Brewing Tensions (Harry’s POV)
Harry had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize. Over the years, he had faced enough stress—life-threatening situations, dark magic, and constant pressure to live up to his name—that learning to push certain things aside had become second nature. But this was different. This was… Malfoy.
It started the morning after their last encounter. Harry had gone to bed fuming after Draco’s usual taunts, but he’d woken up thinking about that stupid smirk on Draco’s face. Not because he was angry—he was used to being angry at Malfoy—but because there had been something off. Something in the way Draco had looked at him, that annoying twinkle in his eye.
By breakfast, Harry had brushed it off. He forced himself to focus on Ron’s retelling of a particularly violent Quidditch play from last year, nodding along as Ron animatedly waved his spoon around. But as Ron spoke, Harry’s mind kept drifting. It wasn’t just the memory of Draco’s smirk that stuck with him—it was the way Draco had stood too close to him, the way his voice had softened in that moment when he’d leaned in.
Harry mentally shook himself. No. It wasn’t important. It was just Draco being a prat, as usual. Still, the thought nagged at him, hanging in the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.
Classes were no better. In Charms, Harry kept zoning out during Professor Flitwick’s instructions. He would catch himself staring at the enchanted chalk floating in midair, his thoughts inexplicably wandering to Draco’s voice—that infuriating drawl. Each time he tried to focus, his mind would drag him back to that hallway confrontation. The more he fought it, the worse it got.
“Harry, you alright?” Hermione asked, pulling him from yet another daze as she flipped through her Charms textbook.
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry mumbled, turning his attention to his notes, which had become a mess of scribbles.
Hermione gave him a quizzical look but didn’t press. Thank Merlin, Harry thought. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Hermione why he’d been acting so distracted. Even he didn’t know the answer.
As the day dragged on, it didn’t get any easier. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry was usually sharp and focused, but now he found himself slipping. During a particularly complicated spell demonstration, his attention drifted just long enough to miss Professor Lupin’s cue.
“Harry, the incantation?” Lupin’s voice snapped him out of his haze.
“Oh—uh, sorry. Rictusempra,” Harry muttered, cheeks flushing as several students turned to look at him. Draco, seated in the back with the rest of the Slytherins, was one of the first to snicker under his breath. The sound made Harry’s skin crawl.
“Potter’s losing his touch,” Draco whispered loudly enough for the room to hear, earning a few chuckles from the Slytherins around him.
Harry’s jaw clenched. He turned to glare at Draco, and there it was again—that smirk. It was taunting, as always, but this time there was a gleam in Draco’s grey eyes, something different. Something challenging.
The irritation bubbled up inside Harry, but beneath it was something more unsettling. Something that felt almost like curiosity. Draco had teased him for years, but this felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and that was what bothered him most.
When the class ended, Harry hurried out of the room, his thoughts still a chaotic swirl. Why was Draco bothering him more than usual? He’d dealt with Malfoy’s taunts since they were first years, and never before had it left him feeling like this—like he couldn’t quite escape it.
By the time he reached the Quidditch pitch for practice that afternoon, Harry was desperate for the distraction. Flying always cleared his mind. The rush of the wind, the thrill of chasing the Snitch, the single-minded focus of the game—it helped him forget. But even as he mounted his broom, he couldn’t shake the feeling that had been gnawing at him all day.
The practice started off normally. Ron, ever competitive, shouted instructions from the ground, directing the Chasers while Ginny looped gracefully through the air. But as Harry soared higher, scanning the skies for the elusive golden Snitch, a flash of blond caught his eye.
Draco was standing at the edge of the pitch, watching.
Harry’s stomach lurched. He immediately looked away, determined to focus on the game, but the damage was already done. His thoughts spiraled again. Why was he watching? Was he here just to mock Harry again?
Annoyed with himself, Harry flew faster, willing his mind to cooperate. The Snitch darted out from the edge of the pitch, a gleaming blur of gold. For a moment, Harry’s competitive instinct took over, his body moving on autopilot as he zoomed towards it. He was inches away from grabbing it when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Draco again, smirking that same damn smirk.
Harry’s hand missed the Snitch by a hair.
“Bloody hell!” he cursed, pulling up sharply on his broom, frustrated with himself.
When practice finally ended, Harry landed on the ground, feeling worse than before. His head was swimming, and the confusion gnawed at him, stronger than ever.
“Alright there, Harry?” Ron asked as they packed up the gear. “Yeah, just a bit distracted,” Harry muttered, avoiding Ron’s gaze.
But the truth was, Harry wasn’t just distracted—he was unnerved. His thoughts had never been so consumed by Draco Malfoy before, and he hated it.
As he made his way back to the castle that evening, his head buzzed with the day’s events. The teasing, the glances, the smirk that lingered far too long in his mind. He needed to shake it off. It was just Malfoy, after all. It had to be.
But deep down, Harry couldn’t deny the unsettling truth creeping into his mind.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Draco?