sides of something too deep to cross.
When Granger spoke again, her voice was colder, quieter, but no less sharp.
"At least I'm trying. What are you doing, Ron?"
Draco didn't move.
For a moment, neither did Weasley.
The words hung there, thick and unmoving, and Draco could feel the weight of them pressing into the air.
Weasley didn't have an answer.
Of course he didn't.
Something flickered at the edge of Draco's thoughts, something unwelcome and immediate, and before he could stop himself, his mouth had already half-opened, the words forming without permission.
She's not wrong, Weasley.
The thought alone was enough to send a sharp jolt of irritation through him.
What the fuck was that?
Draco scowled, inhaling sharply through his nose, shutting his mouth before anything could slip out.
Not my problem. Let Weasley be a bloody idiot—let her fight her own battles. Why do I care?
Control. That was what mattered.
But wasn't this just another lie? Another illusion? If he really had control, he wouldn't still be standing here, listening to a fight that had nothing to do with him.
His fingers curled into his sleeves, a restless twitch of tension he ignored immediately.
He wasn't thinking about this. He wasn't thinking about her, because he didn't care.
Not about their pathetic little fight, not about whatever issues they were having.
And yet, he didn't leave.
He should have. He had no reason to be standing there, no reason to care. But his feet remained planted, his arms crossed, his breath slow and steady as he watched the argument unfold.
Then Granger sighed, the sound barely more than an exhale, but somehow heavier than anything she'd said so far.
"I don't want to fight with you."
Draco almost rolled his eyes. Of course she didn't. That was the difference between Gryffindors and everyone else—always so desperate to smooth things over, to stitch up every wound and pretend the bleeding had stopped.
And Weasley? He'd probably cave.
He'd sigh just as heavily, rub the back of his neck, grumble something under his breath, and then do what Gryffindors always did—pretend things were fine.
Except—
"Then maybe stop acting like I'm the problem!"
Weasley's voice came sharp and frustrated, bouncing off the stone walls, and Draco barely stopped himself from flinching at the sheer vehemence behind it.
And then, he saw it.
The shift.
It was small, barely there—just a flicker across Granger's face, gone almost before it happened.
But he caught it.
The way her shoulders stiffened, like she'd braced for impact before the blow even landed. The way her chin lifted just slightly, a practiced kind of defiance masking something else.
Something she didn't want anyone to see.
For the first time since the argument started, she didn't snap back. Didn't correct him, didn't bite.
She just—stood there. Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something. Then, just as quickly, she pressed them into a thin line. And she looked… Hurt.
Not angry. Not exasperated. Just—tired. Like this wasn't the first time she'd heard those words.
Like she'd been expecting them. Like she was used to it.
That thought sat wrong in his chest. Because he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that—someone spitting words at you like you deserved them.
Maybe he had deserved them. Maybe he still did. He'd spent years throwing insults at her like they were nothing, cutting her down for sport, and now she stood there, exhausted and bracing for impact.
A familiar sort of guilt coiled in his stomach. The kind that crept in when he wasn't careful. The kind he crushed before it could become anything more.
Granger had fought. She had won. But she still looked like she was waiting for the next battle.
Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. It wasn't his problem. He didn't care. And he certainly didn't feel guilty about it.
It was not his business. Not his fucking business.
Still, his boots felt too loud as he walked away. The echo stretched behind him, like a sound he wasn't meant to hear.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply, forcing the tension from his body. This had nothing to do with him. He had things to do—patrol, Quidditch, exams.
His fingers twitched. He shoved them into his pockets and kept walking.
His head was a fucking mess. He knew what he had just seen, knew what it meant.
Granger and Weasley were cracking.
And Draco hated that he cared.
He pushed the thought away, scowling as he stepped through the entrance of the Slytherin common room. The dungeons were dimly lit, the green glow from the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the cold stone walls. Most of Slytherin had already gone to bed—except for one person.
Blaise was still awake, lounging on one of the emerald armchairs, his legs stretched out lazily. He glanced up as Draco entered, eyes sharp with amusement.
"What's with the face? You look constipated."
Draco shot him a withering glare. "Merlin, Blaise, can you just—" Draco exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. "Fuck off, maybe?
Blaise smirked. "Well, that's not a denial."
Draco ignored him, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto the nearest chair before collapsing into his own seat by the fire. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to focus on the warmth of the flames, on the rhythmic crackling of the logs.
It didn't help.
Because his mind wouldn't shut up.
Because he could still hear Granger's voice, sharp and tired and not quite breaking, but close.
At least I'm trying. What are you doing, Ron?
I don't want to fight with you.
His fist clench.
Blaise shifted in his chair, watching him with infuriating curiosity. Then—far too smugly— "You're thinking about her again, aren't you?"
Draco didn't answer. He just huffed and went to his dorm.
Because it wasn't a question. And that was the problem.
Draco didn't answer. He just huffed and went to his dorm.
Because it wasn't a question. And that was the problem.
As he stepped inside, the dim green glow from the enchanted lanterns barely reached the corners of the dormitory, casting long, restless shadows against the stone walls. The fire in the hearth flickered low, and the quiet should have been soothing. It wasn't.
His fingers twitched at his sides. Restless. Irritated.
He needed to focus. He needed to do something.
Quidditch drills. The Charms essay due next week. The fact that Theo had been moaning about Slughorn's ridiculous syllabus for the past two days.
Draco scowled, stalking toward his desk, shoving aside the clutter of parchment and ink bottles. He dropped into his chair, flipping open the nearest book, quill poised.
He stared at the page.
His grip on the quill tightened.
One sentence. That's all he needed to write. One thought. One coherent fucking thought.
Nothing.
His mind was useless. Worse than useless. Because all he could see was Granger. That stupid, fleeting crack in her expression when Weasley snapped at her. The way her fingers had curled into her sleeve, like she was keeping herself from reacting. Like she had been expecting it.
Draco exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temples.
This was ridiculous.
He forced his gaze back to the book. Forced himself to read the same line over and over until the words blurred.
It didn't work.
With an irritated sigh, he let his quill drop with a dull clatter, grabbing the nearest book and pressing it over his face with one hand, his other arm draped over the back of his chair.
The cool weight of the leather-bound cover did nothing to ground him.
Fucking hell.
He was not thinking about her. Not about her silence. Not about how it had felt wrong. Not about how he'd been looking at her too much.
It didn't mean anything.
Just a habit. A reflex. A lingering effect of spending too much goddamn time around her.
Nothing more. He needed to stop thinking about this. About her.
Not my business.