look through your memory

The next morning, Harry woke up with a pounding headache and a nagging sense of unease he couldn’t place. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the Gryffindor Tower curtains, too bright for his bloodshot eyes. Groaning, he sat up in bed and rubbed his temples, trying to recall the events of the previous night. Fragments of memory floated to the surface—firewhisky in the common room, Hermione’s disapproving glances, Ron laughing too loudly at Seamus’ jokes. And then...

Harry froze.

Malfoy.

The hazy image of Draco Malfoy appeared in his mind, sharper than any of the other memories. He saw himself leaning on Malfoy, slurring his words, and—oh, Merlin—actually smiling at him.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, flopping back onto the mattress and covering his face with his hands.

Across the room, Ron stirred and sat up, yawning loudly. “Morning, mate. You look rough.”

“Feel rough too,” Harry admitted, his voice muffled by his hands.

Ron chuckled. “That’s what you get for trying to keep up with Seamus. I told you to pace yourself.”

Harry groaned in response. His mind was already spinning, not from the hangover, but from the increasingly clear memory of Malfoy hauling him through the castle like some kind of reluctant knight in shining armor.

“Did I... do anything stupid last night?” Harry asked cautiously.

Ron frowned, scratching his head. “Not really. You went off on your own after a bit, said you needed some air. Hermione found you eventually, though. She said Malfoy helped bring you back.”

Harry sat up abruptly, his stomach twisting. “She told you that?”

“Yeah, why?” Ron looked at him curiously. “Was he being a git about it or something?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “I just... I didn’t remember.”

Ron shrugged. “Weird, though, isn’t it? Malfoy helping you of all people. You’d think he’d leave you to get caught by Filch.”

Harry nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the image of Malfoy’s pale face, his stormy gray eyes narrowing in exasperation as he steadied Harry. There had been no cruelty in his expression, no mockery—just an odd sort of patience that Harry couldn’t reconcile with the boy he’d known at Hogwarts before the war.

Ron threw on a jumper and headed for the door. “Come on, breakfast. You’ll feel better after you eat.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, though he wasn’t convinced.

The Great Hall was already buzzing with activity when Harry and Ron arrived. Students from all four houses mingled with the foreign visitors, and the combined chatter echoed off the high stone walls. Harry scanned the room automatically, his eyes landing on the Slytherin table. Malfoy sat in his usual spot, flanked by Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. He was speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand, his expression composed. The sight of him was so normal, so unremarkable, that Harry felt a strange pang of irritation.

“Oi, Harry, you coming?” Ron called, already halfway to the Gryffindor table.

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry muttered, tearing his gaze away and following Ron.

He sat down across from Hermione, who looked up from her copy of The Daily Prophet and gave him a knowing look. “How’s the head?”

“Fine,” Harry lied, reaching for a piece of toast.

Hermione arched an eyebrow but didn’t press the matter. Instead, she folded the newspaper and set it aside. “We need to finalize the schedule for the rebuilding teams this week. Professor McGonagall asked if you’d oversee the Gryffindor volunteers.”

“Sure,” Harry said distractedly.

“Harry, are you even listening?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Yeah, I am,” he said quickly. “Rebuilding. Gryffindor. Got it.”

Hermione sighed but let it go.

As breakfast went on, Harry couldn’t help glancing at the Slytherin table again. This time, Malfoy wasn’t alone. A group of Durmstrang students had joined him, their dark red robes standing out against the Slytherin green. Malfoy appeared at ease among them, even smiling faintly as he spoke with a tall, broad-shouldered boy who seemed to command the group’s attention.

The boy leaned closer to Malfoy, saying something that made him laugh—a soft, genuine sound that Harry had never heard before.

Harry stared, a strange mix of emotions churning in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, he didn’t think it was—but something about the scene unsettled him.

“Harry?”

He blinked and looked at Hermione, who was watching him with a concerned expression.

“You’ve been staring at the Slytherin table for ages. What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, grabbing his goblet and taking a long drink.

Hermione didn’t look convinced, but before she could say anything else, Ron returned to the table with a plate piled high with eggs and sausages.

“What are we talking about?” Ron asked, oblivious to the tension.

“Nothing,” Harry repeated, pushing his chair back. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go where?” Ron asked through a mouthful of food.

“Library,” Harry said, the first excuse that came to mind.

Hermione and Ron exchanged puzzled glances, but neither of them stopped him as he left the table.

