take my time
The air in the Gryffindor common room was warm and buzzing with conversation as Harry sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs near the fire. He wasn’t particularly engaged in the chatter around him; Hermione and Ron were discussing some advanced defensive charms for the umpteenth time, and Ginny was flipping through a Quidditch magazine, offering commentary that Harry only half-heard. His mind was elsewhere.
Draco Malfoy had been occupying too much of his thoughts lately. At first, Harry had attributed it to annoyance. Malfoy was always there—smirking in the hallways, commanding attention among the Durmstrang students, and somehow managing to appear completely at ease despite everything they’d all been through.
But it wasn’t annoyance. Not entirely.
Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. His magic, which he’d recently become more attuned to, stirred faintly around him, responding to his frustration. He’d started noticing it about a month ago—how his emotions seemed to manifest physically, like a low-hanging storm cloud whenever he was angry or upset. It was subtle, but it unsettled him.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice cut through his thoughts.
He blinked and looked up. “Yeah?”
“You’ve been staring at the fire for ages,” she said, her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Harry said automatically.
Hermione didn’t look convinced, but before she could press the issue, Ron spoke up. “Leave him be, Hermione. He’s probably just tired of all the noise.”
“I wasn’t going to—” Hermione started, but Ron waved her off.
Harry shot Ron a grateful look, though Hermione didn’t let it go entirely.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you’ve been spending a lot of time wandering the castle lately. Is there something you’re not telling us?”
Harry stiffened. He hadn’t mentioned his late-night encounters with Malfoy to anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“I just like the quiet,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing. “Sometimes it’s nice to get away from all this.” He gestured vaguely at the crowded common room.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she let it drop.
---
Later that night, Harry found himself wandering the corridors again. He hadn’t intended to, but his feet seemed to carry him there of their own accord. The castle was still and silent, the air cool against his skin as he moved through the dimly lit halls. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—or who. It wasn’t until he reached the library that he realized where he was headed. Pushing the heavy doors open, he stepped inside, the scent of parchment and ink washing over him. The library was deserted, save for a lone figure seated at a table near the back.
Draco Malfoy.
Harry’s heart did a strange little flip, though he ignored it. He hesitated for a moment before making his way over.
Malfoy looked up as Harry approached, his expression unreadable.
“Potter,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, equally guarded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Harry noticed the faint shadows under Malfoy’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He looked... tired.
“What are you doing here?” Malfoy asked finally, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Could ask you the same thing,” Harry shot back, though there was no real bite in his tone.
Malfoy sighed, leaning back in his chair. “If you must know, I’m working on a project for Professor Flitwick. Reconstruction charms.”
Harry frowned. “Still? I thought you finished that last week.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know what I’m working on?”
Harry hesitated, realizing his mistake. “I overheard,” he said quickly. “You’ve been talking about it with the Durmstrang students.”
Malfoy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue.
“Why are you really here, Potter?” he asked instead, his tone quieter now.
Harry opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss. He didn’t have a good answer—at least, not one he wanted to admit.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, the honesty surprising even himself.
Malfoy’s brows furrowed, and for a moment, he looked like he might say something cutting. But then he sighed again and gestured to the chair opposite him.
“Sit,” he said simply.
Harry blinked, caught off guard.
“Unless you’d prefer to loom over me all night,” Malfoy added, his tone dry.
Shaking off his surprise, Harry slid into the seat. The table between them felt both like a barrier and a bridge, and he wasn’t sure which one it was supposed to be.
“Look,” Harry said after a moment, his voice low. “I know we’re not... friends, but—”
“We’re not,” Malfoy interjected, though his tone lacked its usual venom.
“Right,” Harry said, nodding. “But things are different now, aren’t they? After the war.”
Malfoy’s expression hardened slightly. “Different, yes. Easier? No.”
Harry hesitated. “You’ve been... working with the Durmstrang students a lot,” he said, changing the subject. “Why?”
