Curiosity
The Great Hall hummed with life, though the atmosphere was a far cry from the electric energy Harry remembered in his earlier years at Hogwarts. The tables were packed not just with returning students but also with those from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, whose older students had been brought to Hogwarts as part of an international effort to repair the damage left by the war. Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons banners fluttered from the rafters, their colors casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the half-rebuilt walls. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, a tankard of butterbeer in hand, nodding distractedly as Seamus regaled Dean with a tale that seemed to grow more absurd with every retelling. Across the table, Hermione was poring over a thick volume, her brow furrowed as she jotted notes in the margins. Beside her, Ron was shoveling treacle tart into his mouth with a speed that suggested he hadn’t eaten all summer.
“Harry, are you listening?” Seamus asked, leaning across the table with a mischievous grin.
Harry blinked, realizing too late that he’d missed the entire point of the story. “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
Seamus laughed, clearly unconvinced. “You’re miles away, mate. What’s got you so distracted?”
Harry shrugged, taking a long sip of his butterbeer. “Nothing. Just…thinking.”
The truth was, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what was occupying his mind. The days since the Battle of Hogwarts had blurred together, a mixture of relief and guilt that he couldn’t quite shake. He’d spent the summer in a haze, shuttling between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, doing his best to avoid the spotlight that seemed to follow him everywhere. Returning to Hogwarts should have felt like coming home, but instead, it felt…off. The castle was still beautiful, still magical, but it bore the scars of the war in ways that made Harry’s chest ache.
He drained the last of his butterbeer and stood abruptly. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced, earning a curious look from Hermione.
“Do you want company?” she offered, already closing her book.
“No, it’s fine. I just need some air,” Harry said quickly, and before she could protest, he slipped out of the hall.
The corridors were quieter than the Great Hall, but even here, the presence of the international students was palpable. Harry passed a group of Durmstrang students clustered near a window, their heavy fur-lined cloaks making them look like ghosts in the dim light. They watched him as he walked by, their expressions unreadable.
He found himself heading toward the boat dock, one of the few places in the castle that still felt untouched by the war. The air grew cooler as he descended the steep stairs, and by the time he reached the bottom, his thoughts had settled into a dull hum.
He wasn’t alone.
Draco Malfoy was perched on the dock, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. He was smoking a cigarette—something Harry hadn’t seen anyone do in years—and the faint glow of the ember cast strange shadows on his pale face.
For a moment, Harry considered turning around and leaving, but Malfoy glanced over his shoulder before he could move.
“Potter,” Malfoy said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “What are you doing here?”
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “Needed some air.”
Malfoy smirked, a flicker of his old arrogance shining through. “Of course. The Chosen One gracing the docks with his presence. Should I be honored?”
“Do you always have to be such a git?” Harry muttered, leaning against the wall a few feet away.
Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Harry expected. “I’m surprised you even came back.”
Harry frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Malfoy turned to face him fully, his expression inscrutable. “You won. You don’t need to be here. This place… It’s not the same anymore.”
Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. He looked out over the grounds, the dark shapes of the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake stretching into the distance. Malfoy wasn’t wrong—Hogwarts wasn’t the same. But that didn’t mean Harry could just walk away from it.
“I needed to finish,” Harry said finally. “There’s more to life than the war, Malfoy.”
Malfoy let out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re the hero. People don’t look at you and see…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“See what?” Harry pressed, his tone sharper than he intended.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing. Forget it.”
They lapsed into silence, the tension between them a palpable thing. Harry wanted to leave, to escape whatever this was, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Despite everything, there was a strange comfort in Malfoy’s presence, like they were the only two people who truly understood what the war had cost.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Malfoy said after a while, his voice almost gentle.
Harry looked at him, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “Neither do you.”
Malfoy shrugged, flicking the cigarette butt over the edge of the dock. “Where else would I go?”
Harry didn’t have an answer to that.
Eventually, he pushed off the wall and headed for the staircase. “Goodnight, Malfoy,” he said over his shoulder.
Malfoy didn’t reply, but Harry could feel his eyes on him as he disappeared down the steps.
When he reached the Gryffindor common room, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. He collapsed onto the nearest armchair, his mind buzzing with half-formed thoughts. He didn’t understand what had compelled him to stay and talk to Malfoy, but a part of him—one he wasn’t ready to examine too closely—wanted to go back and see him again.
Before he could dwell on it too much, sleep claimed him, and the events of the night blurred into a hazy dream. When he woke the next morning, he remembered little beyond the faint scent of cigarette smoke and the glint of moonlight on pale blond hair.
Harry woke the next morning to the sound of Ron’s snores echoing through the Gryffindor dormitory. His head pounded faintly, a dull reminder of the butterbeer he’d consumed the night before. Groaning, he rolled onto his side, squinting at the morning light filtering through the curtains around his four-poster bed.
Fragments of the previous night swirled in his mind—Seamus’s laughter, Hermione’s concerned look, the cool air of the boat dock, and...Malfoy?
He sat up abruptly, wincing as his head protested the movement. Had he really talked to Malfoy? He couldn’t quite recall the details, but there was a vague impression of moonlight and the sharp scent of smoke.
“Morning,” Ron mumbled from the next bed over, his voice thick with sleep. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “You alright, mate? You look a bit rough.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, though he wasn’t entirely sure it was true. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his glasses. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
Ron grunted in sympathy, already rummaging through his trunk for clothes. “Well, hurry up. Hermione’ll have a fit if we’re late for breakfast. She’s on about setting a good example or something.”
Harry dressed quickly, pushing thoughts of Malfoy to the back of his mind. He followed Ron down to the common room, where Hermione was waiting, tapping her foot impatiently.
“Finally,” she said, handing them each a copy of the day’s schedule. “Come on, we’ll need time to eat before classes start.”
The Great Hall was as chaotic as ever. The Hogwarts students were still getting used to the presence of their counterparts from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and the mingling of so many different uniforms gave the hall a patchwork appearance. Harry slid into his usual seat at the Gryffindor table, piling his plate with toast and eggs.
As he ate, his eyes wandered to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was there, sitting with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. He looked as pale and composed as ever, his posture perfect, his movements precise. For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy glanced in his direction, but it was so brief that he couldn’t be sure.
“You’re staring,” Hermione said quietly, pulling him back to the present.
“What?” Harry asked, startled.
“At Malfoy,” she said, lowering her voice. “You’ve been looking at him for a full minute.”
“I wasn’t—” Harry began, but Hermione raised an eyebrow, cutting him off.
Ron looked between the two of them, his mouth full of sausage. “Why’re you staring at that git anyway?” he mumbled.
“I wasn’t staring,” Harry insisted, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth to avoid further discussion.
Hermione didn’t look convinced, but she let the matter drop, instead launching into a discussion about their classes for the day. Harry nodded along, though his thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy and the strange conversation they’d had—or might have had—on the boat dock.
The first half of the day passed in a blur of lectures and whispered conversations in the hallways. By lunchtime, Harry had all but convinced himself that whatever had happened with Malfoy the night before wasn’t worth thinking about.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
As Harry left the Transfiguration classroom, his bag slung over his shoulder, he nearly collided with Malfoy in the corridor.
“Watch where you’re going, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, stepping back to avoid a full-on collision.
Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but something in Malfoy’s expression gave him pause. There was no malice in his tone, no sneer twisting his lips. If anything, he looked...tired.
“Sorry,” Harry muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised by the apology. For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, the bustling corridor moving around them like a river splitting around a rock.
Then Malfoy said, “You really don’t remember, do you?”
Harry blinked. “Remember what?”
Malfoy huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind. Just...try not to stumble into anyone else, Potter.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd before Harry could press him further.
***
By the time dinner rolled around, Harry’s curiosity was eating at him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Malfoy had been referring to the night before, but if something important had happened, why couldn’t he remember it?
The Gryffindor table was as lively as ever, with Seamus and Dean arguing over the rules of Quidditch and Ron attempting to steal a piece of pie from Hermione’s plate. Harry picked at his food, his thoughts elsewhere.
When dessert arrived, he made up an excuse about needing to check on something in the library and slipped away before anyone could stop him. The corridors were quieter now, the fading light of evening casting long shadows on the walls. Harry wasn’t entirely sure where he was going, but his feet seemed to know the way. He found himself heading toward the boat dock again, drawn by some instinct he couldn’t name. When he reached the bottom, he wasn’t surprised to find Malfoy there, sitting on the same dock as the night before. This time, he wasn’t smoking, but his posture was just as relaxed, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“Back again, Potter?” Malfoy said without looking at him.