The library was quieter than usual, most students still lingering over breakfast or heading to their morning classes. Harry wandered aimlessly among the shelves, his mind a tangled mess. Why was he so preoccupied with Malfoy? It didn’t make sense. He stopped in the Charms section, running his fingers along the spines of the books. The air smelled faintly of parchment and dust, the familiar scent calming him slightly.

“Potter.”

Harry turned abruptly, his heart skipping a beat. Malfoy stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and a faintly amused expression on his face.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice more defensive than he intended.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” Malfoy said, stepping closer. “Staring at me in the Great Hall like some lovesick puppy. What’s the matter? Can’t get enough of my company?”

Harry felt his cheeks flush. “I wasn’t staring at you.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. And I’m the Minister of Magic.”

Harry scowled, but before he could retort, Malfoy’s expression softened slightly. “What do you want, Potter?”

The question caught Harry off guard. He hesitated, unsure how to answer.

“I just...wanted to say thanks,” Harry said finally.

“For?”

“For last night,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to help me, but you did. So...thanks.”

Malfoy studied him for a moment, his gray eyes unreadable. Then he gave a small shrug. “Don’t mention it.”

An awkward silence stretched between them, and Harry fumbled for something else to say.

“Who was that you were talking to at breakfast?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Malfoy frowned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Harry said quickly. “Just curious.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “His name is Leonid. He’s a Durmstrang student, if you must know.”

Harry nodded, though the answer didn’t satisfy him. “He seems...friendly.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. “Jealous, Potter?”

“No!” Harry said, too loudly.

Malfoy smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Whatever you say.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Malfoy turned and walked away, his robes billowing behind him. As Harry watched him go, he felt a strange sense of relief and frustration. Malfoy was infuriating as ever, but there was something about him—something Harry couldn’t quite put into words. And for the first time, he wondered if he really wanted to.

Harry stared at the spot where Malfoy had just disappeared around a corner, the lingering tension in the air tying knots in his chest. His pulse felt too loud in his ears, like a drumbeat he couldn’t shake. Jealous. Malfoy’s smirking accusation echoed in his mind, and Harry clenched his fists. Of course, I’m not jealous, he thought. He barely knew the bloke Malfoy had been talking to, and what Malfoy did or who he talked to wasn’t Harry’s business.  Right? He shook his head, frustrated with himself. Dwelling on Malfoy was becoming a bad habit, one he needed to break. He turned on his heel and headed deeper into the library, determined to focus on anything else.  

But the universe, as it so often did, had other plans.  As Harry rounded a corner, he nearly collided with Hermione, who was balancing a precarious stack of books in her arms.  

“Harry!” she exclaimed, startled. “You’re still here?”  

“I—uh—” Harry stammered, searching for a plausible excuse. “I was looking for something. For class.”  

Hermione frowned, clearly skeptical. “Class hasn’t even started yet. What are you really doing?”  

“Nothing!” Harry said too quickly, his voice rising an octave. “Just... wandering.”  

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she shifted the stack of books to one arm so she could cross the other over her chest. “Does this have anything to do with Malfoy?”  

Harry flinched. “What? No! Why would you think that?”  

“Because,” Hermione said, lowering her voice, “I saw you watching him at breakfast. And don’t deny it—I know what I saw.”  

Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not what you think.”  

“Then explain it to me,” Hermione said, her tone patient but firm.  

“I—” Harry hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know, okay? It’s just... Malfoy’s been acting different lately. And it’s... weird.”  

Hermione tilted her head, her expression softening. “Weird how?”  

“I don’t know,” Harry repeated, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “He’s just... he helped me last night when I was drunk, and he didn’t make a big deal about it. And then this morning, he was laughing with that Durmstrang guy like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s like he’s a completely different person.”  

“People can change, Harry,” Hermione said gently.  

“Can they?” Harry asked, his tone skeptical.  

Hermione nodded. “The war changed all of us. Maybe it changed Malfoy too.”  

Harry let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the nearest bookshelf. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just can’t figure him out.”  

Hermione smiled faintly. “You don’t always have to figure people out, you know. Sometimes you just have to let them be who they are.”  

Harry nodded reluctantly, though he wasn’t sure he fully agreed. Letting things go had never been his strong suit.  

“Come on,” Hermione said, shifting the books back into both arms. “I’ll walk you to the common room. You look like you could use a break.”  

