In 1993

The same cold stone corridors. The same long lessons. The same Harry Potter appearing everywhere in that irritating way of his. Draco Malfoy was used to hating Potter. Hating the fame, the way professors looked at him, the role of hero that Potter never had to ask for.
The problem was that, at some point, Draco was no longer certain that hatred was all it was.
He began to notice insignificant details. The way Potter stayed silent longer than usual in Defence Against the Dark Arts. The way he tightened his grip on his wand when the Dementors appeared. The way that familiar smile vanished faster than Draco expected. He told himself it was nothing more than observation, a habit of studying an opponent. But that explanation did not account for why his eyes kept searching for Potter in the Great Hall without thinking.
Harry Potter, for his part, seemed completely unaware.
Or perhaps he was pretending to be.
The third year passed with things left unnamed. Nothing was said, yet both of them could feel that something had slipped out of its familiar orbit. And what Draco Malfoy hated most was the growing realization that he was no longer sure he wanted to push Potter away.