Chapter Text
Harry Potter had a love ‘n hate relationship with his glasses. Odd, but hear him out.
Now, don’t get him wrong, more often than not they did the trick just fine (though now that he thinks about it, he should probably get his prescription updated, considering it’s been a little over 7 years since someone’s last taken a look at his eyes), but recently he’s been noticing some strange…occurrences.
He says occurrences because, well, they—these odd moments that is — don’t seem to stop happening.
October.
Last Monday
Common Room
The first-ever time.
”Really, Ronald. How many times must I tell you how imperative it is that you check out the books you need at least a week before the essay is due?” Hermione said, exasperation coloring her tone quite strongly.
Over the summer, Hermione and Ron managed to re-kindle the brief spark that occurred in the Chamber of Secrets—an event that, while both aware of the barely held together tension and build-up , still somehow took them by surprise. After many discussions about their individual futures and how they really interacted when there wasn’t a War always looming over their heads, they’d realized that they really were compatible. Ron had said the only important thing was the feelings someone put into a couple, while Hermione said that—while what Ron said was true—they needed to see if their relationship wasn’t just born out of an “epic fairytale fantasy”.
Harry didn’t realize how much fear the thought of them splitting up brought him. He also didn’t register how much more tension he was carrying until now—until there was no need for it. As strange as it seems, or maybe not if his mind-healer to be believed, their bond felt like the only positive thing that came out of the War. Harry tried to refrain from that line of thought—it only seemed to make his guilt worse.
Ron and Hermione’s relationship wasn’t the only thing to come out of the summer before Eight Year. For one, Ron simultaneously joined the Aurors, complained about it non-stop, then proceeded to quit within a month to join George in co-owing/running the joke shop ( something that brought both Ron and Harry immense amounts of guilt for, even now, and also somehow brought them even closer together in their shared grief).
It didn’t much matter anyway, as all three of them ended up getting a letter from Professor— Headmistress, Harry reminded himself— Mcgonagall stating how she was expecting to see all three of them by September the first, and not a minute later, for the Hogwarts feast. Harry had a passing thought about how destroyed the castle must’ve looked, right after the War, and wondered what system they had in place over the summer to rebuild it.
He remembered the Evening Prophet writing an article around it, but at the time he had felt so drained he barely processed any of the information.
And it’s not like he would know how it looked in person considering how everyone around him (Read: The Weasleys) either subtly told him about how much rest he needed—“ Really, dear, it looks as though you’ve been in a fight with how bruised your under eyes are. Here, sit and eat something. You may just knock right over with how skinny you are. Poor dear.” —From Molly. Or not so subtly—“ Mate, I know I’m one to talk, with all that’s been going on, but when’s the last time you’ve slept? I mean really slept mate, don’t give me that look.” —From Ron.
Looking back on it, Harry was filled with a certain kind of warmth for his family, knowing how much they worried him settled an old wound he didn’t think he’d had.
Hermione worried in a passing comment about how Ron decided not to continue trying to find work, but was overall grateful for it as she could tell it was weighing down on his mental health and— “Honesty, isn’t this a time to heal and rejoice in the hard-earned win? Why put ourselves through more pain, really.”
Harry, while not very outspoken about it, had to admit she had a valid point. It aligned quite seamlessly with everything his Mind-healer, Ms. Johnson, had been saying ever since he started opening up to her properly.
“But ‘mione, I thought you already had the books,” Ron whined, giving Harry a look from where he was curled up beside Hermione near the fire. Harry hid his snicker, poorly if the death glare he earned from Ron was any indication, and gave him a mock salute before hiding behind the book he was pretending to read.
While everyone else was curled up by the fire, what with October being at its peak, Harry tried to bury himself even further into the window seat he was currently occupying. As much as he loved his friends, Harry couldn’t help but wish for the quiet of Grimmlaud Place—however unwelcome he may have felt there. It was a scary thought, him wishing for solitude so much he’d rather go back to that dark and, quiet honestly, creepy house.
