Harry wasn't sure when he'd finally fallen asleep.
It must've been sometime past three—after staring holes into the ceiling, after counting each exhale like it might summon exhaustion, and long after he'd begun thinking irrational things. Like whether the fireplace across the room was too still, or if the bed beside him felt colder than it should've, even empty.
But now sunlight was breaking stubbornly through the enchanted window, golden light spilling across his face like an obnoxious reminder of time. He groaned, turning over.
It was too bright.
Too warm.
Too… comfortable?
He blinked fully awake when he realized something was off—he was tucked under a blanket.
Not the Ministry-standard sheet from the night before, thin and slightly scratchy. This was heavier, softer, with a muted green-and-silver trim at the edges.
Slytherin colors.
His eyes widened as he jerked upright.
"What the—?"
He hadn't brought this.
In fact, he was sure it hadn't been on his bed when he'd finally dozed off.
Still groggy, he looked around.
The room looked… different. Not drastically, but subtly rearranged.
The right side—the side opposite his bed—was no longer empty.
Malfoy's side.
There were books on the shelf now. Precise, color-coded. A small framed photo—blurry movement inside, not family but perhaps a scenic landscape, charmed to sway with clouds and light wind. A wand rested diagonally across the desk, perfectly aligned with the edge. Beside it sat a slim silver quill and a bottle of expensive-looking ink.
The wardrobe had also been opened—clothes now hung in pressed, uniform shades: black, grey, deep emerald.
But there was no sign of him.
Harry stood slowly, that unsettling tightness crawling back into his stomach. He hadn't heard the door open in the night. Hadn't stirred even once, apparently. Not even when someone entered, unpacked, and—apparently—tucked him in?
The thought sent a shiver through him.
Malfoy?
No. That didn't make sense.
It was probably one of the house-elves. Or McGonagall. Or maybe—maybe he'd imagined it entirely, too tired to trust himself.
He rubbed his face, willing the weirdness away.
"Okay," he muttered. "Not a big deal. Nothing's—on fire."
Still barefoot, he crossed to the wardrobe, grabbed a hoodie, and shoved his arms through it without much grace. His hair stuck out in wild tufts, more stubborn than usual.
He glanced once more at Malfoy's empty bed.
Everything in him wanted to dig. Ask questions. Knock something over just to see if Malfoy came out of the shadows and snapped at him.
But there was nothing.
No note. No trace.
Not even a smell.
So Harry left.
The Great Hall was quieter than usual.
Gone were the chaotic mornings filled with laughing first-years and floating breakfast platters weaving between floating owls. Instead, there were maybe fifty students seated along two long tables, many of them still bleary-eyed or nursing pumpkin juice like hangover cures.
The air was subdued. Post-war Hogwarts was still struggling to feel like home.
Harry slid into an empty seat near the middle of Gryffindor's half. Ron and Hermione weren't there—probably early risers for once—and it struck him again how different this year already felt.
He piled toast on his plate, added eggs, and poured himself tea. The motions were comforting, but he was barely registering them.
He couldn't stop thinking about the blanket.
And Malfoy.
Had he actually tucked Harry in?
He snorted under his breath.
No way. Not in a thousand years.
But still.
The dorm had been completely untouched when he'd fallen asleep. Malfoy hadn't shown. And now—now it looked like he lived there. Neatly. Silently. Like a ghost settling into forgotten corners.
A loud scraping noise drew Harry's attention. One of the Slytherins, Theodore Nott, had taken his seat at the opposite table. He looked up, met Harry's gaze for half a second, and looked away just as quickly.
Suspiciously quickly.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Was he just being paranoid? Or did everyone else already know Malfoy was back?
He scanned the Hall again. Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass—Slytherins all present. Some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs nodded greetings to each other. A few waved to him, carefully casual.
No one looked particularly tense.
Except Harry.
He tore his toast in half and stared at his plate, his appetite gone.
He thought about how easily Malfoy had slipped in and out. How he'd chosen to say nothing, leave no trace of his arrival.
That wasn't like him.
The Malfoy Harry knew—remembered—was loud. Arrogant. Smug. He never missed a chance to make his presence known, to provoke, to sneer.
This version?
This was something else.
Strategic.
Maybe worse.
And the blanket—why?
That one act haunted him more than the silence.
Was it meant to be some twisted gesture of truce? An insult? A joke?
Or was it something worse—something genuine?
Harry hated not knowing.
He hated the not knowing more than he hated Malfoy.
He pushed his plate away and stood up.
He needed air.
Outside, the grounds were quiet. The sky was a gentle grey, threatening rain but never quite following through. The lake was still, its surface glassy and cold.
Harry walked the path along the edge slowly, arms crossed over his chest, hood up.
He kept thinking about the way Malfoy used to look at him—sharp, narrowed eyes like a knife pressed just under the skin. He remembered that smirk, the one that meant trouble. The way he always said "Potter" like it was both a slur and a seduction.
But now?
Now Malfoy didn't say anything at all.
And that was worse.
That was so much worse.
When Harry returned to the East Tower, the hallway was empty.
Room 1D sat quiet, unassuming, the door just slightly ajar.
His stomach clenched as he stepped inside.
Malfoy still wasn't there.
But his bed was made.
His books were stacked with almost neurotic precision. His wand was gone from the desk. There was a half-empty cup of tea still warm, left beside a parchment scribbled with what looked like Arithmancy equations and runes Harry didn't recognize.
He stared at the cup.
So Malfoy had been here.
And left.
Without a word.
Again.
The room felt colder suddenly.
He shut the door behind him, too hard, and tossed himself onto his bed, fingers threading through his hair in frustration.
He wanted a fight.
Wanted a reason to say See? Told you this was a disaster waiting to happen.
But Malfoy hadn't given him one.
Not yet.