Fractured Focus
Harry woke with a start, his heart racing and a flush of heat spreading from his neck to his cheeks. The vivid remnants of a dream clung to his mind like wisps of fog, refusing to dissipate no matter how much he tried to push them away. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, the images replaying unbidden. Draco Malfoy—of all bloody people—had been in the dream. The details were frustratingly clear. Draco’s sharp features had been softened by something almost tender, his grey eyes bright and intent. There had been no barbed insults, no trademark smirk. Just hands brushing Harry’s arm, lips barely an inch from his own, and a voice that sent shivers down his spine murmuring, “You can trust me.”
Harry sat up abruptly, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath. The room was silent except for Ron’s steady snores from the next bed over. Harry glanced toward the window, where dawn was just starting to tint the sky with pale streaks of light. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, willing his racing thoughts to settle. It was just a dream. Nothing more. He’d had strange dreams before—prophetic, nonsensical, even terrifying—but this one felt different. It felt real. He shook his head as though that might rid him of the memory. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he told himself firmly. “Just a weird dream. Probably too much time spent around him lately.”
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just that.
***
The day dragged on, each class and conversation blurring together as Harry’s mind remained stubbornly fixated on the dream. He avoided Draco as much as possible, though that was easier said than done. They had Potions together, and Harry could feel Draco’s presence even without looking at him. He was hyperaware of the way Draco moved, the way his voice carried a quiet confidence when he answered Slughorn’s questions.
By the time evening rolled around, Harry was a bundle of nerves. He dreaded their nightly practice session but knew he couldn’t skip it without raising questions. So, he steeled himself and made his way to the abandoned classroom, his stomach churning with unease.
When he arrived, Draco was already there, his wand in hand as he practiced a spell on a conjured target. The elegant arc of his wrist and the precise control of his magic made Harry’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.
“You’re late, Potter,” Draco drawled, turning to face him. His usual smirk played at the corner of his lips, but there was no real malice in it.
“Yeah, sorry,” Harry muttered, avoiding his gaze.
Draco’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he waved his wand, and the target disappeared. “Shall we?”
Harry nodded, pulling his own wand from his pocket. He tried to focus, tried to channel his magic the way Draco had taught him, but his concentration faltered. Each time he cast a spell, it came out weaker than intended, and his frustration grew with every failed attempt.
“Potter, what are you doing?” Draco said sharply after Harry’s third failed attempt at a simple Shield Charm. “You’re not focusing.”
“I am focusing,” Harry snapped, though he knew it wasn’t true.
Draco arched an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Really? Because it looks like your mind is somewhere else entirely.”
Harry clenched his jaw, gripping his wand tightly. He wanted to lash out, to tell Draco to shut up, but he knew it wouldn’t help. Draco wasn’t wrong—his mind was elsewhere, and it was entirely Draco’s fault.
“I’m fine,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “Let’s just keep going.”
Draco sighed but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression turning serious. “Listen, if you’re going to control your magic, you need to get a handle on whatever’s distracting you. Otherwise, this is a waste of time—for both of us.”
Harry glared at him, his cheeks heating. “I said I’m fine.”
Draco studied him for a moment, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re a terrible liar, Potter.”
That was the last straw. Harry’s frustration boiled over, and his magic surged in response. The air around them grew heavy, crackling with energy, and a faint golden mist began to swirl around Harry. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress it, but the harder he tried, the more it pushed back.
“Potter,” Draco said, his voice low and steady. “You need to calm down.”
“I am calm,” Harry shot back, though his magic betrayed him. The golden mist thickened, swirling faster and faster, until it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
Draco stepped closer, his expression unusually soft. “Look at me,” he said quietly.
Harry hesitated, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his magic in check.
“Potter,” Draco repeated, his voice firm but not unkind. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Harry met his gaze. The intensity in Draco’s eyes was enough to make him forget how to breathe. For a moment, the golden mist seemed to still, as though responding to Draco’s calm presence.
“Good,” Draco murmured. “Now breathe. Slowly.”
Harry did as he was told, taking a shaky breath in and letting it out slowly. The mist began to recede, fading until the air was clear once more.
“There,” Draco said, his tone almost gentle. “Better?”
Harry nodded, though his heart was still racing. He looked away, ashamed of his outburst. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Draco’s lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You don’t have to apologize. But you do need to figure out what’s causing this.”
Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He couldn’t tell Draco the truth—not about the dream, not about the confusing swirl of emotions that had taken root in his chest. So he lied.
“It’s nothing,” he said, forcing his voice to sound steady. “Just stress, I guess.”
Draco didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. “Fine. But if this keeps happening, we’ll need to address it. You can’t afford to lose control.”
