Sunday passed in a blur of overcast skies and And unsaid words.
Harry walked the castle halls like a ghost—present, but distant. He attended meals, answered Hermione when prompted, even laughed weakly at Ron's half-hearted joke about Peeves setting off a swarm of ink bombs in Filch's office. But none of it felt real.
Not when every corridor felt like it might contain a glimpse of platinum-blond hair.
Not when he kept replaying the tower conversation over and over, looking for what he'd missed.
Across the castle, Draco was just as unsettled.
He barely touched his breakfast, again. Pansy asked if he was ill. Blaise arched a brow, then shrugged when Draco gave no answer. Even the first-years at the Slytherin table sensed something was off, avoiding his end of the bench.
But the worst part?
He didn't care what any of them thought.
Just Harry.
Midday – Courtyard
Hermione, Ron, and Harry walked through the courtyard, parchment rolls and textbooks bundled in their arms. It had rained all morning, and the stone underfoot was slick and dark.
"I still think Snape's going to ask us about reverse potion mechanics again," Hermione said, pushing her curls behind her ears. "He's been unusually focused on that this week."
Ron groaned. "Brilliant. More impossible questions from the bat."
Harry wasn't listening.
His eyes had drifted again—to the far archway where Draco stood, alone, pretending to examine a noticeboard.
Ron noticed too.
"You're doing it again," he said flatly.
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Staring. Like he's going to vanish if you look away for too long."
Hermione cut in gently, "Harry—if you want to talk to him… maybe you should."
Harry shook his head. "He's not ready. I don't think I am either."
Ron's frown deepened. "Then stop looking like he stole your heart and broke it."
Harry flushed. "I—he didn't."
"Yet," Ron muttered.
They walked on in silence.
Elsewhere – Snape's Office
Snape sorted through a pile of student essays, occasionally marking them with a swift flick of his quill. His focus faltered when he came across Harry's.
The handwriting was neat. But the answer to question three—something Potter usually nailed—was incomplete. Barely a sentence.
Snape frowned.
He set it aside and leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.
He didn't like this.
Potter's energy had shifted—less reckless, more distracted. Draco's potions were sloppy. Neither of them was themselves.
And worse: they were circling each other like stars caught in a slow, inevitable orbit.
Snape knew that orbit.
He had lived it.
And he knew how easily it could collapse.
Evening – Boys' Dormitory
Harry lay in bed long after lights-out, his curtains drawn tight.
He stared up at the canopy, heart heavy.
Draco's voice from the tower still echoed in his head. "I don't hate you anymore."
It wasn't a confession.
But it was close enough that Harry couldn't stop thinking about what might have come next.
And if Ron hadn't interrupted—
Would he have said more?
Would he have said something too?
Same Time – Slytherin Dorms
Draco curled beneath his covers, arms crossed under his pillow. He hadn't moved in an hour.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Potter.
Not fighting. Not shouting.
Just standing there, seeing him.
And Draco hadn't hated it.
He should've.
But the warmth of that moment had sunk in too deep to shake.
Beneath the blankets, he whispered into the dark:
"I think I already made my choice."