The morning came far too quickly.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting golden streaks across the floor of the dormitory. The fire had died down to embers during the night, and the room had fallen into a quiet chill. Hermione had already left to get ahead on her Arithmancy notes, and Ron had wandered out moments later, muttering something about needing sausages before facing the day.
Harry was alone. Or so he thought.
He was in the middle of tying his shoes when the door creaked. It was quiet, hesitant—almost like someone was hoping not to be noticed.
Draco.
Harry paused.
Draco stepped into the room looking like a ghost of himself—pale, dark shadows under his eyes, hair a tousled mess like he hadn't slept a second. He wore the same clothes as the day before, slightly wrinkled, a trace of something on his collar—smoke, maybe. Or perfume. But what caught Harry off guard was the mark just under Draco's jaw. A soft purplish-red bruise.
A HICKEY.
Harry blinked.
Draco followed his gaze before turning away too quickly. He muttered something under his breath and headed straight for his bed.
Harry couldn't stop the sudden clench in his chest.
He hadn't expected Draco to be out all night. He hadn't expected him to come back looking like that. With a mark that practically screamed someone else had been close to him—closer than Harry had ever dared to think about.
"Rough night?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.
Draco turned. There was a moment of silence between them, thick and awkward.
"Didn't realise you were keeping tabs," he said coolly, voice scratchy from lack of sleep.
"I'm not."
"Could've fooled me."
Harry folded his arms. "You storm out, disappear, and come back looking like you've been snogging your way through Knockturn Alley. Forgive me for being curious."
Draco's eyes flashed. "That's none of your business."
"Maybe not," Harry said, a bit too quietly. "Still doesn't mean I didn't notice."
There was something sharp beneath his words, but Draco didn't bite back.
Instead, he turned, walked to his dresser, and began taking off his coat.
Harry watched him.
He didn't know what he felt, but it twisted in his chest like a storm building. And it didn't go away, even as Draco disappeared into the bathroom with the door clicking shut behind him.
It lingered.
Just like the bruise.
Draco's POV
Bloody hell.
His head throbbed, sleep-deprived and overrun with the chaos of last night. The cold stone under his feet felt more welcoming than the looks Harry bloody Potter was throwing him the second he walked in. Like he had any right.
Draco kicked the door shut behind him and leaned over the sink. His reflection stared back—a little too honest for his liking. Shirt rumpled, circles under his eyes darker than his pride, and that bloody mark on his neck. Perfect. Like some juvenile scarlet letter.
He splashed water onto his face, scrubbing harder than he needed to.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, then louder, "Why do you care, Potter?"
He could feel those green eyes even now. Judging. Prodding. Pretending not to care while caring just enough to say something that gnawed at Draco's ribs.
He looked back at his reflection. "He thinks I went off and—what? Got laid to spite him?"
Draco let out a bitter laugh, one that didn't reach his eyes.
The truth was less scandalous and more pathetic. He hadn't gone out to sleep with anyone. He'd gone to lose himself, forget how Harry Potter's voice stayed in his head longer than it should. But even that plan had failed. And the mark? That had been a mistake, a moment of weakness he didn't even fully remember.
He ran a towel through his hair roughly.
"It's not like you like me, Potter," he murmured to himself. "So stop looking at me like I've betrayed something you never even offered."
But deep down, he feared Potter did offer something.
And Draco wasn't sure if he was ready to take it.
He closed his eyes and let the silence fill the space, but Harry's gaze still echoed behind his eyelids.
It always did.
Harry's POV
He shouldn't be this bothered.
It was ridiculous, truly.
Harry paced the room slowly, arms crossed, his eyes flicking toward the closed bathroom door every now and then like it might burst open again. As if Draco would walk out and explain everything. As if he owed Harry anything.
But that mark. That stupid bloody mark.
It was burned into Harry's brain now.
And what's worse? He couldn't tell if it was anger or jealousy that made his chest feel tight.
"Why the hell do I care?" he muttered.
He dropped down onto his bed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's none of my business. He's single. He can… snog whoever he wants."
The words tasted bitter, even though they were true.
But still, the image refused to leave him. Draco, flushed and panting, someone else's lips on his neck. Someone else close enough to leave a mark. Someone that wasn't Harry.
"Merlin," he groaned, face in his hands. "Get a grip."
It wasn't like they were friends. Not really. They'd only just started coexisting without wanting to hex each other. Harry wasn't even sure what they were.
Strangers with shared trauma? Rivals caught in a ceasefire?
He didn't know. But he knew he hated the idea of anyone else being close to Malfoy. That irrational part of him wanted to believe that he—Harry—had been the only one to really see the change in him.
The way he softened around his friends. The quiet dignity he wore like armour now. The exhaustion behind his eyes.
And now there was this new piece—a piece Harry hadn't been there for.
He sighed, kicking off his shoes.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Maybe it did.
But if Draco noticed how he looked at him… if he guessed just how often Harry found himself watching the way he moved, or how often his mind drifted to their quietest moments—maybe then he'd understand this ache in Harry's chest.
But Harry would never say it. Not yet.
Not when even he didn't fully understand it himself.
Hogwarts had settled into a strange new rhythm—one stitched together by time, healing, and the unspoken acknowledgment that nothing would ever be quite the same. The echoes of the war still lingered, but they'd softened with the months, replaced by the quiet determination of students who had survived more than their textbooks could teach. The senior year students, once the faces of resistance and grief, had finally found their footing. Their laughter was cautious but more frequent, and their conversations, though sometimes haunted by memories, carried plans for the future—careers, travel, even love.
The castle itself seemed to have adapted, its walls bearing fresh coats of charm and repair, yet still whispering old secrets in the dead of night. Professors gave fewer wary glances, and more second chances, aware that the minds sitting before them carried both trauma and resilience. Friendships had shifted too—former enemies now exchanged nods in the corridor, and house rivalries had simmered into a quiet competitiveness that lacked the bitterness of years past. The first years looked at the seniors with awe, not just because of their spells but because of their stories.
And though life resumed, it did so with reverence—there were names unspoken but remembered, an empty seat or two in each common room, and traditions altered in their honor. Yet Hogwarts breathed, lived, and learned again. The magic felt warmer, steadier, almost like it knew the weight it now held. In this fragile peace, the seniors moved forward—not because they'd forgotten, but because they'd learned how to carry the past without letting it drown the present.