Harry hesitated, then stepped closer. “You said something earlier. About me not remembering.”
Malfoy finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “You really don’t, do you?”
Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t. But clearly, I said something. What was it?”
Malfoy’s lips curved into a faint, almost bitter smile. “You told me I wasn’t so bad when I wasn’t sneering at you.”
Harry blinked, startled. “I—what?”
“And then,” Malfoy continued, his tone dry, “you rambled on about how stupid the war was, how we could have avoided all the death if we’d just…talked to each other or something equally naive.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond.
“You don’t even remember it,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You were drunk enough to trip over your own feet.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Malfoy’s smile faded, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. “Because,” he said quietly, “you weren’t wrong.”
They stood there in silence, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Harry didn’t know what he’d expected when he came up here, but it wasn’t this.
Finally, Malfoy pushed off the wall, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “Goodnight, Potter.”
He walked past Harry without another word, leaving him alone under the stars.
The next day passed without incident, though Harry’s mind kept wandering back to his strange encounters with Malfoy. There was something different about him now, something Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on. He seemed calmer, quieter—more reserved than he’d ever been during their school years.
During lunch, Harry found himself scanning the Slytherin table again. Malfoy was seated at the far end with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, the three of them conversing in hushed tones. From the way Malfoy kept glancing toward the Durmstrang table, it was clear he was only half-listening.
The Durmstrang students were clustered together, their dark robes and fur-lined cloaks making them stand out from the sea of Hogwarts uniforms. They spoke in low voices, their language unfamiliar but lyrical, and their presence seemed to command a quiet authority.
When lunch ended, Harry lingered in the Great Hall under the pretense of helping Neville collect some Herbology notes he’d left behind. As the other students filed out, he noticed Malfoy heading toward the Durmstrang students.
“Harry,” Neville said, interrupting his thoughts. “You alright? You’ve been staring at that table for five minutes.”
Harry blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, sorry. Just…thinking about something.”
Neville gave him a curious look but didn’t press further. He gathered his notes and headed out, leaving Harry alone in the hall.
From his spot near the door, Harry watched as Malfoy approached a group of Durmstrang students standing near the enchanted windows. There were three of them: a tall, broad-shouldered boy with sharp features, a girl with sleek black hair tied in a high ponytail, and a younger boy with a nervous expression. Malfoy greeted them with a curt nod, his posture relaxed but not entirely casual. They spoke in low voices, the tall boy occasionally gesturing as he explained something. Harry couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the tone—this was a conversation with weight, not idle chatter. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy switched seamlessly into the Durmstrang students’ language, his voice fluid and confident. The younger boy’s eyes lit up, his nervousness fading as he responded. The girl nodded along, her expression softening as Malfoy spoke. Harry felt a strange tug of curiosity. Malfoy had always been good with words, but he hadn’t expected him to know another language, let alone speak it so fluently. The conversation ended with the tall boy clapping Malfoy on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that seemed almost out of place. Malfoy gave a faint smile—something Harry couldn’t recall seeing before—and turned to leave. Before Harry could look away, Malfoy’s gaze locked onto his. For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry’s stomach flipped, though he couldn’t explain why. He braced himself for a snide comment, a cutting remark—but Malfoy just raised an eyebrow, his expression cool and unreadable. Then he turned and walked out of the hall, leaving Harry to wonder what the hell had just happened.
***
That evening, Harry found himself in the library, though he wasn’t doing much studying. Hermione had dragged him and Ron there to finish their Defense Against the Dark Arts essays, but Harry’s parchment was still blank. His thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy and the Durmstrang students.
“Harry, you haven’t written a single word,” Hermione said, frowning at him over the top of her book.
“I’ll get to it,” he muttered, doodling aimlessly in the corner of his parchment.
Ron leaned over to look at his notes—or lack thereof—and snorted. “Mate, if you’re trying to get on McGonagall’s bad side, you’re off to a great start.”
“I said I’ll get to it,” Harry snapped, more sharply than he intended.
Ron raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off.”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just…distracted.”
Hermione gave him a knowing look. “Distracted by what? Or should I say who?”
Harry froze, his quill poised over his parchment. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been watching Malfoy all day,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “I thought you weren’t going to let him get under your skin anymore.”
“I’m not,” Harry insisted, though he knew it sounded unconvincing.
Ron frowned. “Wait—you’re still hung up on Malfoy? What’s he done now?”
