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It starts off as a joke at the Hufflepuff table—something Ernie says about how of course Blaise Zabini is hanging around Megan Jones again since "the boy needs an emotional support badger just to survive double Potions," and everyone laughs. You roll your eyes, but once the words stick in your head, you start seeing the pattern.
A Slytherin in a green and silver scarf melted against a laughing Hufflepuff in the courtyard.
Another Slytherin sitting on the floor outside the kitchens, head tipped back against the wall while a Hufflepuff talks with their hands.
A tall, anxious-looking Slytherin in the library, only relaxing when a Hufflepuff boy drops into the seat across from him and slides a Chocolate Frog his way.
It's not official. There's no sign-up sheet or assignment chart. It's just... a thing.
You joke that you'd make a terrible emotional support Hufflepuff. You're not loud or particularly funny. You're just someone who does things in passing: holding open doors, picking up dropped quills, adding sugar to a second teacup just in case someone sits down.
"Please," Hannah snorts. "You're literally built to be someone's emotional support." She pauses, her eyes flicking sideways. "Maybe Malfoy? Merlin knows that boy needs an emotional something."
You flick a crumb at her and don't think much of it. If there's one thing you're sure of, it's that Draco Malfoy will never, ever be part of that pattern.
You share a few classes with him. Everyone does, it feels like. He's always been noticeable. Pale hair, curled lip, his voice dipped in superiority and hardened into armor. But this year—your sixth—he's noticeable for a different reason.
He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.
The change is subtle at first—faint shadow under his eyes, a tightness in his shoulders that wasn't there before. He still sneers, still tosses his hair, still walks like all of Hogwarts belongs to him and he's just waiting for the deed to be delivered.
But some days, you catch him staring at nothing at all. His jaw is clenched, hands fisted in his robes like he's bracing for something only he can see.
You're not the only one who sees it.
"Something's wrong with him," Harry mutters one evening as you leave Slughorn's class, watching Draco's back recede down the corridor. His voice is low but threaded with the suspicion he saves for mysteries and impending disasters. "I'm telling you, he's up to something."
"Harry," Hermione scolds, but it sounds more tired than sharp.
Ron just snorts. "Malfoy's always up to something."
You walk with them for a bit, books hugged to your chest, listening as Harry spirals into theories. Death Eaters. Plotting. Dark magic. You're used to it by now; the war has shifted from whispers to near-shouts.
When you glance down the corridor again, Draco is gone.
You don't think about him again until three days later.
You're leaving the dungeons late after Potions. Slughorn has kept you behind to hush about some Hufflepuff alumnus who invented a cauldron that stirs itself, and by the time you finally escape, your head is buzzing with barely remembered names and the faint smell of asphodel.
The corridor outside the classroom is mostly empty. The torches throw long, uneven shadows against the stone, the air cool and a little damp. You're halfway to the stairs when a sound echoes from just around the bend—a glassy clink against stone, then a hissed curse.
You round the corner and stop.
Draco Malfoy is there, alone.
He's leaning against the wall, breathing too shallowly for someone who's just walking between classes. His tie is tugged loose, top button undone, the usual polish knocked slightly askew. A small vial lies shattered near his feet, and its contents, a pale blue potion, is spreading in a thin, shimmering puddle across the floor.
His hand is braced on the wall. The other shakes before he curls it into a fist.
You don't think about it.
You shift your books to one arm, kneel, and pull your wand from your sleeve.
"Reparo," you murmur.
The glass gathers, fusing in midair and dropping neatly into your palm, whole again. You straighten without stepping into his space and hold it out.
"Here."
He stares at the vial first, then his eyes lift to you.
Up close, the dark circles under his eyes are worse. His pupils are blown just enough that the grey looks almost colorless. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you like he's trying to work out when you arrived and what, exactly, you want.
You realize he's waiting for the catch.
"I can add a Cushioning Charm to the floor if you want," you say lightly, because your mouth has apparently decided to move without consulting you first. "To stop it from breaking next time."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Annoyance. It's hard to tell with Draco.
