post war Drarry
[Staff room, late evening. Harry is packing away his Defense notes. The door slams: Draco walks in, pale, dark circles under his eyes, a pile of essays in his arms.]
Draco (curt, without looking at him): “Of course it’s you still here. Do you ever stop haunting this castle, Potter?”
Harry (letting out a bitter laugh): “You haven’t changed, Malfoy. Always the sunshine in the room.”
Draco (finally glancing up, smirking): “And you, still the eternal martyr. Tell me, are you planning to live off your war stories forever?”
Harry (stung, stepping closer): “At least I did something with my life. You’re only here because nowhere else would take you.”
Draco (freezing, jaw tight, voice low): “Trust me, Potter. I know that better than you ever could.”
[Harry stops. He notices the exhaustion behind the arrogance, the cracks under the mask. Silence stretches, sharp and heavy.]
Harry (quietly, almost against his will): “… You haven’t changed.”
Draco (a bitter, soft smile): “That’s exactly the problem.”
[Harry looks away, unsettled. He refuses to admit what just crossed his mind—that Draco Malfoy, with his sharp tongue and sleepless eyes, is beautiful. Too beautiful. And that it bothers him more than anything.]
