Chapter 1: The Fire Behind His Eyes
[Harry’s POV]
There’s something wrong with Draco Malfoy.
Not wrong in the usual way—not the entitled drawl, not the superiority complex polished like his shoes.
This is different.
It’s in the way he doesn’t insult me anymore.
Not properly. Not with heart.
He passes me in the corridor, eyes half-dead, and says nothing.
And I don’t know why, but it pisses me off more than when he used to call me “Scarhead.”
I saw him yesterday, leaning against the wall outside the Prefect’s bathroom, fingers white around his wand. He looked like he was waiting for someone to corner him, or save him. Maybe both.
But I didn’t stop. I watched for too long. And when he looked up—when those grey eyes met mine—something flickered.
Not hate. Not fear.
Just… fire. Quick. Quiet. Gone.
I should’ve walked away. I didn’t.
So tonight, I’m following him.
He slips out of the Great Hall before dessert, silent as a ghost in his perfectly-pressed robes. I wait five seconds, then rise too. Ron says something behind me. I pretend I don’t hear.
Malfoy walks like he doesn’t care who’s watching.
But he flinches when the candlelight flickers too close.
He flinches like he’s expecting it to burn him.
I keep my distance until we’re on the second floor, near that cursed classroom no one uses anymore. And then I speak.
“Skipping pudding, Malfoy? That’s not very Slytherin of you.”
He freezes mid-step. Doesn’t turn.
But I see his shoulders tense, like a thread pulled taut.
“Merlin, Potter,” he mutters, still facing the wall. “Do you follow everyone who looks mildly tragic or am I just lucky?”
“You’re not tragic. You’re just... off.”
He turns now.
Slowly. Like he’s choosing whether or not to hex me.
And then he smiles—but not like someone who’s amused. Like someone who’s tired of pretending not to bleed.
“Touching,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, do you always play hero in abandoned corridors, or is this some new saviour complex they’re teaching in Gryffindor these days?”
“I’m not trying to save you.”
His jaw tightens. There’s a flicker in his eyes again—rage, maybe. Or panic.
“Then what are you doing?” he snaps.
I don’t have an answer. Not one I understand.
So I say the first thing that feels true.
“I’m watching you fall apart.”
Draco’s breath catches. Just for a second.
Then he looks away, voice low.
“Then close your eyes, Potter. This part’s not for you.”
