The Library--Drarry

Chapter 3

Harry's footsteps echoed in the stone corridors as he trailed behind Ron and Hermione. They were chatting animatedly about an upcoming Charms essay, but Harry found himself distracted. His thoughts kept drifting back to the library, to the guarded look in Draco's eyes and the strange, unexpected ease that had settled between them.

"Earth to Harry!" Ron's voice broke through his reverie.

"Huh? What?" Harry blinked, realizing he hadn't heard a word they'd said.

Hermione gave him a knowing look, her brow furrowed. "Are you alright, Harry? You've been... distracted lately."

"I'm fine," Harry lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired, I guess."

Ron shrugged, but Hermione wasn't so easily convinced. She studied him for a moment longer before nodding reluctantly.

When they reached the common room, Harry threw himself into an armchair by the fire, hoping the warmth would help him clear his head. But even as Ron began a heated debate with Seamus about Quidditch tactics, and Hermione scolded them both for being too loud, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting—something he couldn't quite put into words.

The next evening, Harry found himself back in the library. He told himself it was to work on his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay, but a part of him knew better. Sure enough, Draco was there, seated at the same table, his quill moving smoothly across a piece of parchment.

Draco looked up as Harry approached, his expression unreadable. "Back again, Potter?"

Harry shrugged, sliding into the chair across from him. "Looks like it."

They settled into their usual silence, but tonight it felt heavier, weighted by the things unsaid. Harry found himself watching Draco more than he cared to admit, noticing the way his silver-blond hair caught the dim light, the way his fingers moved with a practiced precision as he wrote.

After what felt like an eternity, Draco set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Harry. "What is it, Potter? You've been staring."

Harry flushed, caught off guard. "I wasn't—"

Draco smirked, the ghost of his old arrogance flickering to life. "Relax. I'm used to it."

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. "You wish."

Draco's smirk softened into something more genuine, and for a moment, the tension between them eased.

"Why do you keep coming back here?" Draco asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.

Harry hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "I guess... it's easier than being in the common room sometimes."

Draco nodded, his gaze distant. "I know what you mean."

They fell silent again, but this time it felt comfortable, almost natural.

As the weeks passed, Harry and Draco's late-night library sessions became an unspoken ritual. They didn't always talk, but when they did, their conversations grew deeper, more personal. Harry learned that Draco missed flying, that he used to sneak out to the Quidditch pitch when no one was around. Draco learned that Harry sometimes had nightmares so vivid they left him shaken for hours.

They were small admissions, but they built a fragile bridge between them, one that neither of them dared to acknowledge outright.

One evening, as they packed up their things, Draco hesitated, his hand hovering over his bag.

"Potter," he said finally, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

Harry looked up, surprised by the uncertainty in Draco's tone. "Yeah?"

Draco glanced away, then back at him, his gray eyes sharp and searching. "Why... why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This." Draco gestured between them, frustration flickering across his face. "Talking to me. Spending time with me. We're supposed to hate each other, remember?"

Harry stared at him, caught off guard by the question. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come.

"I don't know," he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet. "Maybe... maybe I'm tired of hating you."

Draco looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone in the empty library.