Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had mastered the art of looking unbothered.
It was something he’d learned early: shoulders straight, chin high, eyes bored. Never let your hands shake in plain sight. Never let your breath hitch where anyone could hear it. And above all, never let them see you doubt yourself.
Doubt was weakness.
Weakness was dangerous.
So Draco sat at the Slytherin table that chilly October morning, back rigid, expression impeccably flat, while his heartbeat thudded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. All around him, Hogwarts buzzed with gossip about the Triwizard Tournament. Foreign students, champions, Dragons. Every whisper dug into Draco’s nerves like claws, each one another reminder that the world was shifting faster than he could keep up with.
His tea sat untouched, going colder by the minute.
“Draco?” Pansy asked lightly, nudging him with her shoulder. “Are you even listening?”
Draco blinked, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she’d said for Merlin, how long? His ears were full of rushing blood instead, his heartbeat roaring in them. “Of course I’m listening,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to.
Pansy’s eyes softened in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. Pity. “You’re pale,” she murmured. “Even more than usual.”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately. Reflex. Automatic. A shield polished by years of practice.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping across stone. The sudden movement sent a flare of dizziness up the back of his skull. He pushed it down. “I’ve got places to be.”
“Draco-”
But he was already walking away.
He could feel their eyes on him, Pansy’s concern, Nott’s curiosity, the younger years’ admiration, the older years’ scrutiny. It all pressed against him like a weight.
His stomach clenched tight.
He kept walking.
The corridor outside the Great Hall was mercifully empty. And quiet. Quiet enough that Draco could hear his thoughts again.
Unfortunately.
The noise inside his head never stopped. A constant litany of what if, what if, what if. What if something goes wrong? What if you embarrass yourself? What if you’re not good enough? What if they see right through you?
He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye, trying to force the spiraling thoughts into order.
Another deep breath.
Hold.
Release.
Keep walking.
He could do this. He always did.
“Oi! Malfoy!”
Draco stiffened. Of all the voices he didn’t need right now, He dragged his expression into something disdainful before turning.
Potter jogged toward him, robes slightly crooked, hair even more of a disaster than usual. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, mouth set in a frustrated line. Probably annoyed about the Tournament. As if Draco cared.
“Potter,” Draco drawled, though the edges of his vision wavered for a half-second. “What could you possibly want this early? Autograph request? I do suppose you Gryffindors are predictable-”
“Cut it out.” Harry planted himself in Draco’s path, hands on hips. “What was that back there?”
Draco’s stomach dropped. “What was what?”
“You looked like you were about to pass out,” Potter said bluntly. “Are you sick?”
The words hit Draco like physical force.
He felt his pulse spike. Not now. Not in front of him.
The spiraling started fast, too fast, images flooding in: Potter realizing Draco wasn’t strong. Potter telling others. Potter laughing-
“Nothing’s wrong,” Draco bit out, trying to keep his breathing even. His fingers twitched against his robes, desperate to curl, to ground, to hide the tremor. “Now move-”
Potter didn’t. Of course.
“What’s going on with you this year?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’re jumpy. You’re… I don’t know. Off.”
Draco’s mouth went dry.
Off.
He hated that word. It scraped over his nerves like sandpaper. He forced a sneer. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how to mind your business since you started parading around as Hogwarts’ champion-”
“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet.”
Draco opened his mouth to throw back a retort, but something flickered in Potter’s eyes, fear. Real fear. He hadn’t expected that. It tugged Draco’s spiraling mind toward a halt, confusion slicing through the panic.
“Right,” Draco said slowly. “Because Harry Potter always tells the truth.”
Potter’s nostrils flared. “Why do I bother?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” Draco said, stepping sideways to pass.
But as he moved, Harry’s hand shot out, fingers closing around Draco’s wrist to stop him.
It was a simple touch, barely pressure at all.
But Draco’s body reacted instantly.
His chest tightened.
His stomach clenched.
A jolt of pure panic shot down his spine.
“Don’t-” Draco hissed, yanking back harder than necessary. His voice cracked on the word, humiliatingly. “Don’t touch me.”
Harry froze, hand halfway withdrawn. Shock flickered over his face. “I- I wasn’t trying to Malfoy, are you seriously?”
But Draco wasn’t listening anymore.
His heartbeat was too loud.
His breathing too fast.
Tunnel vision creeping in at the edges.
He needed to get out. Away. Anywhere but here with Potter’s eyes searching him like he could see straight through the mask Draco had spent years perfecting.
Without another word, Draco turned and practically fled down the corridor.
He didn’t stop until he shoved open the door to an empty classroom and shut it behind him with a thud.
Only then did he stumble to a desk and grip its edge, knuckles white.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again. Again. Again.
His trembling slowly eased. The pressure in his chest loosened.
The panic never fully faded it never did but it receded enough for him to breathe again.
A soft sound pulled his head up.
A footstep.
Draco’s chest seized.
He twisted around, and there in the doorway stood Harry Potter, breathing a little hard, like he’d run all the way after him.
Of course he had.
“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… concerned. “What was that?”
Draco’s throat closed.
He couldn’t let Potter see this. Not the shaking hands. Not the too-fast breathing. Not the truth.
So he straightened his spine, forced his hands to still, and lifted his chin with the last shards of Malfoy dignity.
“That,” Draco said coldly, “was me realizing I’d rather be anywhere else than having a conversation with you.”
But even he could hear the waver he couldn’t quite hide.
Potter stepped further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I don’t believe you.”
Draco’s pulse stumbled.
Harry took a slow, tentative breath. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “And you don’t have to tell me. But don’t lie and pretend you’re fine.”
Draco opened his mouth, But nothing came out.
Harry’s voice dropped, quiet and steady. “I’ve seen fear before. I know what it looks like.”
Draco’s mask flickered for just a moment.
Just long enough for Harry to see the truth beneath.
Harry didn’t move closer. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand.
He just stood there. A strange, disarming stillness.
Something in Draco’s chest cracked, small, fragile, terrifying.
He looked away. “Go away, Potter.”
But it didn’t have the venom he intended.
Harry hesitated… then nodded once. “Fine. I will.”
He reached for the doorknob, paused and said quietly, “But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see something.”
A beat.
A breath.
“Even if you want me to.”
Then he slipped out.
The door closed behind him with a final, gentle click.
Draco stared at the empty room, fists clenched, breath uneven.
He hated that Potter had seen him like this.
He hated that Potter cared enough to come after him.
He hated, more than anything that a tiny, traitorous part of him… didn’t hate it at all.