Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The castle isn’t the same. It tries to be. The magic holds. The staircases still move, the portraits still grumble, the owls still swoop overhead at breakfast. But something beneath all of that—the heartbeat of the place, maybe—feels... off. Slower. Older. Bruised. 

Harry doesn’t know what he expected when he stepped off the train and saw Hogwarts again. Maybe he thought it would feel like coming home. But the truth is, it feels more like a place that used to be his. Like walking through the burnt-out shell of something you loved realizing, quietly, that it doesn’t love you back anymore. 

It’s Harrys Eighth year, but it’s not really a year like the others. There are no exams and no Quidditch. Some students came back because they wanted to finish properly. Others came because they didn't know what else to do. Harry falls into the second group. Ron, too, though he’ll never admit it. Hermione came back to learn. Harry came back to... not think. Or to think differently. He’s not sure which. 

Theres something fragile about everything now. Laughter doesn’t ring the same way. No one shouts in the corridors. Even Peeves seems subdued. The castle was rebuilt, yes, but the people inside it weren’t. Not really. 

Some of them came back with pieces missing. Others are just trying not to fall apart. 

Harry’s days blur. He attends classes out of habit. Tranfiguration. Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by a painfully gentle witch who never looks anyone in the eye for more than a few seconds. They study healing spells now. Repair work. Restoration. No one talks about the war, but it’s in everything they do. 

At meals, Harry sits with Ron and Hermione. Their corner of the Gryffindor table is quieter than it used to be. Lavender's seat remains empty. Seamus still tries to tell jokes, but his laugh doesn’t reach his eyes. Dean draws in the margins of his notes. Neville didn’t return. 

Harry doesn't blame him. 

He doesn’t talk much. Not because he has nothing to say, but because he doesn’t trust the sound of his own voice anymore. It feels thin. Brittle. Like glass under pressure. He listens. Nods. Responds when prompted. Smiles when it’s expected. But he’s not really there. 

And then there’s Malfoy. 

Harry hadn’t noticed him right away. Not on the train. Not even during the welcoming feast. His presence was like a strange trick of the light—there, but only if you looked at the edges. It was Hermione who first mentioned it, in a low voice over breakfast. 

“Did you know Malfoys back?” 

Harry blinked “What?” 

“Draco Malfoy,” she repeated. “He’s in our year again.” 

He glanced down the table of Slytherins, and sure enough, there he was. Sitting alone. Shoulders hunched, face pale, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him like it might attack if he looked away. No one sat within three feet of him. 

Harry hadn’t even realized. 

He expected some kind of reaction from himself. Hatred, maybe. Or at least irritation. But all he felt was a strange, hollow sort of recognition. Like seeing something from a dream. Something you forgot mattered until it showed up in front of you again. 

He hadn’t thought about Malfoy in months. Not since the trial. Not since standing in that too-bright courtroom and telling the truth in a voice that didn't sound like his own. He didn’t give us away. He let us go. He hesitated. It hadn’t been a defense. Just facts. He hadn’t even looked at Malfoy while he said it. 

Malfoy hadn’t looked at him, either. 

Now, watching him across the Hall, Harry can’t quite place the feeling that stirs in his chest. It’s not anger. Not sympathy. Just... something. Something like confusion. Or curiosity. Or maybe it’s nothing at all 

He tells himself that. 

He sees Malfoy around the castle after that. Not often. Not intentionally. Just in passing—in doorways, in hallways, once in the library, curled in the corner with a book he wasn’t reading. He never speaks. No one does. He moves through the castle like someone trying to leave as little evidence of his existence as possible. 

Harry doesn’t watch him—often. He just... notices. 

Like how Malfoy always waits for everyone else to leave the classroom before he stands. Or how he walks with his head down, as if making eye contact might be dangerous. Or how his hands twitch sometimes, like they’re searching for something to hold. 

He never thought of Malfoy as quiet before. But now, the silence is the first thing Harry associates with him. 

Still, he doesn't think much of it. It’s not important. It’s just another strange detail in a school full of strange details. The war made ghosts out of everyone. Malfoy is just one of them. 

There’s a heaviness to the walls now. Like they’ve seen too much. Even the sunlight doesn’t land quite right—like it’s filtered through a memory before it touches anything. The windows catch it and scatter it, fractured and faded. 

