look through your memory

Harry sat in the common room, a knot of unease twisting in his stomach. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the familiar red-and-gold decor, but he couldn’t relax. Across from him, Hermione was flipping through a massive book on Transfiguration, while Ron leaned back in his chair, absently tossing a chocolate frog wrapper onto the table.  

It was now or never.  

“So,” Harry began, trying to sound casual. His voice cracked slightly, and he winced. “There’s, uh... something I need to tell you both.”  

Ron stopped mid-throw, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’ve got that look, mate. What’ve you done this time?”  

Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “I haven’t *done* anything. It’s more like... something’s happening to me.”  

Hermione’s head snapped up, her book forgotten as she zeroed in on him with laser focus. “What do you mean, ‘happening to you’? Is this about your scar? Are you feeling pain again? You really should have told me sooner if—”  

“It’s not my scar,” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand. “And it’s not that I’ve been hiding it from you. I just didn’t know how to explain it before.”  

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, who looked equally confused.  

“Okay,” Hermione said, her voice gentler now. “Take your time. What’s going on?”  

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their attention pressing down on him. “It’s my magic. It’s been... acting weird lately.”  

“Weird how?” Ron asked, sitting up straighter.  

“It’s hard to explain,” Harry said, frowning as he searched for the right words. “It’s like... it builds up inside me when I’m emotional. Not just anger, either—anything strong, like fear or even excitement. And when it gets too much, it feels like it’s going to burst out of me.”  

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Burst out how?”  

Harry hesitated, the memory of the Astronomy Tower flashing through his mind. “A couple of nights ago, I lost control. It was like... this huge surge of power, and it knocked things over—blew out windows, that sort of thing.”  

Ron let out a low whistle. “Blimey, mate. That sounds dangerous.”  

“It is,” Harry admitted, his voice low. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything at first. I thought I could figure it out on my own, but... I can’t.”  

“Have you told McGonagall?” Hermione asked, her tone brisk as she reached for her notebook.  

“No,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t want anyone else involved—not yet, anyway. I don’t even fully understand it myself, and I don’t want them thinking I’m some kind of... I don’t know, risk to the school.”  

Hermione frowned. “You wouldn’t be a risk if you got help. You know McGonagall would understand.”  

Harry sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know, but... I just don’t want to deal with that right now. I’ve been working on it with someone, and we’ve made a bit of progress.”  

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Someone? Who’s helping you?”  

Harry hesitated, biting his lip. This was the part he knew they’d find hard to accept. “Malfoy.”  

Both Ron and Hermione froze, their expressions shifting from confusion to outright disbelief.  

“Malfoy?” Ron repeated, his voice rising an octave. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  

“I’m not,” Harry said, his jaw tightening. “He knows a lot about magical theory, and he’s been helping me figure out what’s going on. And before you say anything, no, he’s not up to anything shady. He’s been... decent about it.”  

“Decent?” Ron looked like he might choke on the word. “Malfoy doesn’t even know what that word means!”  

Hermione, however, was frowning thoughtfully. “It’s not entirely surprising,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Malfoy is talented when it comes to magical control. His wandwork in school was always precise, even when we were first learning spells.”  

Ron gaped at her. “Are you seriously defending him, Hermione? He’s Malfoy!”  

“I’m not defending him,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I’m just saying that if Harry thinks Malfoy is helping, maybe we should hear him out.”  

Ron crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. But I don’t trust him.”  

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t ask you to trust him. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on. Malfoy’s the only one who’s actually been able to help me so far, and until I figure this out, I’m going to keep working with him.”  

Hermione leaned forward, her expression serious. “Harry, this magic problem—have you noticed any patterns? Like, does it happen more often in certain situations or places?”  

Harry considered the question, his mind drifting back over the past few weeks. “It’s worse when I’m around a lot of people,” he admitted. “And when I’m already feeling stressed or overwhelmed. It’s like... their emotions feed into mine, and everything gets amplified.”  

“That’s interesting,” Hermione said, scribbling something in her notebook. “It could be a form of magical empathy. There are documented cases of wizards and witches whose magic reacts to the emotions of those around them, but it’s extremely rare.”  

“Great,” Harry muttered. “Another rare thing to add to the list.”  