Malfoy shrugged, his gaze flicking to the open book in front of him. “Because they don’t judge me. Because they don’t know who I used to be.”
Harry frowned. “You think we judge you?”
Malfoy’s eyes snapped back to his. “Don’t you?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.
“I don’t,” Harry said quietly.
Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he looked away, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.
“Why are you telling me this?” Malfoy asked finally.
Harry didn’t have a good answer for that either. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his magic stirring faintly around him again. He didn’t notice it at first, but Malfoy’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention.
“What is that?” Malfoy asked, his voice low.
Harry blinked. “What’s what?”
“That,” Malfoy said, gesturing vaguely. “Your magic. It’s... suffocating.”
Harry frowned, suddenly aware of the weight in the air around them. He tried to pull it back, to rein it in, but it was like trying to catch smoke with his hands.
“I didn’t mean to—” Harry started, but Malfoy cut him off.
“Potter, control yourself,” he snapped, though there was an edge of something else in his voice—fear, maybe, or concern.
Harry closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. Slowly, the pressure in the air began to fade, the storm cloud dissipating. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy was watching him warily.
“Sorry,” Harry muttered, his cheeks flushing.
Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. Then, after a long pause, he said, “You need to figure out what’s causing that.”
Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure where to start.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension between them shifting into something quieter, almost fragile.
“Goodnight, Potter,” Malfoy said finally, standing and gathering his things.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry replied, watching as he walked away.
As the library door closed behind him, Harry leaned back in his chair, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Something had changed tonight—between him and Malfoy, between him and his magic—and he wasn’t sure what it meant. Harry sat in the now-empty library, staring at the flickering candlelight and trying to make sense of what had just happened. His magic still hummed faintly around him, like a living thing waiting to be acknowledged. He hadn’t realized how much it had been building until Malfoy pointed it out, and that unsettled him. It wasn’t the first time his emotions had triggered something physical, but this... this was different. It wasn’t just his magic reacting—it was like it was acting on its own, amplifying his feelings in ways he couldn’t control.
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. Malfoy had seen right through him, as he always seemed to. But this time, instead of sneering or mocking him, Malfoy had offered something akin to advice. Control yourself. It wasn’t bad advice, honestly. If he’d been anyone else, Harry might have even appreciated it. He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair’s legs against the floor loud in the quiet room. There was no point in sitting here stewing about it. He needed to do something—anything—to get out of his own head.
***
The corridors were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the stone walls. Harry walked aimlessly, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The castle at night was both eerie and comforting, the familiar turns and hidden passages reminding him of all the times he’d wandered these halls in search of adventure—or trouble.
He found himself outside the Astronomy Tower without really meaning to. The cool night air hit him as he stepped out onto the open platform, the stars above twinkling brightly in the clear sky. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing deeply and letting the tension ease from his shoulders.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
Harry startled at the voice, spinning around to see Hermione stepping out from the shadows. She had a book tucked under her arm and an expression that was equal parts curiosity and concern.
“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t look particularly apologetic. “I saw you leave the common room earlier. Thought I’d see if you were okay.”
Harry sighed. “I’m fine.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Because it’s true,” Harry insisted, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.
Hermione didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she walked over to the edge of the tower and leaned against the railing, looking out at the grounds below. After a moment, she said, “You’ve been different, you know. Since the war ended.”
Harry tensed. “So has everyone.”
“Yes,” Hermione agreed, turning to face him. “But with you, it’s more than that. You’re carrying something, Harry. Something you’re not sharing.”
Harry hesitated. He’d always been able to talk to Hermione about anything, but this... this felt different. How was he supposed to explain the strange pull of his magic, or the way it seemed to flare uncontrollably when his emotions ran high?
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione’s expression softened. “Then tell me what you do know.”
So he did. He told her about the strange sensations he’d been experiencing, the way his magic seemed to react to his feelings, and how it had built up like a physical presence earlier in the library.
“And Malfoy noticed,” Hermione said, her brow furrowing as she pieced it together. “Of course he did.”
Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s just... he’s always been attuned to magic, hasn’t he? Probably comes from growing up in a pureblood family.”
Harry wasn’t entirely convinced, but he let it slide. “Do you think it’s normal?” he asked. “What’s happening with my magic?”
Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “Normal? No. But then, when have you ever been normal, Harry?”
He shot her a look, but she just smiled faintly.
“I think you should talk to someone about it,” she continued. “Professor McGonagall, maybe, or one of the other professors.”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“It is a big deal,” Hermione said firmly. “Magic like that—uncontrolled magic—can be dangerous, Harry. Not just to you, but to the people around you.”
Her words hit him harder than he expected. He hadn’t considered that his magic might be a threat to others.
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
Hermione didn’t look entirely satisfied, but she nodded. “Good. And in the meantime, try to keep your emotions in check. That might help.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure how to accomplish that.
***
The next day, Harry found himself in a peculiar mood. Hermione’s words had stuck with him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about his magic—or Malfoy. He spotted Malfoy in the Great Hall at breakfast, seated with the Durmstrang students as usual. The group was an odd mix of personalities, but they seemed to fit together in a way that made Harry strangely envious. Malfoy caught his eye for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his companions. Harry quickly looked away, feeling a heat rise to his cheeks.
“Everything all right, mate?” Ron asked, his mouth full of toast.
“Fine,” Harry said quickly, focusing on his plate.
Ron gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press the issue.
The day passed in a blur of classes and assignments, but Harry’s thoughts kept drifting. By the time evening rolled around, he was restless again.
He ended up back in the library, hoping the quiet would help him focus. But as he wandered between the shelves, he couldn’t help but glance toward the table where he’d sat with Malfoy the night before. It was empty now, but the memory of their conversation lingered. Malfoy had seemed almost... human, in a way Harry wasn’t used to. Shaking his head, Harry grabbed a random book from the shelf and sat down to read. But the words swam before his eyes, and his thoughts refused to settle. He wasn’t sure what was happening to him—why he kept finding himself drawn to Malfoy, or why his magic felt so out of control. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Something had to give.
Harry didn’t know how long he sat in the library, staring blankly at the open book in front of him. Time felt slippery, like the hours bled together in the quiet stillness. He didn’t even realize he was drumming his fingers on the table until Madam Pince shot him a sharp look from her desk. He forced himself to stop, clenching his hand into a fist. His magic stirred faintly, the sensation prickling under his skin. What was wrong with him?
The door to the library creaked open, and Harry glanced up instinctively. His stomach tightened when he saw Malfoy stride in, his sharp features illuminated by the dim candlelight. As always, he moved with an effortless sort of grace, his robes billowing slightly as he walked. Malfoy didn’t notice Harry at first. He was focused on something in his hand—a scrap of parchment, it looked like—and seemed to be scanning the shelves for a specific book. Harry told himself to look away, to keep his head down and pretend he hadn’t noticed. But his gaze lingered, drawn to Malfoy like a moth to a flame. Eventually, Malfoy’s eyes flicked over and locked onto Harry’s. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second, and his expression shifted into something guarded. He hesitated, then squared his shoulders and walked over to Harry’s table.
“Potter,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, trying to sound casual.
Malfoy arched a pale eyebrow. “Are you planning to sit here all night brooding, or are you actually capable of using that book for its intended purpose?”
Harry bristled at the jab, but there was no real malice behind it. If anything, Malfoy sounded... tired.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry shot back. “Didn’t realize you spent your evenings haunting the library.”
Malfoy smirked faintly. “It’s called studying, Potter. I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. Because you’re so busy being the perfect student these days.”
Something flickered in Malfoy’s expression—irritation, maybe, or something deeper—but it was gone before Harry could place it.
“I don’t have time for your nonsense,” Malfoy said, pulling out the chair across from Harry and sitting down without asking. “But since you’re already here, I might as well make use of you.”
“Make use of me?” Harry repeated, his brow furrowing.
