Chapter Two
The Great Hall buzzed with noise.
It always did, really—an unrelenting backdrop of clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, low laughter and the occasional clatter of dropped toast or spilled pumpkin juice. On mornings like this, when it was cloudy enough that the enchanted ceiling seemed to press low and grey overhead, the whole school seemed subdued—quiet in a restless sort of way.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione as usual, trying not to think too hard about the fact that his eggs were cold.
"—if she actually assigns three feet on self-correcting charms, I'm going to hex myself," Ron was saying, stabbing half-heartedly at a slice of bacon. "Does she think we've all got bottomless ink wells and no lives?"
Hermione gave a sharp glance over the top of her Transfiguration textbook. "You mean like the two feet she assigned last week, which you haven't finished?"
"I'm rationing," Ron said solemnly. "For morale."
Harry didn't laugh. He hadn't said much since sitting down.
Across the room, near the far end of the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat with his usual air of affected disinterest, picking at a slice of toast while Crabbe and Goyle flanked him like statues. Pansy Parkinson was talking animatedly at his elbow, gesturing with a spoon like she might knock over her goblet at any moment, but Draco didn't appear to be listening.
He wasn't looking at her.
He was looking at Harry.
Again.
Not for long—just a second. Maybe two. But long enough that their eyes locked.
Long enough that Harry forgot, momentarily, that he was holding a piece of toast.
It happened again five minutes later.
And again.
By the third time, Harry stopped pretending it was a coincidence.
It wasn't even subtle anymore. Every time he dared glance up across the aisle of floating candles and shifting students, he found those grey eyes already on him—or just turning away like they'd been caught somewhere they shouldn't be.
Malfoy didn't look angry. That was the strange part.
He looked… tense. Frustrated. Like someone mid-argument with himself.
Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.
Hermione passed him the orange juice without asking, which was the only reason he realised he hadn't poured any. His glass was still empty. So was most of his plate.
It was all so absurd.
Twelve hours ago, he and Malfoy had nearly hexed each other in the owlery. Four years of rivalry, of bruises and curses and glares from opposite ends of the castle—and then suddenly they were just... standing there. Talking.
Admitting things.
Well. Malfoy had admitted things.
Harry didn't know what he'd done, exactly. Except walk away with more questions than he'd ever had before.
He leaned on one elbow now, picking at a piece of toast that had gone dry around the edges, and thought about that one moment in particular—Draco's voice, flat and quiet: "I don't know."
The truth in it had stuck with him. Not the words themselves, but the way they'd sounded. Hollow. Defeated. Honest in a way Draco never was.
And for what?
Because Harry hadn't shaken his hand on the train? Because they'd chosen different sides before they even knew what those sides meant?
It was mad. Utterly mad.
All that hatred. All that fighting. For nothing.
And now…
Now Harry couldn't stop looking at him.
Classes didn't help.
If anything, they made it worse.
Charms first. Then Potions. Both shared with Slytherins.
Harry had never been more aware of Draco Malfoy's existence than he was that morning.
It wasn't just the looks, though those hadn't stopped. Every time he dared flick his gaze toward the other side of the classroom, Malfoy's head would be tilted, his jaw set, fingers curled around a quill like he might snap it from sheer force of thought. He hadn't said a word to Harry—of course not—but his silence felt louder than the insults ever had.
Even the way he moved was distracting. Precise. Controlled.
Malfoy always had that air of performative ease, like everything from the way he uncapped his ink to the way he blinked had been rehearsed. But today it wasn't smooth—it was rigid. Taut. Like he was barely containing something beneath the surface.
And Harry felt it.
Felt every motion. Every huff of breath. Every quiet shift of his shoulders.
It was maddening.
Flitwick paired Harry with Hermione to practice mid-air spell redirection, which should have required all his focus. But he kept getting distracted by the sound of parchment crinkling behind him, the scrape of a chair leg, the low cadence of Malfoy's voice when he answered a question.
Even when Harry turned his back, he could feel Malfoy behind him. Like static under his skin.
He fumbled the spell twice. Hermione didn't say anything, but she gave him one of those looks—half concern, half quiet disapproval—and Harry mumbled something about not sleeping well.
It wasn't a lie.
By the time they made it to Potions, Harry's head was pounding.
Snape was in rare form. He spent the first fifteen minutes assigning a theoretical essay on the structural volatility of rejuvenation draughts, then another five mocking Dean Thomas for mislabeling a beaker.
Harry sat between Hermione and Ron, carefully measuring porcupine quills into his cauldron while Draco worked at the far table with Pansy and Blaise Zabini.
It should have been safe. Should have been fine.
But every time Harry looked up, Draco's head would turn. Not always toward him, but always near enough. His eyes never wandered far.
It was like being watched by a thought. A constant, unrelenting hum in the back of Harry's mind.
And it wasn't like he wanted it.
He didn't even like Malfoy.
Didn't trust him.
Didn't understand him.
And yet—after last night—there was this tiny, traitorous part of Harry that wanted to ask.
Wanted to press further. To find out what else he didn't know.
Because suddenly, the certainties weren't so certain.
Malfoy had always been the enemy. That had been simple. He was cruel, privileged, petty, spoiled. He had mocked Cedric's death, tormented first-years, delighted in others' failures. Harry had hated him for it.
But now he knew… there hadn't been a reason. Not really.
Just the shrug of a boy who never thought to question the script he'd been handed.
And that made everything feel... worse.
Because if it had been pointless, then Harry had wasted years reacting to someone who never actually had a plan.
He'd let Malfoy get under his skin, let him shape the way he walked through corridors, the way he viewed Slytherin, the way he handled Snape—he'd built whole narratives around the idea of Malfoy being out to get him. And now Malfoy was saying: no.
It wasn't real.
I just picked you.
Harry stared at the frothing edge of his potion, steam rising in small green tendrils, and felt a sharp twist in his stomach that wasn't hunger.
He needed air.
He needed space.
But even when class ended and they filtered out into the corridor, Harry could still feel Malfoy's presence trailing behind him like a shadow.
He didn't speak. Didn't glare. Didn't smirk.
But he looked.
And Harry—despite himself—looked back.
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