Harry sat in the Defense of the Dark Arts, want poised but mind elsewhere. Professor Moody's gruff voice droned on about unforgivable curses, but all Harry could focus on was Draco Malfoy that sat two tables over, chin propped on his fist watching the classrooms entrance as if he was waiting on Harry's arrival. Every so often, their eye's met, and Draco would arch a pale brow, never mocking, always courious. Then he'd turn away before Harry could respond.
Lunchtime was not reprive. Harry found himself scanning every face in the great hall.Trying to predict where Draco would sit. He'd half expect the slytherins serpentine gaze to follow him across the room, and more often than not, he was right. Today, Draco sat with Pansy and Blaise, and for the first time, he didn't sneer at Harry's Gryffindor robes. Instead, he offered a small, closed-lip smile when their eyes met. As if Harry's mere presence amused him.
Hermonie nudged Harry's arm. "You're twitching," she whispered, her eyes darting between Harry and the slytherin table. "I've never seen you like this." Ron looked equally baffled but said nothing. If there was one thing Harry knew, it was that it wasn't exactly safe to share every secret, especially this one...
After lunch, Harry made an impulsive detour to the charms corridor. He wasn't sure why he was drawn to here, maybe to catch Draco in the act again, or maybe because he secretly hoped for another anonymous note. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he crept along the stone cold walls, want light off for stealth. But instead of Pansy's giggle or Draco's defensive huff, he found only silence and an empty corridor.
When Harry turned to leave, he nearly collided with Draco. They both stumbled back, eyes wide in mutual surprise. Draco's lip curved into that maddening half-smile. Harry's cheeks flamed as he muttered an apology and darted away, heart pounding. He wasn't sure if Draco could hear it.
That evening, in the Gryffindor common room, Harry thumbed through his defense book, searching for anything, an excuse, to get rid of his obsessive thoughts.
He'd caught Draco scribbling in a notebook in class, too, his quill hovering over the page as if uncertain what to write next. Hermonie peeked over his shoulder. "What are you reading?" She asked quietly, nodding at the book peaking out of Harry's fingers.
"Nothing," Harry said, snapping the book shut. But he couldn't stop thinking: "Maybe dracos not the same as before. Maybe this is a game he'll lose."
He imagined storming back to the slytherin table and demanding answers, but he feared what Draco's reaction might be.
Late that night, Harry crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. He replayed the afternoons brush with Draco over and over, dissecting every twitch of expression, every flicker of interest. He wondered if the next note would come, if Draco would dare deepen the mystery, or if the silence meant the prank was over. As sleep finally claimed him, one thought lingered: "He wants me to chase him...I just don't know why."
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In the dungeons, Draco stood outside moaning myrtle bathroom, practicing smiles in the reflection of the tap. Each attempt felt both foreign and thrilling. He was supposed to be the puppet master, pull Harry's strings, lead him on, and watch him break. But every time he imagined Harry's reaction, the flush, the confusion, his chest tightened with something he couldn't name. He hadn't expected this game to feel...real.
The next morning, as students gathered for breakfast, a single scrap of parchment lay atop of Harry's place. Careful writing spelled out:
Meet me behind the trophy stands at midnight, come alone.
Draco watched from across the hall dark eyes gleemimg. Harry's world tilted on its axis, caught between dread and exilleration. And so the chase truly began.