Harry nodded, though the knot in his stomach only tightened. He knew Draco was right, but the thought of confronting his feelings was almost as terrifying as losing control of his magic. For now, all he could do was hope that he could keep his emotions—and his magic—in check. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down.
***
Harry trudged back to the Gryffindor common room, his mind spinning with everything that had transpired during practice. Draco’s voice still echoed in his ears, sharp and cutting, but oddly earnest beneath the bite. He hated to admit it, but Draco was helping him in ways he didn’t fully understand yet. And that look Draco had given him—soft, almost proud—kept replaying in his mind. It made his stomach twist uncomfortably, a mixture of something warm and something terrifyingly unfamiliar.
“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs. “You’re just tired. That’s all.”
But even as he tried to convince himself, his chest felt tight, as though the magic inside him wasn’t the only thing out of control.
He reached the common room entrance and gave the password, but the cozy atmosphere of the Gryffindor tower only added to his restlessness. The idea of sitting by the fire, surrounded by laughter and chatter, was unbearable.
Instead, he turned and wandered back out into the castle, his feet carrying him without direction. The halls were quiet at this hour, the distant sounds of students settling in for the night barely audible.
As he passed by one of the larger windows overlooking the courtyard, he caught sight of movement below. Two figures stood together in the moonlight, their forms partially obscured by shadows.
Harry paused, his curiosity piqued. Squinting, he leaned closer to the glass, trying to make out who it was.
It only took a moment for him to recognize the blond head of Draco Malfoy.
His heart skipped a beat, confusion and something sharper prickling at his skin.
Draco wasn’t alone.
The taller figure beside him was unmistakably Leonid, one of the Durmstrang students who seemed to orbit Draco more often than not. Leonid was leaning in close, his posture relaxed yet somehow intimate. His hand brushed Draco’s arm as he spoke, and Draco didn’t pull away.
Harry’s stomach twisted violently.
He had no idea why the sight bothered him so much. They were just talking, weren’t they? There was nothing wrong with that.
But then Leonid smiled, a slow, easy smile that made Harry’s fists clench at his sides. He didn’t know whether it was jealousy or anger, or some unholy mix of both, but the feeling was overwhelming and irrational.
Why should he care if Malfoy had some Durmstrang admirer?
Because Malfoy was his—
Harry’s mind screeched to a halt, the thought slamming into him with the force of a bludger.
His what?
No, no, no. That wasn’t right. Malfoy wasn’t his anything. They were barely even friends.
And yet, he couldn’t stop staring at the scene below. The way Draco tilted his head slightly, as though considering Leonid’s words. The faint smirk that played on his lips—the one Harry had seen countless times but now seemed to carry a new weight. When Leonid reached out again, this time resting his hand lightly on Draco’s shoulder, Harry felt his magic flare up uncontrollably. The edges of the windowpane glimmered faintly, a telltale sign of his emotions seeping into his magic.
“Get a grip,” he whispered harshly, stepping back from the window.
But the image was burned into his mind.
Draco and Leonid together, laughing softly, standing so close they might as well have been touching. It made Harry’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. He turned abruptly, determined to walk away and forget what he’d seen. But as he wandered the empty corridors, the feeling wouldn’t leave him. Why did it bother him so much? It wasn’t like he wanted Draco to be laughing with him, standing close to him, looking at him like—
Harry froze mid-step, the thought slamming into him like a freight train.
Oh no.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it.
Could it?
He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven as the realization clawed at the edges of his mind. All those lingering glances during practice, the way his heart raced whenever Draco smirked at him, the strange warmth that filled him when Draco said something halfway kind—
“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry muttered, sinking down onto a nearby bench.
It was true.
Somewhere along the way, amidst the bickering and the late-night practice sessions, Harry had started to... like Draco Malfoy. The thought was so absurd he almost laughed. Except it wasn’t funny. It was terrifying. What was he supposed to do now? Draco didn’t even like him, not really. Sure, they had a tentative truce, maybe even the beginnings of a friendship, but that was it. And Draco certainly didn’t look at him the way he’d been looking at Leonid tonight.
The thought made Harry’s chest ache all over again. For the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do. He sat there for a long time, his mind whirling with too many thoughts and emotions to sort through. Finally, he stood, taking a deep breath to steady himself. One thing was clear: he couldn’t keep going to practice with Draco if he didn’t get a handle on this. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d skip practice. Just for one night. Maybe some distance would help clear his head.
At least, he hoped it would.
***
Harry's day had been a disaster long before Malfoy showed up.
He’d missed their practice session the night before. He’d been so caught up in his own head—thinking about Malfoy, his magic, and the amorous dream that still haunted him—that the thought of facing him again felt unbearable. It wasn’t Malfoy’s fault, not really, but the way Harry’s magic stirred when they were together, like a storm waiting to break, left him feeling raw and exposed.