He doesn’t talk about it. No one really does. The silence is part of the routine now. You wake up, you go to class, you don't talk about the ghosts. 

Some of them are literal. The Fat Friar is quieter. The Grey Lady lingers longer in doorways, as though trying to say something but thinking better of it every time. Even Nearly Headless Nick smiles less. 

But it’s the living that seems the most haunted. 

Malfoy isn’t the only one. Hannah Abbott flinches every time a door slams. Ernie Macmillan hasn’t made eye contact with anyone since September. Susan Bones carries a little book everywhere, filled with notes she never shows anyone. And Harry knows—he knows—he’s not the only one walking around like a shadow of someone who used to be real. 

Still, there’s something different about the way Malfoy carries it. 

Some students still sneer when they pass him. Some don’t even look. Most, Harry notices, do what he does—register Malfoy, then pretend they didn’t. 

It’s easier that way. 

Malfoy never reacts. Never lifts his head. Never speaks unless directly spoken to, and even then, its clipped, minimal, like words cost more than they used to. 

He sits at the end of every classroom. He walks on the edges of crowds. He eats quickly and alone. 

He’s not trying to be part of anything. He’s trying to be invisible. 

And Harry—without meaning to—keeps noticing that he fails. 

It’s stupid, really. Irritating. How Malfoy stands out by trying not to. Like the absence he’s creating only makes his presence louder. 

Harry doesn’t know what he wants from it. He doesn’t even think he wants anything. It’s just... there. A persistent awareness. A tiny thread tugging at the edge of his attention. 

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Ron, not to Hermione, and definitely not to himself. 

But he catches himself watching sometimes. Not staring. Just tracking...? 

Where Malfoy sits. How he walks. Whether he’s in class that day or not. 

And when he’s not, something inside Harry bristles—not with concern, not really—but with the kind of attention you give a noise in the dark. 

~ 

Harry’s leaving the library late, past curfew, his arms full of books he doesn’t remember picking out. He’s walking on autopilot, feet carrying him back toward the tower without direction. And then, at the end of the corridor, there’s movement. 

He slows. 

Malfoy. 

Sitting on the stone floor, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up to his chest. His back is against the wall, and his head is tilted, eyes half-lidded, not quite closed. He doesn’t look up when Harry rounds the corner. 

Harry doesn’t know what to do. He hesitates. Keeps walking. 

Malfoy must hear the footsteps because he flinches, barely. Straightens. And then his eyes are on Harry’s, just for a second. 

They don’t say anything. 

Harry doesn’t stop, but his pace slows. Malfoy doesn’t move. His expression isn’t defiant, or scared, or angry. Just blank. 

And then Harry’s past him, the moment breaking behind him like a wave. 

He doesn’t look back. 

But that night, when Harry lies in bed staring at the ceiling, the image lingers. The tilt of Malfoys head. The hollowness in his eyes. The silence. 

It didn’t feel like a memory exactly... more like a question that never got asked. 

The days continue. Slowly. Unevenly. 

~ 

The weather begins to cool. The leaves turn. Classes slip into routine. Ron’s laughter comes more often now, though it’s still a little too loud, like he’s trying to fill space. Hermione reads more than she speaks. Harry drifts between them like a half-formed thought. 

Sometimes he thinks he should feel something stronger. Greif, maybe. Or rage. Or guilt. There’s a version of him, somewhere, who does. But that harry didn’t come back to Hogwarts. 

This Harry is tired. 

~ 

One evening, while walking back from dinner, Harry spots Malfoy again. On the edge of the courtyard, standing alone. He’s facing the lake, unmoving, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

Harry keeps walking. But something in him twists. Not sympathy. More like familiarity. 

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t question it. 

He doesn’t tell Ron or Hermione. 

~ 

The second time he sees Malfoy that night it’s on the Astronomy Tower. 

Harry had left the common room without thinking—just needed to move, needed air, needed to be anywhere else. His feet led him there. 

And there's Malfoy again. 

This time, standing. Looking over the edge like it might give him something. His fingers clutching the railing. 

Harry stops. 

He could turn around. Should, maybe. 

But instead, he clears his throat. 

