Draco Malfoy didn't return to the Slytherin dorms that night.
Instead, he wandered the endless stone corridors of Hogwarts, each step echoing like a question he couldn't answer. The castle was silent, heavy with sleep. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows, and the portraits along the walls dozed in their frames, murmuring softly in dreams.
He wasn't hiding. At least, that's what he told himself. He was thinking. Reflecting.
Avoiding.
The cold air bit through his robes, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the look on Potter's face, the quiet concern in those stupid green eyes. The shock when Ron interrupted. The way something—something Draco hadn't named yet—broke between them in that moment.
It was safer not to feel anything.
Safer to stay alone.
But that didn't stop the ache in his chest.
He ended up on the third-floor corridor, where the old suits of armor stood like sentinels, unmoving and mute. He slumped onto a bench beneath one of the windows, hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight.
What am I even doing?
He didn't hear the footsteps. He didn't have to.
"I didn't expect to find you here," came Snape's voice, quiet as the shadows.
Draco startled and turned his head. Snape stood a few feet away, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"You're out late," he said, stepping closer.
Draco lowered his gaze. "So dock points. Give me detention. Whatever."
But Snape only tilted his head. "That's not why I'm here."
Draco didn't reply.
Snape sat beside him, his robes rustling softly against the stone bench.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them like an old thread—worn, but unbroken.
Then Snape said quietly, "You're not sleeping."
Draco blinked. "How would you—"
"I know the signs. You're tired. Restless. Distracted. Your potion on Wednesday nearly exploded."
Draco huffed a humorless breath. "Yeah. Sorry about that."
Snape didn't comment on the apology.
Instead, his tone shifted—lower, softer. "You're not just confused. You're afraid. Of what it means to feel something that doesn't fit your name. Your house. Your father's expectations."
The words struck like a spell.
Draco didn't deny it.
He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap.
"He'd hate me," he whispered. "If he knew."
"Lucius's hatred is a badge, not a burden," Snape said coldly. "Let it weigh less on your shoulders."
Draco's mouth twisted. "Easy for you to say."
Snape's eyes flashed. "Do you think it was easy? Living with the choices I made? Watching the only person I ever truly loved die—because I was too proud, too scared to say what I meant when it mattered?"
The rawness in his voice shocked Draco into silence.
Snape exhaled slowly. "I've seen this before, Draco. I've felt it. And I made the wrong choice."
Draco looked at him—really looked at him—and saw something he'd never expected in those dark, guarded eyes.
Regret.
Real, human regret.
Snape stood, smoothing his robes. "But you don't have to."
He began to walk away, but paused at the end of the corridor.
"You'll find that some truths are worth the risk. Even if they fracture what you thought you knew."
Then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Draco with the weight of silence once again.
Next Morning – Gryffindor Common Room
The fire crackled softly as early sun filtered in through the high windows. Most students were still in their dorms, the quiet only broken by the occasional turn of a page or stretch of a yawn.
Harry sat in a corner armchair, curled slightly, his Potions book open on his lap but untouched. His quill lay across the parchment beside him, unmoving.
Hermione closed her own book slowly and stood.
She crossed the room, gently taking a seat beside him.
"You didn't sleep," she said without asking.
Harry shook his head, eyes fixed on the same sentence he'd read five times without understanding.
"I couldn't."
"Was it about Ron?" she asked gently.
"…No," Harry replied after a moment. "It was about Draco."
Hermione nodded, patient. "You think something's wrong?"
"I think he was about to tell me something last night. Something important. And then Ron showed up and… he left."
Hermione glanced toward the stairwell, her expression thoughtful. "Ron's not trying to hurt you, Harry. He's just afraid."
"I know."
"He cares about you. That's why he's cautious."
Harry's fingers curled slightly on the book cover. "So do I."
Hermione turned to him. "You care about Malfoy?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then, very softly: "I don't know what I feel. I just know I see him. And I think he sees me, too."
Hermione reached over, squeezing his wrist lightly.
"Well… whether you've said anything or not—he clearly feels something. And he's terrified."
Harry looked over at her then, his voice lower than before.
"So am I."