Malfoy sighed, leaning forward and placing the scrap of parchment on the table. It was covered in neat, spiky handwriting that Harry recognized immediately.
“You’re good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, aren’t you?” Malfoy said, his voice low.
Harry blinked. “I—yeah, I suppose so.”
Malfoy tapped the parchment with a long finger. “Flitwick assigned me to tutor a couple of Durmstrang students on defensive spells, but their techniques are completely different from anything we were taught here. It’s like trying to teach a Grindylow to swim.”
Harry frowned. “You’re asking me for help?”
“I’m not asking,” Malfoy said quickly, though his ears turned faintly pink. “I’m simply stating that if you happen to know anything useful, you might as well share it.”
Harry fought back a grin. Malfoy’s pride was clearly warring with his need for assistance, and it was almost endearing.
“Fine,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “What do you need to know?”
Malfoy looked momentarily surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Harry to agree so easily. Then he composed himself, smoothing his expression into one of detached politeness.
“They’re struggling with counter-curses,” he said. “Specifically ones involving nonverbal incantations. I’ve tried explaining the theory, but it doesn’t seem to stick.”
Harry considered this. “Nonverbal spells are tricky. It’s more about intent than anything else. They have to really believe in what they’re trying to do.”
Malfoy nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought, but convincing them of that is another matter entirely.”
“Have you tried demonstrating?” Harry asked.
Malfoy gave him a flat look. “Of course I’ve tried demonstrating, Potter. Do you think I’m completely incompetent?”
Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just asking. No need to bite my head off.”
Malfoy sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is why I hate group work.”
Harry couldn’t help but chuckle. “Welcome to my life,” he said. “Try teaching a group of first-years sometime. They don’t even know which end of a wand to hold.”
Malfoy’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
For a moment, the tension between them eased, and Harry found himself relaxing. It was strange, sitting here and talking to Malfoy like this—as if they were normal people, not rivals or enemies.
“Look,” Harry said after a pause. “If you want, I can show you a few tricks that might help.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. “You’d... help me?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Harry said, smirking. “I’m not a complete arse, you know.”
Malfoy hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gauge Harry’s sincerity. Then he gave a curt nod.
“Fine,” he said. “But if you muck it up, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said, grinning.
They spent the next hour going over techniques for nonverbal spells, with Harry demonstrating and Malfoy begrudgingly following along. Despite his initial reluctance, Malfoy proved to be a quick study, picking up on the nuances of each spell with a sharpness that impressed Harry. By the time they finished, the library was nearly empty, and Harry felt a strange sense of accomplishment.
“Well,” Malfoy said, standing and brushing imaginary dust off his robes. “That was... marginally helpful. I suppose I should thank you.”
Harry smirked. “You just did.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Goodnight, Potter.”
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry replied, watching as he walked away.
As the door closed behind him, Harry felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—something that lingered even after Malfoy was gone.
Harry stayed in the library long after Malfoy left, replaying their interaction in his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t spoken to Malfoy civilly before, but tonight felt... different. There was a strange tension between them, something unspoken that neither seemed willing to name. He stared down at the book in front of him, realizing he hadn’t actually read a single word since Malfoy sat down. With a groan, he shut it and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. His magic was still humming faintly beneath his skin, though it felt steadier now, less wild. Maybe it was Malfoy’s presence that had calmed him.
Harry frowned at the thought. That couldn’t be right. Malfoy was as irritating as ever, even when he wasn’t actively trying to pick a fight. And yet, there had been something almost comforting about their banter tonight—something that made Harry feel grounded in a way he hadn’t in weeks. Shaking his head, he stood and gathered his things. It was late, and he was too tired to keep puzzling over it. Whatever was going on with him—and with Malfoy—would have to wait.
***
The next morning, Harry woke to a blinding headache and the sound of Ron snoring in the next bed. He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he tried to will the ache away. Last night’s conversation with Hermione, and his strange, tense exchange with Malfoy, lingered in his mind. It was too much to process before breakfast, but as he got dressed and made his way down to the Great Hall, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting—both in himself and in the fragile truce he seemed to have with Malfoy.