Harry followed her out of the library, his thoughts still tangled.  

***  

The rest of the day passed in a blur of halfhearted attempts at productivity. Harry tried to focus on his assignments, but his mind kept wandering back to Malfoy and the strange encounter in the library.  By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was tired of thinking. He plopped down at the Gryffindor table next to Ron, who was animatedly recounting a story about Quidditch tryouts to Seamus and Dean.  

“Are you going out again tonight?” Hermione asked as she joined them, her tone carefully neutral.  

Harry shook his head. “No. I think I’ve had enough firewhiskey for a while.”  

Hermione looked relieved, and Ron gave him a thumbs-up.  

“Good, because McGonagall’s assigning the rebuilding teams tomorrow, and I don’t think she’d appreciate you showing up hungover,” Hermione said.  

Harry nodded, grateful for the excuse to stay grounded.  

As dinner went on, Harry tried to immerse himself in the conversation, but his attention kept drifting. Across the hall, Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, his head bent over a book. He looked calm, almost serene, as he flipped a page and reached for his goblet of water.  

Harry tore his gaze away, annoyed with himself. He didn’t even realize Hermione was speaking to him until she nudged his arm.  

“Harry, are you listening?”  

“Yeah,” Harry lied automatically.  

Hermione gave him a knowing look but didn’t press the issue.  

After dinner, Harry wandered back to the Gryffindor common room, but the lively chatter and laughter felt suffocating. He grabbed his cloak and slipped out, craving the quiet of the castle corridors. His feet carried him aimlessly, and before he knew it, he was back in the library. It was nearly empty now, the only sound the faint rustle of pages being turned.  Harry wandered through the rows of shelves, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he found it—or rather, him.  Malfoy was seated at one of the tables, a stack of books beside him and a quill in his hand. He was scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration.  Harry hesitated, unsure whether to approach. But before he could decide, Malfoy looked up and spotted him.  

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his tone neutral. “Lost again?”  

Harry forced a smile. “Just... wandering.”  

Malfoy arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment.  

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.  

“What are you working on?” Harry asked finally, nodding toward the books.  

Malfoy glanced at them briefly before returning to his notes. “Ancient Runes. Not that you’d understand.”  

Harry bristled at the jab but decided to let it slide. “Probably not,” he admitted, surprising himself with his honesty.  

Malfoy looked up, his gray eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher Harry’s sudden humility. “Did you need something, Potter, or are you just here to loiter?”  

“I don’t need anything,” Harry said, stepping closer. “I just... wanted to say thanks again. For last night.”  

Malfoy set his quill down and leaned back in his chair, studying Harry intently. “You’ve already thanked me. Twice now.”  

“I know,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—”  

“Can’t stop thinking about it?” Malfoy interrupted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  

Harry’s cheeks burned. “That’s not—”  

“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said, holding up a hand. “I’m only teasing. Sort of.”  

Harry frowned, unsure whether to feel annoyed or relieved.  

Malfoy’s expression softened slightly. “You’re welcome, if it means that much to you. But don’t make a habit of getting yourself into situations like that. I won’t always be there to save you.”  

The words were teasing, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that caught Harry off guard.  

“Right,” Harry said, his voice quieter than he intended.  

Malfoy picked up his quill again, clearly dismissing him. But as Harry turned to leave, he couldn’t help but glance back.  

And for the briefest moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something in Malfoy’s eyes—something softer, more vulnerable than he would have expected.  But then it was gone, and Malfoy returned to his work as if Harry had never been there at all. Harry walked back to the Gryffindor common room in a daze, his thoughts tangled like a poorly executed spell. The encounter with Malfoy lingered in his mind, each word and expression replaying itself on an endless loop.  “Can’t stop thinking about it?” Malfoy’s voice teased him, smug and amused. Harry clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t that he couldn’t stop thinking about it—it was just…strange. That was all. Malfoy was strange.  But beneath his irritation, Harry couldn’t shake the memory of the softer note in Malfoy’s tone, the way his expression had momentarily shifted into something almost unguarded.  

“Why am I even thinking about this?” Harry muttered under his breath. He turned a corner, nearly colliding with a group of chattering Hufflepuffs on their way to the kitchens.  