Hermione ignored his sarcasm, flipping through her notebook with a determined look. “We’ll figure this out, Harry. I’ll start researching magical empathy, and I can check the library for any books on magical saturation. In the meantime, keep practicing with Malfoy, but don’t push yourself too hard. If it gets worse, you have to tell McGonagall.”  

Harry nodded, though the idea of involving McGonagall still made him uneasy. “Thanks, Hermione. And... thanks, Ron. Even if you think I’m mad for working with Malfoy.”  

Ron grumbled something under his breath but gave Harry a grudging nod.  

“Just don’t let him hex you when your back’s turned,” he said. “If he does, I’ll—”  

“You’ll do what, Ron?”  

The three of them turned to see Ginny standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and an amused smirk on her face.  

“Threaten Malfoy?” she continued, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’d pay to see that.”  

Ron groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”  

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly. For the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe again.

Ginny strolled into the common room, her sharp gaze sweeping over the group. “Alright, what are we all conspiring about? You’ve got that look, Harry.”  

Harry hesitated, glancing at Hermione and Ron for reassurance. Hermione gave him a slight nod, her expression encouraging, while Ron rolled his eyes and muttered, “Might as well tell her before she finds out on her own.”  

Harry sighed. “Fine, but promise you won’t overreact.”  

Ginny raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “When do I ever overreact?”  

Ron snorted, but Harry cut in before they could start bickering. “It’s about my magic,” he said, meeting Ginny’s gaze. “Something’s... off with it. I’ve been having trouble controlling it lately.”  

Ginny’s teasing demeanor shifted instantly, concern replacing her smirk. “What kind of trouble?”  

Harry explained everything—the surges of energy, the way his emotions seemed to amplify his magic, and how it had nearly destroyed the Astronomy Tower. He left out the finer details of Malfoy’s involvement for now, focusing instead on the strange, volatile nature of his power.  

When he finished, Ginny sat down in the empty armchair next to Hermione, her brow furrowed. “That’s... a lot,” she said finally. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t even fully understand what was happening myself.”  

Ginny tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of frustration and fondness. “You do realize that keeping things bottled up never works out for you, right?”  

Harry smiled wryly. “I’m starting to get that impression.”  

“So, what’s the plan?” Ginny asked, leaning forward. “You can’t just keep going like this, hoping it’ll fix itself.”  

“I’ve been working on it,” Harry said cautiously. “Practicing control, trying to figure out what triggers it.”  

“With Malfoy,” Ron added sourly, earning a sharp glare from Ginny.  

“Malfoy?” she repeated, her tone incredulous. “You’re working with *Malfoy*?”  

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Harry said quickly. “He’s actually been... helpful.”  

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t immediately object. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers against the armrest. “Well, that’s unexpected. But if it’s working, I guess I can’t complain. Just don’t let him drag you into any of his schemes.”  

“Don’t worry,” Harry said with a small smile. “I’m keeping my guard up.”  

Ginny didn’t look entirely convinced, but she let the subject drop for now.  

“So, what’s your next step?” Hermione asked, her quill poised over her notebook.  

“I’m going to keep practicing,” Harry said. “Malfoy thinks I need to get better at channeling my magic, so it doesn’t build up like it does now. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but...” He trailed off, shrugging. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”  

Hermione nodded, scribbling something down. “I’ll keep researching magical empathy and saturation. Maybe I can find a spell or technique that’ll help.”  

“And I’ll keep an eye on Malfoy,” Ron muttered.  

Ginny shot him a withering look. “Honestly, Ron, you’re worse than Mum sometimes.”  

Before Ron could retort, the portrait hole swung open, and Neville stepped inside, looking thoroughly winded. He froze when he saw the group gathered by the fire.  

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, glancing between them.  

“Not at all,” Hermione said quickly, closing her notebook.  

Neville frowned, his gaze settling on Harry. “You alright? You look... tense.”  

“I’m fine,” Harry said, though the forced smile on his face wasn’t particularly convincing.  

Neville didn’t push the issue, but his concern lingered as he took a seat near the fire.  

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Harry felt a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t as though his problems had disappeared, but sharing them with his friends had lifted a weight from his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel entirely alone.  

