Harry didn't know what he expected.
Another day of silence, maybe. More ghostly presence and perfectly folded clothes. Maybe he'd find another cup of tea left half-full on the desk, another strange unspoken trace of Malfoy's existence, while the man himself remained missing like he was part of the war that still hadn't ended inside Harry's head.
But nothing—nothing—prepared him for what was waiting in their shared room that evening.
He opened the door mid-thought, his mind still lingering somewhere between breakfast and vague dread, when he stepped inside—
—and froze.
Malfoy was there.
Back to him.
Shirtless.
Leaning against the windowsill like something out of a painting that had no business existing in reality. His pale skin almost glowed in the soft orange wash of sunset pouring in through the enchanted glass. There were faint shadows across his shoulder blades, subtle ridges of a lean frame that didn't look as breakable as it used to.
His spine dipped and rose with each breath, arms resting against the sill, head slightly bowed as though lost in something distant, something unspoken.
He hadn't heard Harry come in.
Or maybe he had and just didn't care.
Harry blinked. His brain quite literally short-circuited.
What. The. Bloody. Hell.
A long second passed before he finally found his voice—wobbly, confused, and very not okay.
"You—you couldn't find a shirt in all that meticulous organization of yours?"
Malfoy stilled.
Then, slowly, like every movement was calculated to irritate, he turned.
Still shirtless.
Still impossibly composed.
"I find them easily," he said with quiet dryness. "I simply choose not to wear them when you're not here. Don't flatter yourself, Potter."
Harry's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again like he was battling a particularly annoying spell.
"You—You knew I was gone?"
"I'm not deaf," Malfoy said, tilting his head. "Your footsteps are alarmingly loud."
"You—" Harry's face flushed. "You wait until I leave and then just—what? Lounge around half-naked like you own the place?"
Malfoy's lips curved, but it wasn't quite a smirk. It was quieter. Tired, maybe. Or done.
"Is that the problem?" he asked coolly. "My existence or my chest?"
Harry sputtered, absolutely not thinking about the second option. "You can't just—walk around half-naked in a shared room! It's common decency."
"Oh, please," Malfoy drawled, finally pushing off the sill. "We've seen worse. Haven't we, Potter? Blood and bone and burning rubble? This—" he gestured vaguely to himself "—should be the least of your concerns."
Harry looked away too quickly, teeth clenched. "Don't try and use the war to excuse indecency."
"Is that what you think this is?" Malfoy asked, his voice softening in a strange, unsettling way. "Indecency?"
His eyes were sharper now, curious.
Harry looked at him again—and regretted it immediately.
Because Malfoy wasn't just shirtless. He was… different.
Thinner, yes, but not fragile. His body bore evidence of something Harry hadn't noticed before—a quiet resilience. A long, faded scar near his ribs. The kind of weary muscle that comes not from vanity, but survival.
It hit Harry then. They weren't kids anymore. Not the feuding brats of first year.
They were survivors. Both of them.
Wounded in different ways.
And suddenly it wasn't just about the shirt.
"You're staring," Malfoy said, not smug. Just observing.
Harry blinked. "I'm—not."
Malfoy raised a brow.
"I'm not!" he repeated, louder.
A flicker of amusement crossed Malfoy's face, but it passed too quickly.
"Relax," he said, brushing past Harry and reaching for a black jumper lying across his desk chair. "I was just thinking."
Harry turned slightly, watching as Malfoy slipped it on in one graceful motion. The fabric clung like it had been tailored, erasing the image Harry absolutely didn't want lingering in his head.
"…Thinking about what?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Malfoy paused, then said, "How quiet it is here. Even with all the returning students. It doesn't feel like Hogwarts."
Harry sank onto the edge of his bed.
He hated that he agreed.
"Everything feels… fake," he admitted after a beat. "Like we're all pretending we're not broken."
Malfoy didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back against the wall near his desk, arms crossed.
"That's because we are pretending," he said finally. "It's what we're taught, isn't it? Keep calm. Carry on. Repress. Smile."
Harry glanced up at him.
"You don't strike me as the self-help type."
"I'm not," Malfoy said. "I'm the high-functioning repression type."
Harry huffed, surprised at the dry honesty.
Something about this was… off-script. Like they'd both forgotten they were meant to hate each other.
It made Harry restless.
"So you snuck in at night," he said, steering the subject away from the tension, "and unpacked like a ghost. Why didn't you say anything?"
Malfoy's gaze flicked toward him.
"Would you have preferred a grand entrance?"
"I would've preferred any entrance."
"I didn't think my presence was worth the ceremony."
Harry frowned. "So you just—came back. And didn't tell anyone. Not even the Headmistress?"
"She knew," Malfoy said quietly. "She arranged it. I just asked to avoid the spectacle."
A pause.
"And you."
Harry looked up sharply. "Me?"
Malfoy shrugged a single shoulder. "I thought I'd spare you the dramatics. Considering the last time we spoke, you had a wand to my throat in a burning castle."
"…Fair."
A long silence followed. Not hostile, just… stretched.
Finally, Malfoy moved toward his side of the room and picked up a book from his desk.
"Try not to have a heart attack next time you see a bare shoulder," he said lightly.
Harry groaned and flopped backward onto his bed. "You're infuriating."
"And you're obvious," came the reply.
He heard the rustle of a page turning. The click of the desk lamp. The familiar hum of silence returning.
Except… it wasn't uncomfortable anymore.
Just strange.
Just… different.
Harry stared at the ceiling.
He didn't want to wonder why Malfoy had covered him with a blanket that night.
He didn't want to notice the way the sunset made his skin look like marble.
He didn't want to ask why Malfoy's voice had sounded so tired when he said "broken."
But he did.
He wanted all of it.
And he wasn't ready for any of it.
Draco's POV
He hadn't meant for Potter to walk in.
Honestly, he'd thought he'd have more time—just a moment longer to breathe in the silence before the storm returned. But no, in came Harry bloody Potter, loud and judgmental, eyes wide like he'd never seen a shirtless man before.
Draco hadn't missed that look, though. The way his gaze lingered a beat too long.
And it pissed him off—because it meant Potter still saw him. Not the ghost he'd tried so hard to become. Not the villain carved into history books. But him.
Even after everything.
Draco had returned to Hogwarts to blend in, to finish what the war had interrupted. He hadn't expected to be sharing quarters with the Boy Who Lived—and certainly hadn't expected Potter to be so… human.
Messy. Haunted. Still impossibly golden in the sunset.
"Obvious," he had said, just to rile him.
Truth was, Potter was obvious. In every twitch, every denial, every glance that burned longer than it should have.
But Draco had spent too long pretending to feel nothing.
Now? He wasn't sure he could afford to feel anything at all.
And yet… he kept glancing back at the bed across the room.
Because maybe… maybe Potter had changed too.