As he entered the hall, he spotted Malfoy immediately. He was seated at the Slytherin table with his usual companions: Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Theo Nott. They looked as smug and aloof as ever, though Harry noticed Malfoy wasn’t as engaged in their conversation as he usually was. His gaze drifted toward the Durmstrang students at the far end of the hall. Antonin and Sofiya were chatting animatedly, their laughter carrying across the room, while Petar sat quietly beside them, looking slightly overwhelmed. Malfoy’s attention kept flicking toward the Durmstrang table, and Harry wondered if he was keeping an eye on his tutoring students—or if there was something else going on.
“Oi, Harry,” Ron said, nudging him as he sat down. “You’re staring.”
“What?” Harry blinked, tearing his gaze away. “No, I’m not.”
Ron smirked. “Yeah, you were. At Malfoy, no less. Care to explain?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry muttered, reaching for a piece of toast.
Hermione raised an eyebrow from across the table. “You two have been spending an awful lot of time together lately.”
Harry nearly choked on his toast. “We haven’t been—he’s just—ugh, it’s not like that.”
“Like what?” Hermione asked innocently, though her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
“Nothing,” Harry said firmly.
Ron shrugged. “Whatever you say, mate. But if you start sitting at the Slytherin table, let us know so we can prepare ourselves.”
Harry glared at him, but his friends only laughed.
***
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, though Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Every time he glanced toward the Slytherin table, he caught Malfoy’s eyes on him—or maybe it was the other way around. By the time evening rolled around, Harry was more restless than ever. His magic was stirring again, the now-familiar hum building under his skin, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit still for long. He decided to head back to the library, hoping the quiet would help him clear his head. But when he arrived, he found Malfoy already there, seated at a table near the back with a stack of books in front of him. For a moment, Harry considered turning around and leaving. But then Malfoy looked up and caught his eye, and there was something in his expression that made Harry pause.
“Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice neutral.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, stepping closer.
Malfoy gestured to the chair across from him. “You’re here late again. Planning to interrupt my work, or are you actually going to be useful this time?”
Harry rolled his eyes but sat down anyway. “What are you working on?”
Malfoy hesitated, as if debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he pushed one of the books toward Harry.
“Runes,” he said. “I’ve been helping Petar with his translations, but his understanding of Ancient Runes is... lacking, to say the least.”
Harry frowned, scanning the page. The text was dense and full of unfamiliar symbols, and he had no idea how Malfoy made sense of it.
“Looks complicated,” he said, handing the book back.
“It is,” Malfoy said, his tone sharp. “Which is why I’d appreciate it if you didn’t distract me.”
Harry smirked. “And yet you keep letting me sit here.”
Malfoy shot him a glare but didn’t reply.
They worked in silence for a while, the quiet punctuated only by the sound of pages turning and the scratch of Malfoy’s quill. Harry found himself strangely at ease, the tension he’d been carrying all day slowly ebbing away.
Eventually, Malfoy broke the silence.
“Potter,” he said, his voice softer than before. “Have you... noticed anything unusual about your magic lately?”
Harry tensed, his heart skipping a beat. “Why do you ask?”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Because you’ve been radiating magic like a bloody beacon since the war ended. It’s hard not to notice.”
Harry swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists under the table. He hadn’t realized it was that obvious.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted finally.
Malfoy studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision.
“Meet me here tomorrow night,” he said. “After curfew.”
Harry blinked. “Why?”
“Because if you’re going to fix whatever’s happening with your magic, you’ll need someone who actually knows what they’re doing,” Malfoy said, his tone matter-of-fact. “And let’s face it, Potter—you’re hopeless on your own.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. Instead, he found himself nodding.
“Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
Malfoy smirked. “Try not to be late.”
As Harry left the library that night, his mind was racing. He didn’t know what Malfoy was planning, but for the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought.