A New Chapter at Hogwarts [Drarry]

Chapter 34: Running Away

It had been a full week since the incident in the Forbidden Forest, and for Draco Malfoy, every day since had stretched into an unbearable eternity. The moment their lips had touched, something deep within him had snapped—something he hadn't been prepared for. Rather than confronting the feelings that had stirred so violently inside him, Draco had chosen the coward's path. He had been avoiding Harry at every possible opportunity. Each sidestep, each glance away, felt like another knot of tension tightening in his chest, but the thought of facing Harry again, of acknowledging what had happened, was too overwhelming. Far too dangerous.

Now, Draco sat at his desk in the potions classroom, surrounded by the familiar scent of brewing ingredients, though the usual comfort it offered him was gone. The sanctuary of his work had become a prison, the ordered calm of the space unable to quiet the storm raging within him. His fingers absently traced patterns on the smooth wooden surface of the desk, but his mind was far away, lost in the memory of that night in the forest—the kiss. Harry's kiss.

It haunted him. No matter how many times Draco tried to push it from his mind, the memory crept back in, vivid and relentless. The way Harry's lips had felt against his—soft, tentative at first, then bolder, surer, as if they were meant to be there all along. And the way Harry had held him, hands cradling his face so gently, as if Draco were something fragile, something worth protecting. That moment had shattered Draco's carefully constructed walls, and now, he couldn't stop reliving it. It had been overwhelming, disorienting, terrifying, and yet... it had felt right.

Draco hated himself for how much he had replayed that kiss, how much he wanted to feel it again. But now, all that remained was the sickening weight of regret. He had let his guard down, had indulged in something that could never be, and in doing so, he had ruined everything. He had kissed Harry Potter. Harry bloody Potter. What had he been thinking?

The tightness in Draco's chest constricted painfully as the memory replayed for the thousandth time, making him feel trapped, suffocated by his own choices. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed back his chair and rose from his desk, crossing the room to the small window that overlooked the snowy grounds of Hogwarts. The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting long, slanting shadows across the courtyard. In the distance, students made their way back to their common rooms, their laughter and chatter faint but carefree. Life went on, blissfully unchanged for them.

But for Draco, everything was different.

He had been avoiding the Great Hall for days, opting instead to take his meals alone in the quiet of his classroom or, when his anxiety was particularly suffocating, in his bedroom. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing Harry at the staff table, just a few seats away, those piercing green eyes undoubtedly full of questions—questions Draco wasn't ready, or willing, to answer. Every time he imagined Harry looking at him with confusion or hurt, Draco's stomach twisted with guilt. But the fear of facing him, of confronting what had happened, was paralyzing.

Draco had even begun ending his classes early, sneaking away before Harry had the chance to catch him. It was cowardly, and he knew it, but it was the only way he could manage. For now, it worked. But deep down, Draco knew this avoidance couldn't last forever. Harry wasn't the type to let things go. Draco had seen the frustration growing in him, the way Harry's gaze lingered longer than usual, as if waiting for an explanation that would never come.

The guilt gnawed at him, but still, Draco couldn't face Harry. He wasn't ready. Maybe he never would be.

The weight of it all had finally driven him to take more drastic measures. Earlier that morning, he had written to McGonagall, requesting a leave of absence under the pretense of illness. It wasn't a complete lie. He hadn't felt like himself in days—his mind constantly spinning, his thoughts tangled, and sleep nothing more than a fleeting luxury. McGonagall, in her usual fairness, had granted his request without hesitation. She had agreed to let him take the time off until after the Easter holidays—a full month away from Hogwarts. A month to clear his head, to distance himself from the chaos that had taken root in his heart.