Chapter 3 -Fracture Lines-

The first real fracture came from inside Gryffindor.

Harry noticed it during breakfast one morning when Seamus deliberately chose a seat at the far end of the table, turning his back as Harry approached. Lavender whispered something to Parvati, both of them glancing up with expressions that were quickly masked as neutrality. Even Neville, kind, well-meaning Neville, looked uncertain, his smile hesitant, as though he didn’t quite know which side he was allowed to be on.

Ron slammed his goblet down. “Enough is enough.”

“Ron,” Hermione warned quietly.

“No, it is,” Ron insisted, voice rising. “They’re acting like he’s dangerous.”

Harry stared at his plate. He could feel the anger simmering beneath Ron’s words, hot and fierce, and part of him was grateful for it. Another part was tired. So very tired.

“Let it go,” Harry muttered. “Please.”

Ron looked at him, startled. “Harry–”

“I said let it go.”

The words came out sharper than he meant them to, and guilt twisted immediately in his chest. Ron subsided, jaw tight, hands clenched.

Hermione reached for Harry’s arm, but he stood abruptly, chair scraping against the stone floor.

“I’m late,” he said, though they all knew he wasn’t.

He left the Great Hall with the familiar weight settling over him again. The sense of being watched, measured, judged. The castle seemed narrower lately, corridors pressing in, staircases twisting with deliberate cruelty.

By the time he reached Transfiguration, his hands were shaking.

Draco was also beginning to feel the shift.

It started subtly. Pansy Parkinson frowned when Draco didn’t laugh at a joke about Potter’s “unstable temper.” Blaise Zabini watched him with faint curiosity, head tilted as though trying to solve a puzzle. Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed confused by Draco’s lack of enthusiasm.

“You’re awfully quiet lately,” Pansy said over breakfast, narrowing her eyes. “What, bored of watching Potter unravel?”

“It gets repetitive.” Draco took a slow sip of his tea.

Pansy stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Later that day, he received a letter.

The parchment was thick, elegant, unmistakably Malfoy.

"Remember who you are.

Remember who you represent."

Draco burned it in the Slytherin common room fireplace without a second thought and then stood staring into the flames long after the parchment had turned to ash.

〜●〜

The breaking point came in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Lupin was the only one who truly believed Harry. Who, even without answers, had trusted him enough to not question him further.

But fate had never been kind to Harry.

Remus Lupin was gone. Without even a goodbye.

Harry knew who to blame. And blame wore an unsettling amount of pink.

Umbridge, or rather, Professor Umbridge had taken to hovering near Harry’s desk, her smile tight, her eyes sharp.

When Harry raised his hand to correct a blatantly wrong statement about defensive spells, she ignored him. When he tried again, she smiled sweetly; pretended to smile sweetly.

“Harry dear,” she said, “I think it’s best if we leave such… imaginative interpretations to official sources.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Harry’s vision blurred.

“Imaginative?” he said, standing despite himself. “You’re teaching lies.”

The room went silent.

Umbridge’s smile hardened. “Detention, Mr Potter.”

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t look at Ron or Hermione. He simply gathered his things and walked out, heart pounding.

Draco watched him go, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest.

Detention was worse than Harry expected.

Not painful (not yet) but humiliating.

Writing lines. Silence. Umbridge’s watchful gaze.

By the time he was released, the castle was asleep.

Harry didn’t return to Gryffindor.

He climbed instead, feet carrying him upward without conscious thought, until he reached the Astronomy Tower. The night air was cold, biting, but it was easier to breathe here.

He gripped the stone parapet, knuckles white.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

“You don’t get to quit.”

Harry turned sharply.

Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, cloak billowing slightly in the wind.

“How long have you been following me?” Harry demanded.

“Long enough,” Draco replied. “She’s targeting you.”

Harry laughed bitterly. “Congratulations. You figured it out.”

Draco stepped closer, expression uncharacteristically serious. “You’re cracking.”

Harry bristled. “You don’t know anything about–”

“I know pressure,” Draco cut in. “I know what it feels like when everyone expects you to break in a specific way.”

The words hit something raw.

Harry sagged against the stone. “They want me gone.”

Draco hesitated then did something reckless.

He stayed.

They stood in silence, the space between them charged but not hostile. For the first time, Harry didn’t feel the need to defend himself. For the first time, Draco didn’t feel the need to attack.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked quietly.

Draco looked out over the dark grounds. “Because I don’t like her" he said, and then, after a pause,

“And because I don’t think you’re lying.”

Harry closed his eyes.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It wasn’t trust.

But it was something solid enough to stand on.

And in a castle that felt increasingly hostile, that mattered more than either of them was ready to admit.

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