"I don't need—" he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening. Whatever the vial is, it clearly matters; he snatches it from your fingers a second later, but his grip doesn't quite match the venom in his voice. "I had it under control."
"Of course you did," you agree, stepping back and tucking your wand away. "I'm sorry about your potion."
You turn to leave. There's no point in lingering; you've done your bit. It's what you do—tiny, easy kindnesses you can slip in and out of without making them anyone's business.
"Hey."
You glance over your shoulder.
His expression hasn't softened, exactly, but there's something less rigid around his mouth. He looks, for a second, not like the boy who hurled insults, or the one who strutted around with a badge that said Potter Stinks, or the one Harry talks about like he's a walking crime scene.
He simply looks like a boy who dropped a vial and didn't know what to do when someone picked it up.
"Thanks," he says, like the word hurts.
You smile before you can stop yourself. "You're welcome."
You don't wait for more. You just walk away, up the stairs, towards the warmer light of the upper floors.
By the time you reach the Entrance Hall, you've boxed the whole encounter up and tucked it in the corner of your mind labeled Nothing Important.
You don't see Harry until dinner, when you slide into the spot across from him at the Hufflepuff-adjacent section of the Gryffindor table—a small overlap that's become habitual over the years. He eyes you over a mouthful of potatoes, then glances toward where the Slytherins sit.
"You were down in the dungeons forever," he says. "Slughorn keeping you hostage again?"
"Something like that." You butter a roll, letting your gaze flick to the Slytherin table out of habit.
Draco is there, sitting between Crabbe and Goyle. He looks pale as always, as composed as always. The only difference is the faint lump of a small, whole glass vial in his robe pocket, glinting when he reaches for pumpkin juice.
You look away.
Hermione is watching you. Her eyes narrow just slightly.
"What was that?" Harry asks abruptly, following your earlier glance. There's that edge in his voice again, that wary, stubborn slice of suspicion. "You should be careful around him. He's not—this year, there's something off. I mean it."
You think of pale fingers snatching a newly mended vial and the hesitant thanks leaving his lips.
"He dropped something," you say simply. "I fixed it. That's all."
Ron makes a face. "Reckon he hexed you in return?"
You frown. "Not everything has to be a duel, you know."
Harry doesn't laugh. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, before he looks back at Malfoy's hunched shoulders.
"Just..." he mutters, "keep your distance, yeah?"
You hum something noncommittal and change the subject.
You don't tell them that for the rest of the evening, you have the oddest sense of being watched. That every time you glance toward the Slytherin table, Draco's eyes are already cutting away.
You certainly don't tell them that, somewhere between second helpings and dessert, the words you overheard that morning float back up in your mind:
Emotional Support Hufflepuff.
You roll your eyes at yourself, shove the thought aside, and reach for another treacle tart.
There's no universe in which Draco Malfoy would ever have one of those.
The library has always been your quiet place.
Madam Pince likes you because you don't dog-ear pages or whisper too loudly. You take notes neatly, return books without being reminded, and never leave crumbs. You occupy the same seat every time: the end of the long table by the window, sunlight at your shoulder, a view of the lake just beyond the glass. Hufflepuffs find you there sometimes. Luna Lovegood, occasionally. No Slytherin ever has.
Until one afternoon, about a week after the broken vial incident, you push your books aside to make room for your notes, only to pause.
Someone is already sitting across from you.
His tie is loosened. His shoulders are tense. A Potions textbook sits open in front of him, though it looks like he hasn't turned the page in a while. His quill rests motionless in his hand.
You stop. He does not.
There's a beat of silence that isn't nearly as awkward as it should be.
"Draco," you say softly.
He doesn't even glance at you. "I'm not moving."
You shift your books to the other side of you. "I wasn't going to ask you to."
You settle into the seat and spread out your parchment. Occasionally, you feel his eyes flicker up—not necessarily at you, but your side of the table. He doesn't speak again. He doesn't leave.