“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “It’s just…he was talking to some of the Durmstrang students earlier, and I—”
“You followed him?” Hermione interrupted, her eyes wide.
“No!” Harry said, though he felt his face flush. “I just…noticed, that’s all. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, but doesn’t it seem strange? Malfoy being all chummy with students from another school?”
Hermione frowned, considering this. “Not really. Durmstrang is known for its connections to Dark Arts. Maybe he feels more comfortable around them.”
“Yeah,” Ron added. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s swapping tips on how to hex people or something.”
Harry shook his head. “It didn’t seem like that. He was...different. Like he actually cared about what they were saying.”
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, and Harry felt a spark of frustration.
“Look,” he said, “it’s probably nothing. Forget I said anything.”
Hermione didn’t press him further, though Harry could tell she wasn’t convinced.
***
Later that night, Harry found himself wandering the castle again. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—maybe answers, or maybe just a way to clear his head. The corridors were quiet, the faint hum of magic filling the air as the castle settled into its nocturnal rhythms.
As he passed by the entrance to the courtyard, he heard voices—low and indistinct but familiar. Curious, he edged closer, peering around the corner.
Malfoy was there, standing with the same group of Durmstrang students from earlier. The tall boy was speaking animatedly, his hands moving as he explained something. Malfoy listened intently, his expression thoughtful, before responding in that same fluid language.
This time, Harry caught a few words—enough to recognize them as Bulgarian.
He watched as the younger boy laughed at something Malfoy said, his previous nervousness gone. The girl smiled, her posture relaxed as she leaned against the wall. Malfoy’s presence seemed to put them at ease in a way that surprised Harry.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching, but eventually, Malfoy turned and spotted him.
“Enjoying the show, Potter?” he drawled, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
Harry stepped into the courtyard, his face burning. “I wasn’t spying,” he said quickly.
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Really? Because it certainly looked like you were.”
The tall Durmstrang boy frowned, his gaze flicking between Harry and Malfoy. “Is there a problem?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“No problem,” Malfoy said smoothly. He gestured toward Harry. “Just an old habit of his. Sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Harry bristled. “I wasn’t—”
“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said, cutting him off. “No harm done.” He turned back to the Durmstrang students, speaking to them briefly in Bulgarian before gesturing for them to leave.
They nodded, offering Harry polite, if curious, glances before disappearing into the shadows.
Once they were gone, Malfoy crossed his arms, regarding Harry with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
“Well?” he said. “What do you want?”
Harry hesitated, unsure how to answer. Finally, he blurted, “What were you talking to them about?”
Malfoy sighed, rubbing his temple. “Nothing that concerns you, Potter. Go back to your little friends and leave me alone.”
But Harry didn’t move. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted to understand. To know why Malfoy seemed so different now, and why he couldn’t stop noticing it.
“Why are you being so…nice to them?” he asked, his voice quieter this time.
Malfoy gave him a long, searching look, his silver eyes catching the faint light of the courtyard torches.
“Because,” he said finally, his voice low, “someone has to be.”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone in the quiet night. Harry stood in the empty courtyard long after Malfoy left, the faint echo of his words hanging in the cold air. Because someone has to be. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Malfoy to say, but it hadn’t been that. For as long as Harry had known him, Malfoy had been selfish and arrogant, always looking out for himself. But now, there was something else—a glimmer of responsibility or regret that Harry couldn’t reconcile with the boy he used to know. Eventually, the chill of the evening forced him to move. Wrapping his robes tighter around himself, he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. By the time he reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, his thoughts were no clearer.
“Password?” she asked, giving him a suspicious look.
“Unity,” Harry muttered.
The portrait swung open, and he climbed through, stepping into the warm glow of the common room. Most of the Gryffindors had already gone to bed, but Ron and Hermione were still there, sitting on one of the couches near the fire. Hermione had a book open in her lap, and Ron was half-asleep, his head lolling against the back of the couch.
Hermione looked up as Harry entered, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern.
“You’ve been gone a while,” she said. “We were starting to worry.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, dropping into the armchair opposite them.
Ron blinked awake, yawning loudly. “What time is it? Thought you’d gone to bed, mate.”
Harry shook his head. “I was out walking. Needed to clear my head.”
Hermione frowned, setting her book aside. “Is this about Malfoy again?”
Harry hesitated, then nodded. There was no point in lying—Hermione always saw through him anyway.