***

Later that night, Harry found himself in the dormitory, staring up at the canopy of his bed. Ron’s soft snores filled the room, but Harry couldn’t sleep. His mind was still buzzing with everything they’d discussed, and the idea of facing another unpredictable surge of magic made his chest tighten.  With a sigh, he pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed. He grabbed his wand and slipped quietly out of the dormitory, heading for the common room.  

To his surprise, Hermione was still there, her nose buried in a thick book. She looked up when she heard his footsteps, her brow furrowing.  

“Harry? What are you doing up?”  

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, sinking into the armchair across from her. “You?”  

“I was just doing some light reading,” she said, holding up the book. The title read Advanced Magical Theory: A Study of Empathic Magic and Energetic Resonance. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Light reading?”  

Hermione smiled faintly. “For me, anyway. I thought I might find something useful, but so far, it’s mostly theory.”  

Harry leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “I appreciate you looking into it, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

“You’d figure it out,” she said firmly. “You always do. But I’m glad I can help.”  

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the crackling fire the only sound in the room.  

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?” Harry asked quietly, breaking the silence.  

Hermione looked up from her book, her expression thoughtful. “I think it’s like any other skill, Harry. You just need time and practice. You’ve been through so much—your magic is probably reacting to everything you’ve repressed over the years. But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”  

Harry nodded, her words offering a small measure of comfort. He didn’t know what the future held, but for now, he was grateful to have his friends by his side. Harry sat in the common room with Hermione for a while longer, letting the warmth of the fire and the steady scratching of her quill lull his nerves. The silence was comforting, but eventually, the weight of exhaustion pulled at him. 

"I'm going to try and get some sleep," he said, rising from his chair. 

Hermione looked up, her eyes soft with understanding. "Good idea. Tomorrow's a new day, Harry. We'll figure this out, step by step."  

He gave her a tired smile and headed back up the spiral staircase to the dormitory. The room was quiet except for Ron's snores and the occasional rustle of bedclothes as Neville shifted in his sleep. Harry climbed back into bed, pulling the curtains shut around him, but even as he lay down, his thoughts refused to settle.  His magic had been unpredictable for weeks now, and though Malfoy’s help was surprising and effective, Harry still felt like he was swimming against a current he couldn’t quite see. Hermione’s theories about magical empathy seemed plausible, but it didn’t explain the intensity of his magic’s reactions. It wasn’t just empathy; it was something deeper, wilder.  

Eventually, sleep claimed him, though his dreams were restless—filled with flashes of light, shadows, and a faint, mocking laugh that sounded eerily familiar.  

***

The next morning, Harry trudged down to breakfast, feeling the weight of his restless night in the ache behind his eyes. Ron was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, holding a plate piled high with toast and sausages.  

“Thought you’d sleep through breakfast, mate,” Ron said, thrusting the plate into Harry’s hands. “Figured I’d grab you something before Hermione dragged us to the library for another research session.”  

Harry managed a weak smile. “Thanks. Didn’t sleep much.”  

“I can tell,” Ron said, looking him over with a critical eye. “You’ve got that ‘too much on my mind’ look again. Anything new?”  

Harry shook his head, taking a bite of toast. “Nothing new. Just... processing everything.”  

Ron nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Look, I know I’ve been a bit of a prat about Malfoy, but if he’s actually helping... I’m not going to hex him or anything. As long as he doesn’t try anything funny.”  

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, appreciating the small concession.  

“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t,” Ron added with a grin, leading the way to the Great Hall.  

The day passed in a blur of classes and library research. Hermione was in full academic mode, poring over every book on magical theory she could find. Ron mostly hovered nearby, muttering about how useless half the information seemed, but Harry could see the genuine concern beneath his grumbling.  By the time the afternoon sun dipped below the horizon, Harry’s brain was throbbing from all the reading. He closed the book in front of him with a groan.  

“This is hopeless,” he said, rubbing his temples. “It’s all just... theories and speculation. None of it feels practical.”  

Hermione frowned but didn’t disagree. “You’re right,” she admitted. “Most of what I’ve found so far is theoretical, but that doesn’t mean it’s useless. If we understand the mechanics behind your magic, we might be able to find a way to stabilize it.”  

“Yeah, but that could take weeks,” Harry said, slumping in his chair. “What if I lose control again before we figure it out?”  

