The fire in Harry's room crackled softly, casting warm, flickering shadows along the stone walls. Harry was sprawled on his bed, one leg hanging off the side, while Ron sat cross-legged on the rug near the hearth, nibbling on a leftover chocolate frog. Hermione was curled up in the armchair near the desk, a book resting closed in her lap for once.
It had been a surprisingly light evening. No classes to prep for, no threats looming overhead, and for a brief moment, no expectations. Just the three of them, as they had always been, letting time pass with idle talk and half-sincere jokes.
"I still can't get over Neville," Ron was saying, a grin plastered across his face. "The way he lectured that third-year Slytherin earlier — like he was channeling McGonagall herself."
Hermione chuckled. "He's changed a lot. I think being a professor suits him."
"Can't say the same for Malfoy though," Ron added, stretching lazily. "He's quiet, too quiet. Probably planning something."
Harry gave him a look, but it lacked conviction. "Ron, we're not thirteen anymore."
Ron huffed. "Still. He hasn't changed that much. Same pout. Same dramatics."
"I don't know," Harry said slowly, glancing toward the wall that divided his side of the quarters from Malfoy's. "He's… different."
Hermione raised a brow, watching him with curiosity. "Different how?"
Harry shrugged. "He doesn't talk much. Doesn't throw insults. He minds his own business. It's… unnerving."
Ron grunted. "Maybe he's matured. Or maybe he's just sulking because he's rooming with The Chosen One."
Harry laughed under his breath but said nothing more. Truth be told, he hadn't figured it out either. There was something strange about Malfoy these days — an unsettling stillness that had nothing to do with arrogance. More like… restraint.
Hermione noticed Harry's distracted expression and nudged him gently with her foot. "You're thinking too much. Again."
"Am not," Harry muttered, lips twitching.
"You are," Ron said at the same time. "And it's about Malfoy, isn't it?"
Harry didn't deny it. "He's just… I don't know. There's something off."
"I think you mean something quiet," Hermione offered.
"Exactly."
As their laughter faded into a comfortable silence, Harry leaned back against the headboard, his thoughts drifting. He was trying not to remember the way Malfoy had stood by the window earlier — shirtless, as if completely alone in the world. That image had burned itself into Harry's mind in a way he hadn't expected, and certainly didn't know what to do with.
He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on Ron complaining about the food at dinner and Hermione arguing that "pumpkin juice should not be served lukewarm." Their voices grounded him, gave him something to hold onto.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room…
Draco lay on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his blanket kicked halfway off the bed. The soft muffled sounds of conversation filtered through the stone wall, low and indistinct, but unmistakably… them.
Potter. Granger. Weasley.
He should've cast a Silencing Charm, but something about hearing them — not what they were saying, but that they were saying things, just existing in that familiar, noisy way — made the emptiness in his room feel less suffocating.
Still, it grated. The laughter, especially. Like nothing had changed. Like none of them had buried people. Like they weren't all walking ghosts with different coping mechanisms.
He turned onto his side, scowling at the ceiling.
Everything in his space was perfectly in order — his books aligned by topic and color, his robes hung meticulously, even his wand sat polished on the bedside table — yet his mind was chaos.
He hated that.
He hated the way Potter had looked at him earlier. Not angry. Not pitying. Just… curious. Like he was trying to understand him. Draco didn't want understanding from Potter. He didn't want anything from him.
But it didn't stop the image from replaying over and over again — the way Harry had gently picked up those ridiculous flowers. The way he placed them on his desk, not mocking, not judging.
What kind of person did that?
Draco exhaled, covering his face with both hands. He couldn't sleep. Not yet.
But the voices next door — Potter's especially — kept filling the cracks.
The warm comfort of Harry's room, the quiet crackling of the fire, and the occasional bursts of laughter between the trio painted a familiar picture—one reminiscent of better, simpler times. Ron was mid-story, exaggerated hand gestures and all, trying to explain how a third-year had tripped over his own robes while casting a jinx that missed entirely and turned a tapestry into a hissing snake.
"I swear, the poor bloke screamed louder than Neville ever did during a Boggart lesson," Ron chuckled, tossing a Bertie Bott's bean into his mouth. "Except this one was cinnamon, thank Merlin."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "You're impossible."
Harry was only half-listening. He laughed along, sure, nodded at all the right places, but his eyes kept flickering toward the door. Draco hadn't been around all evening. Not in the library. Not at dinner. Not even a snide remark in passing. It was strange, and Harry hated that he noticed. Hated even more that it was bothering him.
Just as Hermione reached for another chocolate frog and Ron launched into a dramatic re-enactment of the spell gone wrong, the door to their shared quarters creaked open. The energy in the room shifted immediately.
Draco stepped inside, his face tight, eyes unreadable. His robes were slightly rumpled, as if he'd been outside for too long in the wind, and his hair was more tousled than usual, falling into his eyes. But it was the tension radiating off him that snapped the atmosphere into silence.
Harry straightened. Ron stopped mid-gesture. Hermione sat up, alert.
"Malfoy," Harry said, not really as a greeting, more a reflex.
Draco didn't respond. He walked right past them, every step loud against the quiet floor. There was a stiffness in his posture, as though he were holding something in, clenching it tight. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a flat line.
"Everything alright?" Hermione asked carefully.
Still no answer. Draco didn't even glance at them. He reached for the door to his side of the room—
—then stopped.
The stillness was sharp. Unnatural. Harry could feel Ron tense beside him. He was watching Draco too, eyebrows drawn together.
Draco stood there, hand on the doorframe, back to them. Seconds passed.
Then, he turned.
His eyes locked with Harry's for a single beat.
"You know," Draco said, his voice low, controlled, too even. "For once, I thought being here wouldn't feel like bleeding out slowly. I thought…maybe it could be different. But I was wrong."
Harry blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Draco laughed. Just once. It wasn't amused. It was sharp and brittle.
"You're not as good at hiding your stares as you think you are, Potter."
The room froze.
Ron made a sound—half a scoff, half a question—but Draco ignored him.
"I've had enough of this circus for one night."
He stormed out. The door slammed behind him.
Silence settled like dust.
Ron was the first to speak. "What in Merlin's pants was that about?"
Hermione looked worried. Her eyes flicked to Harry, then the door, then back. "I think he's been holding in more than he lets on."
Harry just sat there, staring at the door. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest.
What had just happened?
He hadn't done anything—had he?
Sure, he'd been glancing at Malfoy more than usual. But it wasn't staring. Not really. It was curiosity. Wariness. Maybe… okay, maybe something else, something unspoken, but it wasn't intentional.
Was it?
"He looked… upset," Harry said, mostly to himself.
Hermione stood. "I'll check the library. Maybe he went back there."
Ron snorted. "More like he went to the dungeons to sulk in his old lair."
Hermione gave him a look and left.
Harry sat in silence, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Draco's words echoed in his head. Bleeding out slowly.
Why had that line hit so hard?
He didn't know when he finally got up. Didn't know when Ron left, muttering something about not letting moody Slytherins ruin their night. But by the time Harry wandered into the other half of the quarters, it was clear.
Draco hadn't come back.
His bed was empty. Neat. The stack of books untouched. No coat. No scarf. No sign.
Harry stood in the doorway for a long time, eyes on the window.
Something about the night felt colder.
And it had nothing to do with the fire going out.