The first time they speak it’s barely speaking at all. 

He doesn’t know what he expects. Maybe for Malfoy to snap. To crack. To say something familiar and cruel. 

But that never comes. 

Malfoy startles—barely, but it’s there—and glances over his shoulder. 

His mouth tightens. 

“Potter.” he says. Not a greeting, or a challange. Just a word. A name. 

Harry blinked. “You alright?” 

The question surprises the both of them. 

Malfoy stares. “What do you care?” 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t.” It comes out too quickly. 

They stare at each other for a moment longer, then Malfoy turns back to the railing. 

Harry waits and sighs. He doesn’t know why. 

Then he leaves. 

He doesn’t sleep that night, but when he closes his eyes, he sees the boy with his hand clutched around the railing. 

Not jumping but considering it. 

He doesn’t think about Malfoy. 

He tells himself that often. 

Malfoy is just another person trying to survive this place. Just another scar on stone. 

Harry just happens to notice him more than most. 

That’s all. 

Really. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s halfway to the library when he hears it—someone arguing in clipped tones, words bouncing off the stone like thrown daggers.  

“I said move, Parkinson. Merlin, do you need a bloody invitation?”  

“I’m not in your way, Draco, you absolute—”  

The rest is muffled, but Harry doesn’t need to hear it to know the tone. He recognizes it by now. Malfoy’s voice—curt, exasperated, like every word is a burden and everyone around him is incompetent for not reading his mind.  

Harry considers turning around. He doesn’t particularly want to walk straight into a confrontation, especially not before breakfast, but he’s already too close. His footsteps draw attention, and suddenly Malfoy’s head snaps in his direction  

He’s standing with a group of Slytherins near the corridor that leads to Arithmancy. Pansy’s arms are crossed, her chin tilted upward in defiance, while Blaise Zabini looks utterly bored by the scene.  

Malfoy’s eyes landed on Harry, narrow immediately. “Brilliant. Here to add your voice to the choir, Potter?”  

Harry blinks, taken off guard by the sudden hostility. “Just walking,” he says flatly.  

“Fascinating. Do you announce all your pedestrian activities, or am I just lucky?”  

Harry doesn’t rise to it. He doesn’t have the energy. “You’re the one yelling at everyone.”  

Malfoy scoffs. “Forgive me if I prefer not to be trampled by Pansy’s delusions of punctuality.”  

“You’re the one who was late,” Pansy snaps “Again.”  

“Not late. Delayed. Theres a distinction—though I understand nuance is difficult for some.”  

Harry walks past them without saying a word. He can feel Malfoys glare like static electricity behind his back.  

There are more arguments like that. In classes, in corridors, once even in the library, where Madam Pince came scuttling over like a vulture to break it up before Malfoy could throw a hex. He doesn’t target just Gryffindors or just Muggleborns—he snaps at everyone with equal disdain.  

And they’ve stopped ignoring it.  

One afternoon in Potions, Malfoy rolls his eyes so hard at Deans question about wolfsbane that the entire bench hears it.  

Dean, deadpan, doesn’t even turn around. “Sorry. Didn’t realize breathing near you was a personal offense.”  

“It is when it's as loud as your thinking.” Malfoy mutters.  

“Draco,” Their professor says warningly from the front.  

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to improve the acoustics in here.”   

Harry watches it all with a growing sense of unease. It’s not just Malfoy being a prick—he’s always been a prick. It’s the way his insults hit too hard, the way he seems to go looking for fights, the way he isolates himself with each one. Like he’s trying to drive everyone away on purpose.  

Maybe he is.  

Hermione says as much one evening in the common room. She’s curled into a worn armchair, her knees drawn up and a book in her lap.  

“He’s pushing people away,” she says, not looking up. “Deliberately.”  

Ron snorts. “Some things never change.”  

“It’s not the same,” she says. “He doesn’t care if he’s liked anymore. He just wants to be left alone.”  

“Well, it’s working.”  

Harry says nothing. He’s still thinking about the look on Malfoys face when Seamus snapped back at him earlier that day in Charms. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even smug satisfaction. It was blank. Like he’d expected it.  

Or worse—like he hadn’t expected anything at all.  