“What did he do this time?” Ron asked, sitting up straighter.
“He didn’t do anything,” Harry said. “I just...ran into him. He was talking to some of the Durmstrang students again. They seem to like him.”
Ron snorted. “Figures. They probably respect the whole ‘pureblood superiority’ thing.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Harry said, surprising even himself with how quickly he defended Malfoy. “He was helping them with something. I don’t know what, but he wasn’t being a git about it.”
Hermione leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “When I asked him why he was being nice to them, he said, ‘Because someone has to be.’”
Hermione’s frown deepened. “That’s...odd.”
“Tell me about it,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He’s different now. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but it’s not what I expected.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Maybe he’s just trying to save face after the war. You know, make himself look good so people don’t throw him in Azkaban with the rest of his family’s lot.”
“Maybe,” Harry said, though he didn’t entirely believe it. There was something genuine about the way Malfoy had spoken, a quiet honesty that didn’t feel like an act.
Hermione looked thoughtful. “It’s possible he’s trying to change,” she said. “The war affected everyone, Harry. Even Malfoy. He’s probably dealing with his own share of guilt and trauma.”
“Since when are you defending Malfoy?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not defending him,” Hermione said, shooting Ron a sharp look. “I’m just saying we shouldn’t assume we know what he’s thinking. People can change.”
Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know what to think. It’s just...weird, that’s all.”
They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
Eventually, Hermione stood, gathering her book. “We should get some rest. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
Ron groaned, pushing himself to his feet. “Don’t remind me. I’ve still got three feet of parchment to write for McGonagall.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’ve had all week, Ron.”
As they headed toward the dormitory stairs, Harry stayed behind, staring into the fire. His thoughts churned with questions he couldn’t answer, about Malfoy, about the Durmstrang students, about what “different” really meant.
***
The next day, Harry kept his distance from Malfoy. It wasn’t difficult—they didn’t share any classes that morning, and the Slytherins kept to themselves during meals. But Harry couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time he caught a glimpse of Malfoy in the hallways or across the Great Hall, he felt a strange mix of curiosity and frustration. By the time afternoon rolled around, Harry decided he needed answers. He found himself in the library again, scanning the rows of bookshelves for any sign of Malfoy. It wasn’t long before he spotted him at a table near the back, surrounded by stacks of books. To Harry’s surprise, he wasn’t alone. One of the Durmstrang students—the tall boy from the courtyard—was sitting across from him, speaking in low tones.
Harry hesitated, unsure whether to approach. But before he could decide, Malfoy looked up and spotted him.
“Potter,” he said, his voice carrying just enough disdain to make Harry’s cheeks flush. “What do you want?”
The Durmstrang boy turned, his sharp features scrutinizing Harry with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
Harry stepped closer, determined not to back down. “I need to talk to you.”
Malfoy arched an eyebrow, then said something in Bulgarian to the Durmstrang boy. The boy nodded, collecting his books and leaving without another word.
Once they were alone, Malfoy leaned back in his chair, regarding Harry with a faint smirk. “Well? What’s so important that you felt the need to interrupt my study session?”
Harry crossed his arms. “What’s going on with you? With them?” He gestured vaguely toward the direction the Durmstrang boy had gone.
Malfoy sighed, his smirk fading. “Why do you care, Potter? You’ve never cared before.”
“Maybe I care now,” Harry shot back. “You’re acting...different. And I want to know why.”
For a moment, Malfoy didn’t respond. He just stared at Harry, his silver eyes searching his face as if trying to decide whether he was worth the effort.
Finally, he said, “I’ve been working with them. Helping them adjust to Hogwarts, to being away from their school. They’re...not used to all of this.” He gestured around the library.
“That’s it?” Harry asked, frowning.
“Isn’t it enough?” Malfoy replied, his tone sharper now. “Not everything has to be some grand conspiracy, Potter. Some of us are just trying to do what we can to fix the mess we helped create.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to admit that—to acknowledge his role in the war so plainly.
Malfoy stood, gathering his books. “If you’re looking for a villain to fight, Potter, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I’m done playing that role.”
With that, he walked away, leaving Harry alone once again.
As Harry watched him go, he realized something: he wasn’t sure if Malfoy was telling the whole truth. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if it mattered. Something had changed, and Harry was starting to think he wanted to understand it—even if it meant confronting parts of himself he wasn’t ready to face.