The familiar warmth of the Gryffindor common room greeted him as he clambered through the portrait hole. Ron and Seamus were locked in a heated game of wizard chess near the fire, while Hermione sat in her usual chair, surrounded by stacks of parchment. She looked up as Harry entered, her brow furrowing in concern.  

“You’ve been wandering off a lot lately,” she said, setting down her quill. “Is everything all right?”  

“Yeah, fine,” Harry said quickly, flopping onto the couch beside her.  

Hermione didn’t look convinced. “If this is about Malfoy—”  

“It’s not,” Harry interrupted, though his voice betrayed his defensiveness.  

Hermione sighed. “Harry, it’s okay if you’re feeling unsettled. The war’s over, but that doesn’t mean everything goes back to normal overnight.”  

Harry nodded, though her words didn’t fully resonate. It wasn’t the war that had him feeling unsettled—it was Malfoy.  

But he couldn’t explain that to Hermione. He wasn’t sure he could even explain it to himself.  

***

The next morning, Harry woke early, hoping to clear his mind with a brisk walk around the castle. The corridors were quiet, the pale light of dawn filtering through the tall windows. He made his way to the courtyard, where a cool breeze carried the scent of damp stone and grass.  

He wasn’t alone for long.  

“Potter.”  

Harry turned to see Malfoy stepping into the courtyard, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robes. His hair caught the morning light, gleaming silver against the muted colors of the castle.  

“Malfoy,” Harry said, his tone wary.  

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing out here? Trying to avoid your fan club?”  

Harry crossed his arms. “I could ask you the same thing.”  

“I like the quiet,” Malfoy said simply, walking past Harry and leaning against the stone railing overlooking the grounds.  

Harry hesitated, torn between leaving and staying. After a moment, curiosity won out, and he joined Malfoy at the railing.  

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence was punctuated only by the distant cawing of a crow and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.  

“I’ve noticed something,” Malfoy said suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.  

“What’s that?” Harry asked, glancing at him.  

“You’ve been staring at me a lot lately,” Malfoy said, smirking as he turned to face Harry.  

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “I have not.”  

Malfoy chuckled. “Don’t deny it, Potter. You’re not exactly subtle.”  

“I’m not staring,” Harry insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. “I’m just... curious.”  

“Curious?” Malfoy echoed, his smirk widening. “About what?”  

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “About you. You’re... different.”  

“Different how?”  

“You’re not as much of a git as you used to be,” Harry said before he could stop himself.  

Malfoy blinked, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, his expression softened, but he quickly masked it with a scoff. “High praise, coming from you.”  

“It’s not a bad thing,” Harry said quickly. “I just... didn’t expect it.”  

Malfoy studied him for a long moment, his gray eyes searching Harry’s face. “People change, Potter. Even me.”  

Harry nodded slowly, the words echoing Hermione’s sentiments from the night before.  

“And what about you?” Malfoy asked, his tone suddenly serious. “Have you changed?”  

Harry frowned, unsure how to answer. Had he changed? The war had left its mark on all of them, but he didn’t feel any different—not really.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “At least you’re honest. That’s something.”  

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and they both turned to see Ron and Hermione entering the courtyard.  

“There you are,” Hermione said, her voice tinged with relief. “We’ve been looking for you.”  

Ron’s eyes flicked between Harry and Malfoy, his expression darkening. “What’s he doing here?”  

“None of your business, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled, his smirk returning.  

Harry stepped between them before things could escalate. “It’s fine, Ron. We were just talking.”  

“Talking?” Ron repeated, his disbelief evident.  

Hermione placed a hand on Ron’s arm, pulling him back. “Come on, Ron. Let’s go.”  

Ron grumbled but followed her out of the courtyard, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder.  

Once they were gone, Harry turned back to Malfoy.  

“Thanks,” he said, surprising himself.  

“For what?” Malfoy asked, raising an eyebrow.  

“For not being a git just now,” Harry said, a small smile tugging at his lips.  

Malfoy rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Don’t get used to it, Potter.”  

Harry chuckled softly, and for a moment, the tension between them eased.  

As they stood in the quiet courtyard, Harry realized something that both comforted and unnerved him: Malfoy wasn’t the only one who had changed.  

And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.  