~  

The nights are quieter, but not peaceful. Harry walks more often now. He doesn't know why. Maybe it’s the restlessness. Maybe it’s the silence in the dorm that feels like pressure in his chest.  

He never tells Ron and Hermione. They wouldn’t stop him, but they’d worry, and he doesn’t want to be worried about.  

He finds himself, again, in the corridor behind the library.  

And again, Malfoy is there.  

He’s sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled to his chest, back against the wall. His robes askew, and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His eyes are open but unfocused.  

Harry freezes at the corner.  

He could leave. Should.  

But instead, he clears his throat.  

Malfoy doesn't look up right away. When he does, his expression sharpens immediately. “What?”  

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Harry says, trying for casual.  

“Well,” Malfoy snaps, “maybe you should raise your expectations. Or lower them. Whichever makes you leave faster.”  

Harry doesn’t move.  

Malfoy glares. “Don’t tell me you’re here for a heart-to-heart.”  

Harry shrugs. “Not really known for those, am I?”  

A tense silence settles between them.  

Then Malfoy says, without looking at him, “This corridor isn’t yours.”  

“Didn’t say it was.”  

“Then go away.”  

Harry wants to. But something keeps him rooted. Not concern, not sympathy—just curiosity, maybe? Or defiance.  

“Why this spot?” he asks.  

Malfoy laughs. It’s a bitter sound. “God, you're nosy. Do you interrogate every student you pass or just the ones you testified for in court?”  

Harry’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t—”  

“Spare me,” Malfoy says, standing now “I don’t need your apologies. Or your pity. Or whatever you think this is.”  

“I don’t think it’s anything.”  

“Exactly.”  

Malfoy brushes past him, shoulder knocking into Harrys as he goes.  

Harry stays a moment longer, staring at the spot Malfoy left behind.  

~  

In Transfiguration, Malfoy gets into it with Padma Patil over spell phrasing. The argument spirals fast—sharp syllables, clashing logic, escalating volume. McGonagall steps in before it can turn into something worse.  

“You will both lower your voices,” she says cooly. “Mr. Malfoy, if you cannot participate constructively, I suggest you reflect in silence.”  

Malfoy glares, but says nothing.  

After class, Harry hears Padma mutter to her sister, “I don’t care how tragic his life was—he’s still a twat.”  

No one disagrees.  

~  

Draco is everywhere and nowhere.  

He’s in the library, snapping at anyone who speaks above a whisper. He’s in the common areas, shoulders hunched, and arms crossed like he’s physically warding people off... He’s in class, raising his hand not to contribute, but to argue.  

And Harry sees him more than he means to.  

Once, late at night he spots him out by the green houses, pacing. Another time in the Owlery, alone and silent, watching a barn owl disappear into the dark.  

Harry never approaches. But he notices.  

It’s not the noticing that bothers him. It’s the fact that he can't stop.  

~  

It comes to a head during a group project in Defense. Of course it does.  

They’re paired off at random, which put Malfoy with Hannah Abbott and Terry Boot. It’s like lighting a match near dry parchment.  

“Why would you use that spell?” Malfoy demands, ten minutes into the planning.  

“Because it works?” Terry says, baffled.  

“Works if you want to burn your eyebrows off, maybe.”  

“I’ve used it before!”  

“Poorly.”  

Harry’s across the room, trying to focus, but Malfoys voice keeps rising.  

“I’m not going to risk a practice duel with someone who thinks Protego is optional,” he sneers.  

Hannah frowns. “You don’t have to be such a prick about it.”  

“Really? Because it seems like I do.”  

Boot slams his book shut. “Fine. You do it, Malfoy. Do it all.”  

“Oh, believe me, I will.”  

There’s a scraping of chairs as the group breaks apart. Malfoy stands in the center, jaw tight, alone again.  

He doesn’t seem surprised. Harry’s halfway through his Charms essay that evening, words bleeding together in a haze of ink and fatigue, when a sharp knock at the library table jolts him.  

“Move,” someone says.  

He looks up to find Draco Malfoy standing over him, expression drawn tight, eyes flashing with irritation. A stack of books in his arms.  

Harry frowns. “What?”  

“This is my spot,” Malfoy says, clipped. “I always sit here.”  

Harry glances at the mostly empty library. “Plenty of other tables.”  