“That’s why you’re practicing,” Hermione reminded him. “You’ve already made progress with Malfoy, haven’t you?”  

Harry nodded reluctantly. “A little. But it’s still unpredictable.”  

Ron glanced between them, his expression troubled. “What if we’re missing something? Like, what if it’s not just about control? Maybe there’s something else going on—something causing your magic to go haywire in the first place.”  

Hermione’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “That’s a good point, Ron. If we can figure out the root cause, it might be easier to find a solution.”  

Harry groaned. “Great. More mysteries to solve.”  

“Don’t worry, mate,” Ron said, clapping him on the back. “We’ll get there. You’ve faced worse, remember?”  

Harry managed a small smile. “Thanks.”  

***

That evening, Harry found himself wandering the castle corridors, his thoughts too restless to stay in one place. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves through the open windows. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind, but his feet seemed to lead him to familiar territory—the Astronomy Tower.  As he climbed the winding stairs, he felt a strange mix of apprehension and anticipation. The last time he’d been here, his magic had erupted in a way he couldn’t control. But there was also something grounding about the tower, as though the open sky above him offered a kind of solace he couldn’t find elsewhere.  

When he reached the top, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find Draco Malfoy already there. The Slytherin was leaning against the railing, his pale hair catching the faint glow of the moonlight. He turned at the sound of Harry’s footsteps, his expression unreadable.  

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his tone neutral.  

“Malfoy,” Harry replied, stepping closer.  

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The cool night air wrapped around them, carrying the faint rustle of leaves from the grounds below.  

“Couldn’t sleep?” Draco asked, breaking the silence.  

“Something like that,” Harry admitted. “You?”  

Draco shrugged, his gaze shifting to the horizon. “I come here to think. It’s... quiet.”  

Harry leaned against the railing beside him, the silence between them oddly comfortable.  

“Have you been practicing?” Draco asked after a while, his tone carefully casual.  

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s... slow going, but I think I’m starting to understand how to channel it. Sort of.”  

Draco nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Good. The more control you have, the less likely you are to blow up half the castle.”  

Harry snorted, but there was no real malice in Draco’s words—just his usual dry humor.  

“You know,” Draco continued, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About how your magic feels like it’s tied to your emotions.”  

“Yeah?” Harry prompted.  

Draco hesitated, his silver eyes flicking to Harry’s. “It’s not just about controlling your magic. It’s about understanding it. You’ve spent so much of your life reacting to everything—fighting, surviving. Maybe it’s time you started listening to what your magic is trying to tell you.”  

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the insight. “You think my magic is... trying to tell me something?”  

Draco shrugged, his gaze returning to the horizon. “Magic isn’t just a tool, Potter. It’s a part of who we are. If it’s acting out, there’s a reason for it.”  

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. For the first time, Harry wondered if his magic was more than just a problem to solve—if it was a reflection of something deeper within himself.  

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, his voice low.  

Draco nodded, his expression softening just enough to make Harry wonder if they were actually becoming... friends. The thought was both strange and oddly comforting.  As the moon climbed higher in the sky, the two of them stood in silence, the weight of their shared secrets binding them in a way Harry hadn’t expected. For the first time in weeks, he felt a glimmer of hope—a sense that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t facing this alone.  

Harry stayed on the Astronomy Tower long after Malfoy had gone, the other boy retreating into the shadows with a brief nod and murmured, “Goodnight, Potter.” Harry had barely responded, his thoughts tangled up in the conversation they’d shared. 

Listening to my magic? It sounded strange, almost laughable. But something about the idea stuck with him. He hadn’t thought about magic that way—not as a part of himself trying to communicate something, but simply as a force he wielded.  

He turned his gaze up to the stars, letting the quiet stretch around him. The air was crisp, biting his skin just enough to keep him grounded in the moment. He tried to think about his magic, to feel it, but it was like trying to catch smoke in his hands—intangible and frustratingly elusive.  

Eventually, the cold drove him back inside. The castle was eerily quiet at this hour, the only sounds the faint creaks of the old stone and the occasional gust of wind outside. By the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, his thoughts were no less muddled.  

***

The next morning, Harry sat with Ron and Hermione at breakfast, picking at his toast. Ginny was at the other end of the table, deep in conversation with a group of fifth years. Harry couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for not telling her more about what was happening, but he wasn’t sure how to explain it all without sounding completely unhinged.  