He’d told himself avoiding Malfoy was for the best. For both of them.
But that flimsy excuse crumbled as soon as Malfoy appeared in the corridor outside the Great Hall, his face tight with barely contained irritation.
"Potter," Malfoy snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of passing students. "Care to explain why you couldn’t bother to show up last night? Or were you too busy basking in Gryffindor glory to remember our arrangement?"
Harry froze mid-step, feeling the weight of Malfoy’s glare like a physical shove. He’d been trying to avoid him, but here he was, confrontation written all over his pale, angular features.
“I—” Harry began, but Malfoy cut him off with a scoff.
“Let me guess,” Malfoy said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You ‘needed a break,’ or something equally Gryffindor-ish and self-indulgent.”
Harry bristled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t ask for any of this, Malfoy,” he shot back, his voice rising. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck about it.”
Malfoy’s expression darkened, his grey eyes narrowing. “Breathing down your neck? Excuse me for trying to help you avoid a magical meltdown.”
“I didn’t ask for your help!” Harry snapped, his magic crackling faintly in the air between them.
“No,” Malfoy said coldly, his voice softening into something dangerous. “You didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to throw a tantrum and waste everyone’s time.”
The words struck a nerve, and Harry’s control slipped. He could feel his magic thrumming beneath his skin, wild and desperate to escape.
“You don’t get it!” Harry shouted, the sound reverberating down the corridor. “You have no idea what this feels like—what it’s like to constantly feel like you’re about to explode!”
Malfoy’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Harry thought he might actually respond. But then he simply folded his arms, his posture rigid with barely concealed anger.
“You’re unbelievable, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, his voice colder than Harry had ever heard it. “If you’d rather run from your problems than face them, that’s your choice. Just don’t expect me to keep wasting my time on you.”
Something inside Harry snapped at those words. His magic surged outward, a barely visible ripple of energy that filled the air with tension.
“We’re not friends, Malfoy!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking. “We’ll never be friends!”
He turned on his heel and stormed away before Malfoy could respond. His chest heaved as he rounded the corner, his thoughts a whirlwind of guilt and anger.
Why had he said that?
Harry tried to convince himself he’d done the right thing. That putting distance between himself and Malfoy was the only way to regain control of his magic. But as he stalked through the castle, the weight of his words sat heavy in his chest, suffocating him.
He hadn’t meant to hurt Malfoy.
Hadn’t meant to lash out.
But he had.
And now he didn’t know how to fix it.
***
Draco stood frozen in the corridor, his mind reeling from the force of Potter’s outburst. The words echoed in his head, sharp and biting.
We’re not friends.
The sting of rejection settled deep in his chest, a dull ache that he couldn’t shake. He didn’t know why Potter’s words cut so deeply. He’d been telling himself for weeks that he didn’t care, that Potter was nothing more than a project—a puzzle to solve.
But hearing those words out loud felt like a slap to the face.
Draco clenched his fists, trying to push down the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. It was then that he felt it—the sharp, stinging pain in his hand. He looked down to find a thin line of blood welling up from a shallow cut across his palm. His brow furrowed in confusion as he stared at the injury. Potter’s magic. It had lashed out in the moment of tension, breaking through Draco’s carefully maintained shields.
“Great,” Draco muttered under his breath, reaching for his wand.
“Draco?”
The quiet voice startled him, and he turned to see Petar standing at the end of the corridor, his wide eyes fixed on Draco’s bleeding hand.
“It’s nothing,” Draco said quickly, hiding his injured hand behind his back. “What are you doing here, Petar?”
“I... I was on my way to the common room,” Petar said hesitantly, his gaze flickering between Draco’s face and the bloodstained floor. “Are you okay?”
Draco forced a tight smile. “I’m fine. Go on, Petar. It’s late.”
Petar hesitated for a moment longer before nodding and retreating down the corridor. Draco sighed, turning his attention back to his injured hand.
Before he could cast a healing spell, another voice interrupted him.
“Draco?”
He turned to find Leonid approaching, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.
“What happened?” Leonid asked, his gaze falling to Draco’s hand.
“It’s nothing,” Draco said automatically, but Leonid didn’t look convinced.
“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Leonid said, his tone firm but gentle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, offering it to Draco.
Draco hesitated for a moment before accepting it, wrapping the soft fabric around his hand.
“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice subdued.
Leonid’s eyes softened as he stepped closer, his wand already in hand. “Let me help.”
Before Draco could protest, Leonid murmured a quiet spell, and the stinging pain in his hand faded as the cut sealed itself.
“There,” Leonid said, his voice warm. “All better.”