“Yes, well, this one has the best lighting, the fewest distractions, and—more importantly—you’re sitting in my chair.”  

Harry leans back in it, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize they were engraved.”  

Malfoy lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Do you have to make everything a contest?”  

“Do you have to make everything an insult?”  

“I’m not the one lounging like a troll in someone else’s seat.”  

“You’re not the only one who uses the library, Malfoy.”  

“No,” he says coldly. “Just the only one who actually reads.”  

The dumb insult lands harder than it should. Harry feels heat prick behind his eyes, but he doesn’t look away.  

“Fine,” he mutters, gathering his things. “You want it so bad, have it.”  

He pushes his chair back with unnecessary force, the legs scraping loudly. Malfoy doesn’t thank him—doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just sweeps into the seat like a king reclaiming a throne and opens a book with exaggerated delicacy.  

Harry stalks off to another table near the back, seething.  

Later, when he tries to recall what he’d written before the interruption, his parchment remains stubbornly blank.  

~  

The tension builds.  

Not just between them—though that, too—but in the halls, in the air. Everyone feels it. The pressure of being back, of pretending things are fine. People are fraying.  

Seamus and Ernie get into a shouting match over the lack of Quidditch this school year. Pansy slaps a Ravenclaw for knocking over her inkpot and doesn’t apologize. Parvati cries in the lavatory for twenty minutes, and no one asks why.  

In Herbology, he tells a Hufflepuff that if they can’t differentiate between venomous and a non-venomous tentacula, they should consider a career in embroidery. In History, he corrects the professor mid-lecture and nearly starts a duel with Anothony Goldstein. In the corridor, he snipes at Luna Lovegood for humming.  

“Is there some kind of internal frequency you’re trying to tune into,” he drawls, “or are you just making noise for the thrill of it?”  

She blinks at him. “I like how it echoes.”  

Harry watches the exchange with something like disbelief. “What’s wrong with you?”  

Malfoys head snaps towards him. “Excuse me?”  

“You’re picking fights with everyone who breathes.”  

“I didn’t realize being allergic to idiocy was a crime now.”  

“It’s not,” Harry says, stepping closer, “but being a prick all the time sort of is.”  

“Oh, how noble of you to defend the castle’s honor. What's next? Leading group therapy for the emotionally stunted?”  

Harry's jaw tightens. “Maybe I'll start with you.”  

Malfoys smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  

They walk away from each other in opposite directions. Neither looks back.  

~  

A week later, Harry’s on patrol with Hermione when they hear raised voices near the Trophy Room. She sighs before they even turn the corner.  

“I swear, if its Malfoy again—”  

It is.  

He’s squared off with Justin Finch-Fletchley, wand out, voice razor-sharp. The words are indistinct at first, but the venom is clear.  

“—maybe if you spent more time practicing and less time posturing, you’d be able to produce more than a puff of smoke.”  

“At least I don’t cheat my way through assignments,” Justin retorts.  

“What are you implying Fletchley?”  

“You’re a coward.” Justin snaps.  

Before either of them can draw wands properly, Hermione steps in, her voice like a blade. “Enough.”  

They freeze.  

“I will not have duels in the corridors over homework,” she says. “Put your wands away or I'll take points from both of you.”  

Malfoy hesitates—but only for a second. Then the pockets his wand and mutters mockingly, “As you command, Granger”  

The way he says it—like it’s a joke no one else is in on—makes Harry bristle.  

After Justin stalks off, Harry catches Malfoys sleeve. “What are you doing?”  

Malfoy shakes him off immediately. “Don’t touch me.”  

“Why are you trying to get kicked out?”  

“I’m not.”  

“Sure seems like it.”  

“And what would you know about it?” Malfoy spits. “You’re the poster boy for second chances. You got to come back a hero. I came back a footnote.”  

“You think I—” Harry cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “You think I like being back here?”  

Malfoy steps forward, voice low and dangerous. “You like being needed. Being looked at. Being forgiven.”  

Harry doesn’t back down. “You’re wrong.”  

“I’m used to that,” Malfoy says, “Everyone tells me.”  

Then he turns on his heel and walks away.  

Hermione catches up to Harry as he stares after him.  

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” she says gently, “but I don’t think he wants your help.”  

