Preface
Disquiet
It's just after midnight when Harry Potter returns to the dormitory.
The Gryffindor common room is dark now, its fire long reduced to embers. The shadows stretch deep and quiet across the familiar furniture—armchairs worn down at the edges, a half-abandoned chessboard still waiting for someone to finish a match they probably never will.
His footfalls are soft, but the stairs still creak under his weight, the old wood groaning like it's been waiting for him. The door to the sixth-year boys' room clicks shut behind him with the gentlest thud.
Ron's already asleep—one arm flung over his head, mouth slack, breathing even. Neville, too. Dean's snoring quietly, and Seamus is curled in a ball under two blankets even though the room isn't cold.
Harry doesn't move right away.
He stands there in the near-dark, his hand still on the doorknob, staring across the room as if something important might reveal itself. The moonlight cuts pale lines across the wooden floorboards, soft and silvery, but there's no clarity in it.
His throat is tight. His fists clench inside his sleeves.
It wasn't supposed to happen like that.
He peels off his jacket and lets it slide onto the back of his chair. The rest of his uniform follows—tie loosened, jumper stripped off, shirt untucked. He pulls the curtains around his bed closed, though he doesn't lie down. Just sits there on the edge, his wand resting loosely in his hand, like maybe he hasn't decided yet what to do with it.
There's a familiar throb behind his eyes. Too many thoughts. Too many questions.
Draco Malfoy kissed him tonight.
That shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't.
Except it does.
Because it wasn't a dare. It wasn't in the middle of a duel or a shouting match or something born from rage. It was after curfew, in an empty corridor that smelled faintly of dust and dragon balm, when Malfoy cornered him outside the Potions classroom and said—
"Stay."
Just that. One word. Quiet. Uncharacteristically soft.
And Harry had stayed.
He doesn't know why.
Maybe because he was too tired to argue. Maybe because part of him knew—somewhere, deep down—that whatever Malfoy was about to do wasn't going to end in a hex.
And it didn't.
Malfoy had looked at him like he was seeing something. Not someone. Something. Something strange and jagged and worth reaching toward even if it cut.
Then he'd stepped in. No sneer. No smirk. No drawling insult. Just fingers slipping around Harry's wrist—cool and sure—and a mouth that tasted like clove and blood orange pressing against his like it meant something.
It had lasted maybe five seconds. Ten, if you count the way Malfoy's thumb brushed along his jaw before pulling back.
And then he'd walked away.
Not a word. Not a glance over his shoulder. Just turned and disappeared into the shadows like it hadn't happened. Like Harry didn't exist.
Harry's fingers curl into the edge of the mattress.
He doesn't know if he's angry or confused or something worse.
Because the kiss wasn't bad.
It was…
Something else.
Something that made the air vanish from his lungs.
Something he hasn't stopped thinking about for the last three hours.
He exhales slowly and drops the wand onto his nightstand. It rolls slightly, then stops.
He should sleep.
He should forget.
But instead—
He lies back. Closes his eyes.
And sees him.
Draco Malfoy.
The worst person he knows.
And maybe the only one who's ever looked at him like that.