Draco didn't mean to be out this late.
The Astronomy Tower was cold—biting, really—with the wind cutting through his robes and tugging at the collar of his cloak. But the chill was welcome. It cut through the static in his head, the noise that never seemed to stop anymore.
He stood by the ledge, hands curled around the cold stone, and stared out over the dark grounds. The Forbidden Forest was nothing but a shadowed silhouette against the faint glow of the moon, the lake a black sheet of glass in the distance.
Everything was too quiet. And yet, his thoughts were too loud.
He tried not to think of Potter. But of course, that was exactly what he thought of.
Not because he wanted to. Just… because he couldn't seem to stop.
The silence was broken by the soft scuff of a shoe behind him.
Draco turned on instinct, wand hand twitching—only to see a familiar silhouette framed in the archway, a soft lumos hovering in the boy's palm.
Harry Potter.
Of course.
"Didn't think anyone else came here at night," Harry said, almost sheepish.
Draco turned his face back to the view. "Go away."
"I could," Harry said, stepping into the open air. "But you didn't leave when I came in."
Draco didn't reply.
The wind carried silence between them, thick with everything neither of them had said.
"You've been quiet lately," Harry said. "Weirdly quiet. Like you want to say something every time we cross paths, but you never do."
Draco's jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened. "Maybe I just don't want to talk to you."
Harry stepped forward. "That's not true."
"How do you know?"
"Because I can tell when someone's lying." Harry's voice dropped. "I've had enough practice."
Draco turned slowly, his eyes sharp in the moonlight. "Why does it matter to you?"
"I don't know," Harry answered honestly.
And that was worse.
Because if Draco could blame it on pity, on curiosity, even on rivalry—he could distance himself. He could survive it.
But honesty?
That made everything messier.
Draco looked away again, gripping the edge of the ledge until his knuckles turned white.
"I don't hate you anymore," he said, voice low, like it had been dragged out of him.
Harry blinked. "Okay…"
"I mean…" Draco's throat bobbed. "I don't know what I feel anymore. That's the problem."
For a long moment, Harry didn't say anything. His expression didn't shift. No smirk, no mockery. Just stillness.
"Do you want to hate me?" he asked finally.
Draco looked at him again.
Harry's eyes—green and strange and steady—held none of the coldness he remembered from his nightmares. They held something else. Something that unnerved him.
"No," Draco said. Quiet. Honest.
Their eyes held for too long.
Something was there. Undefined. Untouchable. Like a storm on the edge of the horizon.
Before either of them could move, a voice rang up from the stairwell below.
"Harry!"
Draco flinched, snapping his head toward the sound.
Harry stepped back, wand lowering slightly.
"Brilliant," Draco muttered.
Moments later, Ron Weasley burst through the door, face flushed and hair damp from the mist. His eyes immediately landed on Draco—and narrowed.
"Mate, what are you doing up here—with him?"
Harry sighed, already bracing for the conversation. "Ron—"
"I'm not trying to fight," Ron said, hands up. "But whatever's going on here? It's not good for you."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Nice to see your concern, Weasley."
Ron's jaw tightened. "I wasn't talking to you, Malfoy."
Harry stepped between them, exasperated. "He didn't do anything, alright?"
"That's the problem," Ron snapped. "You keep defending him. Like he's one of us."
"He's trying."
"Are you sure you're not the only one trying to make this something it's not?"
That landed harder than Ron intended. Harry faltered, and the sting of doubt flickered across his face.
Ron's tone softened. "I'm just… I'm just trying to look out for you, mate. You've got enough on your plate. You don't need this."
Draco's expression didn't change, but something in him shut down. The brief flicker of openness vanished. His eyes went cold, face flattening into something unreadable.
"Whatever this is," Ron added, "it's only going to get messy."
Harry turned, ready to speak—but the space beside him was empty.
Draco was already gone, disappearing down the stairs, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
Elsewhere
Snape sat alone at his desk, long after the curfew bell had chimed.
A single candle flickered beside him, casting long shadows over parchment filled with half-corrected essays. He hadn't touched them in a while.
He'd seen Potter leaving the tower. Alone. Again.
He hadn't intervened. Not yet. But he watched. He always watched.
This was getting complicated. Lines were beginning to cross and blur—some that weren't meant to.
He remembered what it was like to feel things you weren't supposed to. To stand too close to something dangerous and still reach anyway.
The difference was: Snape had made peace with the cost of his mistakes.
These boys had not.
And if someone didn't keep a close enough eye—
Well.
He wasn't about to let them destroy each other.
Not this time.