”It’s okay to have those kinds of thoughts, Harry. It doesn’t make you bad for wishing to go back.”
” Maybe it's not the place your missing, but the feeling?” Ms. Johnson lightly enquired, careful not to push Harry too far this session. Normally it would grate on his nerves, to be treated like a child. He didn’t usually appreciate adults trying to coddle him because he could tell it was more their grief of not having done enough than it was an effort to bring comfort.
But.
But somehow in his muddled state, Harry could tell that Ms. Johnson wasn’t trying to do that. She had missed most of the war—having traveled to America in the hopes of aiding her ill sister while also avoiding any backlash for being Muggleborn—so Harry also didn’t have to worry about her constantly being in awe while in his presence.
Harry thought about her words a lot, especially when there wasn’t anything to occupy his hands and keep the restless thoughts at bay. Like now.
Sure he was holding a potions book, trying to memorize the notes and key points needed for the 17-inch essay on the side effects that can occur when mixing Lacewing Flys and Spider fang essence in a copper cauldron, but up until a few moments ago, his attention had once again drifted from the material in front of him.
“—won’t be taking the notes for you, and don’t even think about taking Harry’s invisibility cloak to the library to ‘borrow’ a few books!”
Ron adopted a faux affronted expression, “I would never! Harry, tell her—“
”Oh don’t lie, Ronald, honestly, I’ve known you since we were 11.” Hermione said, rolling her eyes fondly.
Harry barely glanced at them, too caught up in staring at the bits of white-blond hair reflecting off of the flames, making them appear slightly darker than their usual platinum blond.
Malfoy.
He wasn’t really doing anything too noteworthy, too busy resting his head on Pansy’s lap while twiddling with his quill. It made sense, considering he wasn’t there for dinner and probably spent that time in the library studying.
Not that Harry would know, obviously. Just an educated guess. Of course. Right.
Malfoy never spent too much time in the common room anyway, always running up to the dorms before Parkinson or Zabini could catch up to him.
It seemed that today was different for some reason. He seemed more subdued than normal, more accepting of the light brush through his hair from Parkinson's fingers. It was shocking, to be honest, considering how Malfoy didn’t seem to like people touching him often. Or at all. Ever.
Zabini was reading a textbook that looked as heavy as 3 regular books combined, (Harry couldn’t see the title from this angle but from the look on his face it seemed really draining), and Pansy seemed to be trying to write notes while also running her fingers through Malfoy’s— soft & silken— hair.
Again, not that Harry would really know much about that, it was just that they’ve been essentially staring daggers at one another for almost a decade, and, well, you pick up a thing or two. It’s normal. Right?
Right.
Anyway, back to Malfoy. Or, er, not back to Malfoy, more just…back to his original line of thought.
Harry wondered why today was so special that he was more accepting of the gentle touches from her. Was his mother sick? Had he received a bad grade and was in need of consoling?
As Harry was thinking about it, he noticed his vision getting slightly blurry and couldn’t stop the slight panic that started to consume him. His breathing started getting more rapid and through the slight fog overtaking his brain, he wasn’t aware of how close Malfoy had gotten in his quest to go up to the dorms.
See, Harry sat right near the low bay windows— directly beside the staircase leading up to the male dorm rooms.
Through some cruel twist of fate, it seemed that Malfoy was the only one remotely close enough to hear, and see, his increase in panic. Ron and ‘mione were still bickering about Ron's assignment, Blaise and Pansy were too caught up in their work, while the rest of the room was empty save for the few playing exploding snaps or quietly mingling on the opposite side of the room. (This, however, did not include the few who were either already upstairs sleeping, or hidden in some corridor alcove snogging—odd considering they were almost all 18 now and shouldn’t have needed to sneak around)
Harry’s never hated his lack of luck more (Probably not true but let him be dramatic), and prayed to Merlin and Morgana both that Malfoy wouldn’t notice, or, have found it in the kindness of his heart to fuck right off even if he did notice.
