The Great Hall was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning.
Rain drummed steadily against the high arched windows, trailing streaks of water that blurred the sky beyond. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the storm, grey and brooding. A low mist clung to the floors outside, leaving the whole castle feeling as though it had sunk slightly underwater.
Most students huddled over their breakfast in sluggish silence—half-asleep, half-distracted. Cutlery scraped. Tea steamed. Somewhere, a first-year yawned so loudly it echoed.
But at the Gryffindor table, tension curled like smoke around Harry Potter.
He poked at his toast. It had gone cold.
Hermione leaned in close, keeping her voice low. "Have you noticed? He's watching you again."
Harry didn't glance up. "Don't."
"I'm serious." Her eyes flicked toward the Slytherin table. "Malfoy's been staring at you all morning. It's like he's waiting for something."
"I don't want to talk to him," Harry muttered.
"That's not what your eyes say," Ron chimed in, stuffing half a sausage into his mouth. "You keep looking over there like he's some unsolvable riddle."
Harry sighed and rubbed his temple.
It wasn't just curiosity anymore. That had passed weeks ago. What lingered now was something heavier. Messier. It hung in the air between glances and silence like invisible thread. And each day, it pulled tighter.
He did look over.
And Malfoy, true to Hermione's word, wasn't eating. He was sitting stiff-backed, hands folded in front of an untouched plate, jaw tight. His eyes, pale and sharp, were fixed directly on Harry.
And then he looked away.
Like always.
Harry stared at the toast again. His appetite was gone.
At the Slytherin Table
Draco's fingers dug into the edge of the bench.
Pansy was saying something about robes. Blaise was mocking her, as usual. None of it mattered.
He wasn't even pretending to eat anymore. The scrambled eggs looked like pulp.
He told himself not to look again.
He looked anyway.
Potter was already watching him.
For a moment, their eyes locked. Just a second. A single heartbeat too long. Then Draco turned sharply, grabbing his goblet as though it had insulted him.
This was ridiculous.
He was Draco Malfoy. Malfoys did not pine. Malfoys did not lose sleep over boys with messy hair and too many questions in their eyes.
And yet.
When Harry looked at him, Draco felt exposed. Like the mask he'd always worn—arrogance, distance, control—was cracking right down the center.
And he didn't know how to stop it.
Later – The Library
The storm had continued all afternoon, muffling footsteps and cloaking the castle in grey silence.
Snape moved through the aisles of the library like a wraith—soundless, watching.
He hadn't come for books.
He had come for the echoes beneath the surface.
He spotted them easily. Weasley dozing with his face planted against his History of Magic notes. Granger scribbling furiously in the margins of a dense text, quill flicking with precision.
And across from them, Harry.
Still. Quiet. Quill in hand, but not writing.
His gaze was not on his notes.
Snape followed it across the room to where Draco Malfoy sat, back straight, head bowed over a book.
But the pages hadn't turned in ten minutes.
Snape's eyes narrowed.
He'd seen this kind of staring before—back when he'd still been a student himself. The drawn lines of confusion, the unease of feelings not yet understood. It was happening faster than he'd expected. More intensely.
But none of them had any idea what they were stumbling toward.
None of them were ready for what it might become.
That Evening – Gryffindor Tower
The rain had finally stopped by nightfall, but the stone walls still radiated damp chill.
Hermione snapped her book shut and turned toward Harry, who was slumped in an armchair near the fire.
"Harry," she said, her tone deliberate, "is there something going on between you and Malfoy?"
Ron, who had just taken a sip of pumpkin juice, choked. "What?"
Harry blinked. "No."
"Not yet, maybe," Hermione pressed, "but something's happening. You're thinking about him all the time. He's acting strange. You're acting strange."
"I'm not—" Harry started, but even he didn't sound convinced.
Hermione's voice softened. "Look, I'm not judging. I just want you to be honest with yourself."
Harry stood abruptly, pushing his chair back.
"I'm going to bed."
He climbed the stairs two at a time, heart thudding, but Hermione didn't follow.
She didn't need to.
Because he'd said no, but not nothing.
Unseen
From the dark shadows at the top of the staircase—behind the archway few students ever noticed—a pair of sharp black eyes watched the exchange.
Snape stood still, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
He hadn't meant to linger this long. But watching Potter and his friends had become something of a habit since his return. And this moment told him something important.
The line had already blurred.
Curiosity had become concern.
Concern was bleeding into something else.
He exhaled through his nose, quietly, and turned away before anyone could look up.
This was going to get worse before it got better.
And if either of those boys fell too far—
He would be watching.