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, nudging Harry with his elbow.  

“Yeah, just tired,” Harry said, forcing a smile.  

Ron gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press.  

Hermione, however, wasn’t as easily deterred. “Did you try practicing again last night?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.  

“Sort of,” Harry admitted. “I talked to Malfoy about it.”  

Ron made a face but kept quiet, earning him a sharp look of approval from Hermione.  

“And?” she prompted.  

Harry hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. “He said... he thinks my magic is trying to tell me something. That maybe it’s more than just a control issue.”  

Hermione frowned, clearly intrigued. “That’s actually a fascinating perspective. Magic is deeply tied to emotion and intent—it’s not just a tool, like he said. Maybe he’s onto something.”  

Ron groaned. “Great. Now we’re taking advice from Malfoy. What’s next, inviting him to tea?”  

“Be serious, Ron,” Hermione snapped. “This is important.”  

Ron held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying, it’s weird. But if it helps Harry, I’ll shut up about it.”  

“Thank you,” Hermione said primly.  

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “I don’t even know where to start. How am I supposed to ‘listen’ to my magic? It’s not like it’s a person I can just talk to.”  

“It’s more about awareness,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “You need to pay attention to how it feels—when it’s calm, when it’s not, what triggers it. Maybe meditation could help.”  

“Harry, meditating,” Ron said with a snort. “Yeah, I’d like to see that.”  

Harry gave him a half-hearted glare. “I’ll try anything at this point.”  

Hermione nodded, already pulling a notebook from her bag. “I’ll look into some techniques you can use. And you should keep practicing with Malfoy if it’s helping. Just... be careful.”  

Harry nodded, though the idea of spending more time with Malfoy left him feeling conflicted. He didn’t hate the Slytherin anymore, not really, but there was still a lingering unease between them—old grudges that hadn’t entirely faded.  

***

By the time evening rolled around, Harry found himself back in the Room of Requirement. The room had transformed into a spacious, open area with a few comfortable chairs near the walls and plenty of space to practice magic. Malfoy was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.  

“You’re late,” Malfoy said, his tone light but teasing.  

“Had to deal with Ron and Hermione,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes.  

Malfoy smirked. “Let me guess—Weasley grumbled, and Granger lectured?”  

“Pretty much,” Harry said with a reluctant smile.  

“Shocking,” Malfoy drawled, pushing off the wall. “Alright, let’s get started. Show me what you’ve been practicing.”  

Harry hesitated, his wand feeling heavier in his hand than usual. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s been... harder lately.”  

Malfoy’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of genuine concern. “Alright. Let’s try something simple. Start with a Lumos, but focus on keeping the light steady. No flares, no flickering. Just a steady glow.”  

Harry nodded and raised his wand. “Lumos,” he murmured, and the tip of his wand lit up with a soft, golden glow.  

At first, it seemed steady enough, but as Harry tried to maintain the light, he felt the familiar pressure building in his chest—a tightness that seemed to pulse with the magic in his wand. The light flickered, then flared brightly before extinguishing altogether.  

Harry let out a frustrated sigh, lowering his wand.  

“Stop forcing it,” Malfoy said, stepping closer. “You’re trying too hard to control it. Let the magic flow naturally. It’s like breathing—if you hold your breath, you’ll suffocate. Let it out slowly.”  

Harry nodded, taking a deep breath. He raised his wand again, this time focusing on the rhythm of his breathing rather than the light itself. “Lumos,” he said softly, and the light appeared once more.  

This time, it stayed steady, glowing softly in the dim room.  

“There,” Malfoy said, his voice quiet. “Better, isn’t it?”  

Harry nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. It is.”  

They continued practicing for another hour, with Malfoy guiding Harry through various exercises. By the end of the session, Harry felt more in control than he had in weeks.  

As they left the Room of Requirement, Harry glanced at Malfoy, his expression thoughtful. “Thanks. For helping me, I mean.”  

Malfoy shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Don’t mention it, Potter. Just don’t blow anything up before our next session.”  

Harry laughed, the sound light and genuine. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was starting to make progress—both with his magic and, strangely enough, with Malfoy.  

As he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to turn around.