He stays there for over two hours.
And the next day, he arrives before you.
It's subtle, the way it all unfolds.
He never talks. You don't either, much. Once, you slide the sugar jar in his direction when you notice he takes his tea bitter and barely drinks it. He doesn't comment, but he uses it. Another time, you drop off a spare quill at the corner of his book when his snaps and he mutters something unpleasant under his breath.
Two days later, he pushes a scone across the table toward you when you were late to breakfast. He doesn't look at you when he does it. You don't say anything when you take it.
It becomes, strangely, a pattern.
People start noticing.
There aren't any dramatic whispers or huddled stares, but you notice the question in people's eyes when they see you sitting together.
Hermione eyes you over breakfast one morning. "You've been spending an awful lot of time in the library," she says far too casually.
"I always spend time in the library," you answer.
"But it's not always with—" She stops. Her gaze flicks to the Slytherin table.
Across the hall, Draco sits with his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. You can't quite tell if he's looking at you or past you.
Ron follows Hermione's stare. His frown is instant. "Oh, absolutely not. Tell me you're not tutoring Malfoy or—Merlin forbid—friends with him."
"We're not friends," you say automatically.
In truth, you're not sure what you are.
Harry, though, doesn't joke. He watches Draco watching you, his expression tight, brows drawn. "Be careful. I don't want you caught up in whatever is going on with him."
You don't say anything else on the matter, because there's nothing more to say.
Hufflepuffs worry in a different way.
Hannah asks if he's being cruel. "He's not, like, emotionally manipulating you, is he?"
Justin asks if you need him to walk you to class.
Ernie offers to trip Draco in the corridor if needed.
You laugh and insist everything's fine.
A few weeks pass, and you're back at your usual table in the library, the rain pattering against the tall windows distracting you from your homework. You only look back down when your hand nudges the inkwell, and your eyes scan over your notes on goblin rebellions and the stubborn complexity of 17th-century wand legislation.
You don't look up when someone approaches. Plenty of students drift in and out of the library, and you've long trained yourself not to be distracted by every footstep. It isn't until a chair shifts across the stone floor—not across from you. Right beside you.
Draco sits down.
He doesn't make a sound, doesn't look at you, doesn't even pretend to be reading the closed journal resting under his hand. His tie hangs a little loose, and his sleeves are pushed to his elbows like he's either given up on being proper or just doesn't have the energy to maintain it. His gaze rests somewhere on the table.
You don't say anything. Neither does he.
You go back to your notes, though the awareness of him pricks faintly at the edge of your concentration. He doesn't study. His quill hovers above an empty page but never connects. All he does is sit there, quiet, unmoving, occasionally blinking like he's resurfacing from somewhere far away.
At one point, your elbow brushes lightly against his sleeve when you reach for your inkwell. He doesn't flinch or shift away. He pauses, and then stays exactly where he is.
The silence isn't awkward. It's steady, like the rain.
He stays through the class bells. Through the soft hush of footsteps, the scattered whispers, the Ravenclaw boy who does a double-take when he spots Draco sitting beside you and not looking even remotely irritated about it. Draco doesn't seem to be waiting on anything in particular.
He just doesn't leave.
Only when you begin closing your ink bottle and stacking your books that he looks at you for the first time. Not at your face, but at your hands. At the confirmation that you're packing up. That you're leaving.
You stand, offer him a small smile, and walk toward the doors.
You don't mean to look back. You really don't.
But you do.
Draco Malfoy is watching you leave, and something tells you he's still watching even after you're out of sight.
The first time someone comments, it isn't in the library. It's not even in class or the hallway. It happens in the Great Hall, where things are usually loud and forgettable, and you never expect anything subtle to occur.
You're sitting at the end of the Hufflepuff table, a spot close enough to the Gryffindors that Hermione can lean over to borrow your self-inking quill. You're mid-conversation with Hannah when someone brushes behind you on their way past, and you catch the tail end of a comment from a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognize.
"...no, seriously, that's Malfoy's Hufflepuff."
You freeze. Not visibly, you hope.
Hannah doesn't.
"Excuse me?" she says, loud enough to turn a couple of heads.
The Ravenclaw blinks, startled. "I didn't— I just meant— he's been seen with her. A lot. I wasn't being rude."
Hannah opens her mouth, definitely ready to be rude on your behalf, but Hermione cuts in from the other side. "Wait. Malfoy? What do you mean 'seen with her'?"
The boy wilts immediately, overwhelmed by three attentive girls. "Only that he just, I don't know, sits there? And doesn't leave? And doesn't yell at her?"
Your ears feel warm. You consider saying something, but nothing useful comes to mind.
Harry, further up the table, has turned around. He heard every word. You can see it in his stare.
"Is that true?"
You open your mouth, but Harry doesn't wait for you to answer.
"Whatever's going on, you don't need to be nice about it. He's not your problem to fix."
"Honestly, mate," Ron frowns, "you look uncomfortable just at the mention of him."
"She didn't look uncomfortable until you suggested she should be."
You whip around and stare straight into Draco's grey eyes.
He doesn't linger for a reaction. He doesn't wait to see who looks embarrassed. He meets your gaze for a brief moment before continuing on to the Slytherin table as if nothing happened.
Silence sits at the table for a long moment after he leaves. Ron looks like he's trying to decide whether he should be offended or apologetic; his mouth opens twice before he gives up on both. Harry's eyes linger on the space Draco walked through, suspicion knitting into something more concrete. Hermione doesn't look at Draco at all. She looks at you, watching your reaction.
You turn and face the Hufflepuff table, forcing yourself to take a sip of pumpkin juice as if the world hadn't just tilted slightly sideways. Whispers erupt around you, the loudest ones behind you from other Gryffindors. You hear Seamus and Dean's voices, but you opt out of focusing on the words they're saying.
You excuse yourself a minute later. Not in a rushed, flustered way—because Merlin forbid you draw even more attention to yourself—do it as quietly as you can, like it's simply time to go.
Hannah sets down her spoon, stands, and follows you at a natural pace, like she just happened to be going in the same direction. Susan joins her a few seconds later.
They don't speak as they walk with you across the Entrance Hall, away from curious eyes and echoing voices. Hannah links her arm through yours, and Susan walks on your other side, hands in her pockets.
After a minute, Hannah finally says, "He didn't sound mocking."
You let out the smallest breath.
"No," you say. "He didn't."
Susan glances over. There's something thoughtful in her eyes. Curiosity, but not the invasive kind.
She nods once. "Good," she simply says.
You don't say anything else, but you're grateful that they were the ones who followed.
You don't go to the library that evening because you expect to see him.
It's out of habit at this point, and it's quiet when you need somewhere to think. Somewhere free of the castle's whispers, the Gryffindor suspicion, the Hufflepuff concern.
The late sunlight filters through the tall windows in long strips of gold across the wooden tables. it's nearly empty at this hour, save for a few studying Ravenclaws and a seventh-year Hufflepuff scribbling furiously in the corner. Madam Pince barely looks up when you enter.
You take your usual place by the window, parchment and quill in front of you, though you're not really focused on your work.
You don't notice him when he first arrives. You only realize when the light dims and someone slows beside your table. You look up as Draco lowers himself into the seat next to you. He doesn't pretend to read, and you don't ask why he's there. His posture is composed, but he's not tense. He's finally somewhere he doesn't have to perform.
It feels different from before. You're past familiar, past comfortable. You're more aware. Both of you know, without acknowledging it, that something has changed earlier at the Great Hall.
After a while, you speak without looking directly at him. "People are going to talk more."
He stares at your scattered notes in front of you. "They already were."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," you admit.
You raise your eyes to meet his. He doesn't look unguarded. He looks tired, yes, but not in the way you've gotten used to. There's a softer edge to him now.
