Draco had a routine.
He dressed before the others, took his tea without sugar, and always arrived at breakfast five minutes late—just enough time to look like he didn't care. He sneered on cue, rolled his eyes at everything Weasley said, and made sure to keep a casual distance between himself and Potter.
Always casual.
But lately, something was wrong.
It started in Defense Against the Dark Arts. They'd been grouped for a practical exercise. Professor Lupin had paired Draco with Harry and Hermione—a decision that made Draco scowl, but not protest.
As Hermione led them through spellwork, Harry corrected Draco's wand position. "Like this," he said, reaching for Draco's wrist without hesitation.
Their hands touched.
Just skin. Brief. Meaningless.
But Draco's stomach flipped like he'd flown upside down. He yanked his arm back, muttering something about Potter's arrogance. Harry frowned, confused but unbothered, and turned back to the target dummy.
Draco stared at his hand.
Why did it still feel warm?
That night, Draco sat on the edge of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, staring at the floor. His fingers tapped his knee. His other hand clenched.
He didn't know what was happening to him.
He'd always hated Potter—his self-righteousness, his fame, his irritating Gryffindor loyalty. But recently, Draco found himself watching him when he laughed, or when he pushed his fringe aside without realizing. He noticed the way Harry leaned forward when he was focused, the quiet furrow of his brow when he read something carefully.
It wasn't just observation anymore.
It was... something else.
And that something terrified him.
The next day, the prank war resumed—but it wasn't like before. It had cooled after their detention in the forest, after that moment they all shared when Snape saved them. Something had shifted.
Still, Draco couldn't stop himself.
In Transfiguration, Harry's chair made a sheep-like bleat every time he shifted. The class erupted in laughter. Harry turned red, but he smiled and shot a look at Draco that was somewhere between annoyance and amusement.
At lunch, Harry retaliated—Draco's goblet turned into a squeaky rubber duck. Pansy shrieked. Blaise choked on pumpkin juice. Draco stared at it, stunned, then burst into laughter.
It was the first time Harry had seen Draco laugh properly.
It was genuine.
And it made Harry pause, fork halfway to his mouth.
Draco caught him staring, and the laughter stopped.
Just like that, the mask came back down.
That evening, Snape called Draco to his office. The older man studied him in silence, hands steepled under his chin.
"You've been... different," Snape said finally.
Draco tensed. "Different how?"
"Less cruel. Less predictable. You flinch when someone mentions Potter now instead of snarling."
Draco's throat tightened. "Maybe I'm tired."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe the mask is slipping."
Draco said nothing.
"You cannot afford to be careless, Draco. Not in the months to come."
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Draco left without replying.
Later that night, he wandered the castle halls alone. It was nearly curfew, but he didn't care.
Near the astronomy tower stairwell, he found Harry.
Leaning on the window ledge, staring at the stars.
Draco considered turning around—but he didn't.
"You always sneak around before curfew?" he asked, voice softer than usual.
Harry glanced back, unsurprised. "Sometimes."
Draco stepped beside him. Their shoulders didn't touch. Not yet.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Harry said, "You were different today."
Draco stiffened.
Harry smiled faintly. "It was nice. The laughing, I mean."
Something cracked in Draco's chest.
"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but his voice lacked venom.
Harry didn't press.
Instead, they stood in silence, side by side, the stars watching.
And Draco didn't move away.