After Ron and Hermione had left the courtyard, Harry lingered with Malfoy a while longer, though the conversation drifted into silence. They were both clearly lost in their own thoughts, but Harry couldn't shake a strange sensation brewing inside him.  It started as a faint prickling at the back of his neck, like the static charge before a storm. He rubbed at it absently, glancing at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. The other boy was leaning on the railing, looking out at the grounds, his expression distant.  Harry frowned. The prickling wasn’t just at his neck anymore; it had spread down his arms and into his chest. The more he tried to ignore it, the stronger it became, until it felt like his magic was pressing against his skin, begging for release.  

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice broke through the haze.  

Harry blinked, realizing he’d been gripping the railing hard enough to make his knuckles ache. “What?”  

“You’re doing... something,” Malfoy said, gesturing vaguely. His sharp gray eyes narrowed. “The air around you feels... charged. Like a storm.”  

Harry let go of the railing and looked down at his hands. To his horror, faint tendrils of golden light curled around his fingers, flickering like embers.  

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, stepping back.  

Malfoy straightened, his expression wary but curious. “What’s that supposed to be?”  

“I—I don’t know,” Harry admitted, his heart pounding. He tried to push the magic down, to shove it back inside where it belonged, but the harder he tried, the more it seemed to fight him.  

Malfoy’s eyes flicked between Harry’s face and his hands. “You’re overreacting,” he said, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “Calm down.”  

“I *am* calm,” Harry snapped, though it was a blatant lie. The tension inside him was building, threatening to explode.  

“Clearly not,” Malfoy said dryly. “Whatever this is, it’s tied to your emotions. You’re like a walking magical barometer.”  

Harry glared at him. “Not helping.”  

Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All right, fine. Close your eyes or something. Breathe. Pretend you’re meditating.”  

“I don’t meditate,” Harry said through gritted teeth.  

“Obviously,” Malfoy muttered. “But now might be a good time to start.”  

Harry huffed but followed Malfoy’s advice, if only to stop the growing sense of panic. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sound of the wind and the coolness of the stone beneath his hands.  

At first, the magic resisted, surging against his will like a storm battering against a fragile dam. But slowly, as he exhaled and forced himself to relax, the pressure began to ease. The prickling sensation faded, and when Harry opened his eyes, the golden light was gone.  

“Better?” Malfoy asked, his tone neutral but his gaze sharp.  

Harry nodded, though he still felt shaky. “Yeah. I think so.”  

Malfoy studied him for a moment before stepping back. “You should keep an eye on that. Losing control of your magic could be dangerous.”  

Harry frowned. “Why do you care?”  

Malfoy hesitated, his expression unreadable. “I don’t,” he said finally. “But if you go off like a human wand explosion, you’ll probably take half the castle with you. And I’d rather not be collateral damage.”  

“Thanks for the concern,” Harry said dryly, though he couldn’t entirely dismiss the flicker of sincerity he thought he’d seen in Malfoy’s eyes.  

“Don’t mention it,” Malfoy said, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. “Really. Don’t.”  

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Harry alone in the courtyard.  

***  

The incident in the courtyard stayed with Harry for the rest of the day, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He tried to push it aside, focusing on his classes and the rebuilding assignments McGonagall had handed out, but the memory of that golden light curling around his hands refused to fade.  

By the time evening rolled around, Harry was both physically and mentally exhausted. He sank into one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, watching the fire crackle in the hearth.  

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Hermione asked, sitting down across from him.  

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”  

“You’ve been acting strange all day,” Hermione said, her brow furrowed. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell us.”  

“I’m fine,” Harry insisted, though he could tell she didn’t believe him.  

Ron plopped down beside them, munching on a Chocolate Frog. “You’re always tired lately,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate. “You need a break, mate.”  

Harry forced a smile. “Maybe.”  

Hermione exchanged a look with Ron, but thankfully, she didn’t press the issue further.  

As the evening wore on, the common room gradually emptied, until Harry was one of the last people left. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, his thoughts drifting back to the courtyard.  What had happened to him? He’d always been powerful, sure, but his magic had never behaved like that before—like a living thing with a mind of its own.  You’re like a walking magical barometer. Malfoy’s words echoed in his mind, and Harry’s jaw tightened.  He hated to admit it, but Malfoy might be right. Whatever this was, it was tied to his emotions. And if he didn’t figure out how to control it, things could get... messy.  With a sigh, Harry pushed himself out of the chair and headed for bed. Tomorrow, he decided, he would start looking for answers. Whether that meant talking to Hermione, researching in the library, or confronting Malfoy again, he didn’t know.  But one way or another, he was going to get to the bottom of this.