"You don't have to say anything," he says. "I just didn't want them making you feel like you needed to explain anything."
He says it with an understanding that only comes from someone who's felt the pressure to explain themselves more than they wanted to.
The thought makes your chest ache.
Your hand settles on the table between you. He glances at it. His sleeve brushes yours, so softly it could almost be accidental. Almost.
"I'm not uncomfortable around you," you say quietly.
For a second, you think you imagined it—but his lips do twitch.
"I know."
You don't move your hand, and neither does he. The space between them now feels intentional rather than accidental. There's something floating in the space between you. It's been building, you know, but you've always been afraid to reach for it in case it disappeared before you could grab it.
But, in this moment, you know that if either of you reached for it, it wasn't going anywhere.
The last of the daylight fades from the library windows, leaving the two of you in the soft glow of the oil lamp light.
You aren't sure who moves first, but at some point, your hands are right next to each other. It's not a bold, deliberate move—it just happens. And Draco notices. You can tell by the way he goes still. Your fingers are so close that it would be easy to simply close the distance with a twitch of them.
So, you do.
Your fingers settle against the back of his hand. His thumb brushes against your palm in acknowledgement, like he's adjusting to the idea rather than reacting to it. He turns slightly to you, and you realize just how close he is.
He leans in, slowly, giving both of you time to recognize that there's no pretending left for either of you to do. His forehead meets yours—not quite tentative, but cautious, like he's feeling something out that isn't fragile but still deserves a soft touch.
He waits a quiet, breath-held moment that gives you space to change your mind. You don't. You're very aware of him now, of the subtle warmth radiating off him, of the way his breathing is controlled but barely so.
When his lips finally press to yours, it's light—barely able to be considered pressure. A touch of uncertainty lingers there, and you can tell it's not because of the choice by the way the tenseness in his shoulders relaxes. He's treating this like something worth being careful with.
He kisses like he's learning, not performing.
There isn't urgency, but there is intention. He shifts slightly, leaning in further, enough that your nose brushes his cheek and you feel the soft exhale against your skin. His hand, still beneath yours on the table, turns palm-up. The invitation is silent, but clear.
You lace your fingers through his.
Something flips.
The kiss is more sure now. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand, an unconscious movement, like he's trying to memorize the exact feeling of your skin. He tilts his head a little, testing a better angle, and your noses lightly bump. He huffs a breath at that, and you can't help the small smile that graces your lips.
His free hand hovers like he doesn't know if he's allowed to touch you beyond this. After a moment, you feel it settle lightly against your sleeve near your elbow. Just enough contact to feel him, but not enough to take anything more than you offer.
It's you who eventually breaks the kiss, but you don't go far. You stay close, your forehead resting lightly against his, breath warming the space between you. Neither of you let go of the other's hand.
You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that—hands loosely intertwined, his forehead still resting against yours, breathing the same circle of small air—but it feels earned. He doesn't look at you like he's waiting for you to speak, and he doesn't look away like he might regret it. His thumb traces a slow line across the side of your hand.
It doesn't feel like a silence that needs to be broken. It feels like something that was finally allowed to exist long enough to solidify into permanency.
Eventually, he shifts back enough to look at you. His gaze flickers once to your mouth, almost unconsciously, before lifting to your eyes. There's no mask. It's Draco, tired and soft, and finally, fully present.
"I don't really know how to—" He stops, trying to find the words. His hand is still in yours. He glances at it, then back up. "I don't want to pretend I don't—" Another pause followed by a small, frustrated breath. "This isn't—"
You don't make him finish. You squeeze his hand.
"I know."
He nods, a little too carefully, like this moment might break if he's too quick about it.
You don't make any promises. You don't put a name to whatever this is, or what it might become, because you're not sure there's even a known word for it.
In the soft lamplight of a nearly empty library, with his fingers still laced in yours and the echo of the kiss still warm on your lips, you simply let it exist.