Harry doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he was trying to help at all.  

~  

The next blow-up comes in Defense—again.  

They’re meant to partner off and demonstrate counter-jinxes. The instructions are clear. Simple. But no one wants to be with Malfoy, and he doesn’t volunteer.  

When Tuttle pairs him with Harry, the entire room tenses.  

Harry sighs. Of course.  

They face off, wants raised. Malfoy doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t speak.  

Tuttle gives the signal, and Harry casts a mild jinx—one meant to loosen grip.  

Malfoy blocks it, then fires back a stunning spell that's far too strong for classroom standards.  

Harry barely deflects it.  

“What the hell was that?” he snaps.  

Malfoys expression is unreadable. “A counter.”  

“That wasn’t a counter, that was an attack.”  

“Oh, forgive me,” Malfoy says cooly. “I thought you’d appreciate something more challenging than a tickling hex.”  

“Are you trying to get detention, or is it just a perk at this point?”  

Tuttle intervenes before it can escalate, but the air crackles with unspoken rage.  

After class, Harry follows him into the corridor.  

“Oi—Malfoy.”  

Draco stops, turns slowly. “Don’t you have Gryffindors to coddle?”  

“What’s your problem?”  

“Besides you?” His tone is pure venom.  

“You’re pushing people away on purpose.”  

“Maybe i don’t want them close.”  

“Then why come back?” Harry demands. “Why put yourself through this if you’re just going to make everyone hate you?”  

For a second, something flickers across Malfoys face. Not emotion, exactly. But maybe its absence.  

“Because leaving wasn’t an option.”  

Harry frowns. “What does that mean?”  

“It means,” Malfoy says, stepping in close, voice quiet but cutting, “that some of us don’t get to choose how we survive, Potter.”  

Harry doesn’t move. “You think I had choices?”  

“No. I think you had people.”  

They stare at each other, the space between them taut and crackling.  

Then Malfoy breaks it with a bitter smirk. “Enjoy your moral high ground. Let me know how the view is.”  

He walks away.  

Harry lets him.  

But he doesn’t stop thinking about it.  

About the look in Malfoys eyes—cold and tired and something else. Something hollow.  

~  

That night, Harry can't sleep. The dormitory is too quiet. Too still.  

He gets up, pulls on a jumper, and leaves without knowing where he’s going.  

The halls are mostly empty, shadows long and familiar. When he turns a corner toward the Astronomy Tower stairs, he nearly crashes into Malfoy.  

They both stop.  

Harry’s pulse jumps. “Of course.”  

Malfoy looks like he hasn’t slept either. His robes are wrinkled, eyes shadowed.  

“Taking a stroll, Potter?” he says dryly.  

Harry crosses his arms. “You always wander around when you’re angry, or is this new?”  

Malfoys jaw tightens. “Don’t start.”  

“You already did.”  

“You followed me.”  

“I didn’t know you were here.”  

“Well,” Malfoy snaps, “congratulations. Now you do. You can go.”  

Harry doesn’t.  

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Why do you care?”  

“I don’t,” Harry lies.  

“Could’ve fooled me.”  

“Why are you like this?” Harry finally asks. “Why are you making it worse for yourself?”  

Malfoy steps forward. “Because i can. Because it’s mine to ruin.”  

“Thats—”  

“What, Potter?” he hisses. “Self-destructive? Unhelpful? Immature?”  

Harry doesn’t answer.  

Malfoys face hardens. “You don’t get to save me. Don’t pretend you want to.”  

“I don’t.”  

“Then stop following me. Stop watching me like I'm some tragic charity case you’ve been assigned.”  

“I’m not—”  

“I don’t need your pity,” Malfoy snaps, stepping back. “I don’t need anything from you.”  

“Good,” Harry says, anger rising to meet his. “Because I’ve got nothing left to give.”  

They stand there, breathing hard, eyes locked.  

Then Malfoy shakes his head, a bitter sound catching in his throat.  

“Perfect,” he mutters. “Exactly what i expected.”  

He turns and disappears down the corridor.  

Harry doesn’t call after him.  

He leans against the wall, eyes closed, heart pounding.  

He doesn’t understand what just happened.  

He doesn’t know if he wants to.