Chapter Text
The first time Draco sees Harry Potter, he really sees him; it’s not at Madam Malkin’s.
No, the first real moment is under the flickering candlelight of the Great Hall when Professor McGonagall calls his name, and the entire room holds its breath.
Harry walks to the Sorting Hat like someone heading to their execution. Eyes too big for his face, robes too big for his frame, a quiet kind of gravity to him that Draco can’t name.
He expects Potter to be sorted into Slytherin. Of course, he does.
But the hat takes its time. Five, maybe ten whole seconds. And then—
“GRYFFINDOR!”
The room erupts. And something strange and hollow settles in Draco’s chest.
He doesn’t understand it yet. But he will.
---
They don’t become friends.
In fact, Harry snubs his offered handshake in the first hour of school. Draco pretends not to care, of course, because that’s what Malfoys do. But he feels it, sharp and quiet, like a miscast charm that never quite fades.
From then on, they circle each other with tense familiarity—rivals by default, enemies by tradition.
But Draco watches him. Always.
---
Harry isn’t what Draco imagined.
He doesn’t gloat, even when he’s clearly the best flyer in school. He isn’t polished or poised—his robes are often wrinkled, and he speaks like he doesn’t quite trust his own voice. And when he smiles—it’s not the smug grin of a boy who’s famous. It’s something warmer. Something real
Draco hates it. And he can’t stop thinking about it.
---
He starts to notice things. Little things.
The way Harry leans forward when he listens. The way he defends Longbottom in class, even though he could stay silent. The way he grips his wand like it’s a lifeline like he needs it to belong here.
Then, there are moments when Harry looks back.
Just a glance in the corridor. A flicker across the courtyard. Eyes meeting across classrooms, never long enough, never quite on purpose.
But it’s there.
Something neither of them says.
---
They exchange words sometimes. Always short. Always brief.
But Draco hoards them like treasure.
One day, Harry mutters, “You’re ridiculous, Malfoy,” under his breath, and Draco spends hours replaying it in his mind, unsure whether the heat in his chest is from pride or pain.
---
By the end of the year, Draco realizes what it is.
He’s lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone—but the kind that comes from wanting something you’re not allowed to have.
He wants to know what it’s like to laugh with Harry. To sit beside him in the library. To hear him say Draco’s name without disdain.
He wants a friendship that never had the chance to grow.
Maybe something more.
---
But Harry is in Gryffindor. He has Weasley and Granger, and a smile Draco was never meant to see up close.
So Draco watches. Quietly. Carefully. From a distance.
And he never says a word.
Not even when Harry glances his way in their last class of the year, eyes soft, as if he’s wondering the same thing.