Draco looked down at his now-healed hand, feeling an odd mix of gratitude and discomfort. He wasn’t used to people taking care of him—not like this.
“What happened?” Leonid asked again, his tone careful.
Draco hesitated, his gaze flickering away. “Just... a magical mishap,” he said finally.
Leonid didn’t press further, but the weight of his gaze lingered. After a moment, he smiled softly.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here,” Leonid said.
Draco nodded, unsure of how to respond. As Leonid turned to leave, Draco found himself watching him, the easy confidence in his stride, the warmth in his expression. And yet, despite Leonid’s kindness, it wasn’t his face that lingered in Draco’s mind as he made his way back to the Slytherin dormitory. It was Harry’s.
***
By the time Harry made it back to the Gryffindor common room, his anger had cooled, leaving behind an uncomfortable emptiness in its wake.
He dropped heavily into an armchair near the fire, staring blankly at the dancing flames. His mind replayed the argument with Malfoy over and over, each detail sharp and vivid: the flash of hurt in Malfoy’s grey eyes, the coldness in his voice, the crackle of Harry’s own out-of-control magic filling the space between them. And his own words, shouted in frustration and fear.
We’re not friends.
The weight of those words pressed heavily on Harry’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t mean it—at least, not in the way it sounded. But he had said it, and there was no taking it back.
“Harry?”
He jumped, startled by Hermione’s voice. She was standing a few feet away, her expression concerned.
“Are you okay?” she asked, taking a step closer.
“Yeah,” Harry said quickly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m fine.”
Hermione frowned, clearly not convinced, but she didn’t press the issue. Instead, she sat down in the chair opposite him, her gaze softening.
“You’ve been... distracted lately,” she said carefully. “Ron and I are worried about you.”
Harry forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “I’m fine,” he said again. “Really. Just... tired, I guess.”
Hermione studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes searching his face for answers. Harry shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, focusing on the fire instead of meeting her gaze.
“If you ever want to talk,” she said gently, “you know I’m here, right?”
Harry nodded, but he didn’t respond. After a moment, Hermione sighed and stood up.
“Goodnight, Harry,” she said softly before heading up to her dormitory.
“Goodnight,” Harry mumbled, though he doubted he’d get any sleep.
***
Over the next few days, Harry did everything he could to avoid Malfoy. He skipped their practice sessions, choosing instead to work on his magic alone in the Room of Requirement. The solitude gave him space to think—or at least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, being alone only made the guilt worse. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Malfoy’s face: the anger, the hurt, the disappointment. And every time he thought about confronting him, a wave of panic rose in his chest, tightening like a vice around his lungs. What would he even say?
Sorry for yelling at you? Sorry for letting my magic lash out and hurt you? Sorry for not knowing how to handle... whatever this is between us?
The words felt inadequate.
And then there was the dream.
It still lingered in the back of his mind, vivid and inescapable. The way he’d felt in the dream—drawn to Malfoy, his touch electric—confused him more than he cared to admit. Was that why his magic reacted the way it did around Malfoy? Because of... attraction? The thought made Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He threw himself into his schoolwork, hoping the distraction would help. But it was impossible to focus when every hallway, every class, seemed to hold some reminder of Malfoy. Even the sight of his silvery blond hair from across the Great Hall sent a pang of guilt and something else—something sharper and more confusing—through Harry’s chest
.
***
By the fourth day, Hermione’s patience had worn thin.
“Harry, this is ridiculous,” she said, cornering him in the library after dinner. “You can’t keep shutting me out like this.”
“I’m not shutting you out,” Harry said defensively, though he avoided her gaze.
“Yes, you are,” Hermione said firmly. “Something’s bothering you, and it’s clearly not just schoolwork or Quidditch. Whatever it is, you need to talk about it.”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple, Hermione.”
“Of course it’s not,” she said, her voice softening. “But that’s why you have friends. To help you when things aren’t simple.”
For a moment, Harry considered telling her everything—the dream, the argument with Malfoy, the way his magic felt like it was tied to his emotions. But the words caught in his throat, and the fear of her reaction kept him silent.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said finally, offering her a weak smile.
Hermione frowned, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Harry—”
“I just need some time, okay?” he said, cutting her off.
Hermione hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But promise me you’ll talk to me when you’re ready.”
“I promise,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure if he meant it.
That night, as Harry lay awake in his four-poster bed, the weight of his guilt pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. He replayed the argument with Malfoy in his mind, over and over, until the words blurred together. He thought about the cut on Malfoy’s hand, the way his magic had lashed out without his control. What if he’d done more damage? What if Malfoy had been seriously hurt? The thought made Harry’s chest ache, and he buried his face in his pillow, wishing he could take it all back. But he couldn’t. All he could do was hope that, somehow, he could find a way to fix things before it was too late.