Professor Snape was not a man prone to sentiment, but he had always believed in the value of observation. And what he had been observing lately was odd—alarming, even.
Draco Malfoy, once proudly insufferable, had become... quiet.
No hexed quills. No enchanted slime. No verbal sparring with Potter in the middle of class. He still walked with his usual arrogant posture, but it was missing its edge. Like a puppet still dancing, long after the strings had snapped.
And Potter, oblivious as always, was only just beginning to notice.
It was during Thursday's double Potions when the atmosphere shifted.
Harry sat beside Ron, chopping moonseed pods with half his focus, his eyes drifting to the side more often than not. Draco was at his usual table, working alone. That wasn't new—Snape never made him share. But what was new was the expression on Draco's face.
Not smug. Not bored.
Just... tired.
Snape paced slowly between tables. He didn't say anything when Draco's stirring went clockwise instead of counterclockwise. He merely narrowed his eyes and said in passing, "Fix it."
Draco did. Without complaint.
Snape caught Harry watching and barked, "Focus, Potter, or your cauldron will boil over."
Harry jumped and turned back to his work—but the seed of curiosity was planted.
After Class
Ron and Hermione had already gone ahead, chatting about dinner plans and Herbology assignments, but Harry lingered, packing up slowly.
Draco was still at his table, rolling up parchment and dabbing ink off his fingers with care that felt... deliberate. Stalling.
Harry hesitated. Then: "Hey, Malfoy."
Draco's eyes lifted. Not with malice, but surprise. "What?"
"You haven't insulted me in a week. You feeling alright?"
Draco gave him a strange smile. "Don't flatter yourself. I've just run out of material."
Harry snorted. "Yeah, right."
A pause.
Then Draco added, voice quieter: "Maybe you've stopped being worth the effort."
That stung more than Harry expected. But Draco didn't say it cruelly. He looked almost… sad.
Harry frowned. "That doesn't sound like you."
"No," Draco said, standing. "It doesn't."
And he walked out, leaving Harry staring after him.
Snape's Office
Later that evening, Snape sat in his study, reading essays with narrowed eyes and a glass of firewhisky untouched beside him. He set down a fourth-year's scroll and leaned back in his chair.
The Malfoy boy was unraveling. It wasn't obvious yet, but Snape saw the signs. The way Draco's hands lingered near Harry in the corridor, like he wanted to reach out and didn't know why. The way he glanced up every time Potter laughed—frowning like he couldn't understand the sound.
Snape wasn't a fool. He knew how this sort of thing started.
What worried him more was how it might end.
Gryffindor Common Room
That night, Harry sat curled in a corner armchair, the fire casting flickering gold on his face.
"He's acting strange," he said.
Hermione looked up from her book. "Malfoy?"
Harry nodded. "He said I'm not worth insulting anymore."
Hermione blinked. "That's almost... introspective."
"Exactly! What if he's planning something?"
Ron, who was half-asleep beside a pile of Bertie Bott's wrappers, muttered, "You both think too much about him."
Maybe they did.
But Harry couldn't stop thinking about the way Draco's voice had sounded—not cruel, not smug.
Just... quiet.
Like he was losing a war he hadn't told anyone he was fighting.