Of course, someone’s out to get Harry because—
’ oh shit, he noticed, why the bloody hell is he coming closer, oh shit, oh fuck me. Go away Malfoy, can’t you see I wanna panic in peace over here?’
Maybe Malfoy saw the dawning horror on Harry's face because before he even took two steps, Malfoy turned right around and quickly made his way up the stairs. Harry breathed out carefully, willing his racing thoughts to slow down. When he finally got his breathing under control, he noticed that his glasses were once again clear and dirt free.
Removing them from his face carefully, Harry took a long look at them while pondering what the fuck had just happened.
October 16th.
Present
Potions Class
The fourth noteworthy time.
Malfoy was missing.
Or, more accurately, Malfoy wasn’t here.
Now, usually, this wouldn’t be a problem, in fact, Harry could see himself trading snide remarks about it with Ron even just a few months ago. Internally jumping with joy at the thought of a Ferret-less classroom— “Less of an odor that way, I’ll tell ‘ya.”
Yet.
Thanks to the speech on inter-house unity that Mcgonagall insisted on having at the open feast, and the new Potions teacher that moved here from Australia, Harry got stuck with Malfoy on the new potion they were brewing in class.
This meant, sadly, that he essentially needed Malfoy (for the potion, of course) to be here. In all their years at Hogwarts Harry couldn’t think of one potions class Malfoy was late to—the git was always punctual and ready at the back of the class to make Harry's life just a little bit harder.
“I’m sure he’s just slept in, Harry. Draco loves potions,” Harry internally winced at the use of his given name, yet didn’t comment, “and, really, by this point the potion really only needs the basic fundamentals to be applied. You should’ve gotten to the point where adding the African Red Pepper would’ve made it a light orange tint—“
”Yes, ‘mione I’m sure he knows, right Harry? Let’s focus on our own potion—“
”I’ve already told you the next steps Ron; cut up the Seaweed in fine strips before adding each strip one at a time .”
With that, Ron and Hermione both turn to their slowly bubbling cauldron, brief wisps of Hermione's voice scolding Ron barely heard over the sounds of his potion. They weren’t actually paired together, what with Professor Lackwinstor (The new Potions Professor, who looks at intimidating as Snape tried to be, but without the greasy hair and prominent scowl) wanting to encourage the obvious divide in his classroom to shift.
Although, because she and Pansy were already done—something that led to Pansy wearing a slightly smug expression whenever she looked at Draco—she went over to his station and tried her best to nudge in the right direction.
It didn’t really work.
Harry, meanwhile, had to deal with a silent version of Malfoy whenever they worked together— when he showed up, that is. Thankfully, it seemed like his silence was only ever due to deep concentration.
Pansy and Blaise didn’t look too worried about his absence, but Harry couldn’t help that his hands twitched for his invisibility cloak (not minding the fact that they were in class, that his cloak was upstairs in their dorms, and that it was the middle of the day), but with one slightly suspicious look from Hermione, the thought flew straight out the window.
…
Harry couldn’t say he was completely screwed when it came to Potions (at least, not this year, anyway), he read all the required material, paid attention, and tried to take notes when he wasn’t otherwise distracted and studied whatever he didn’t understand from the previous years—which, that is to say, he studied a bloody lot.
But Potions, as he’s come to learn, is really something you have to build on with the prior knowledge gained every year (kind of like Maths was if he remembers correctly), and so he had a lot of catching up to do on the fundamentals that Hermione was sure were so easy to do alone.
And, anyway, they were brewing a standard potion for 6th year—the review that Professor Lackwinstor insisted they do— something they’ve been doing for 2 months— and something that was slowly driving Hermione spare.
”Spin counter-clockwise 7 1/2 times with a wooden spoon, then clockwise 2 times, at a snail's pace— so, er, slowly then?—with a copper spoon,” Harry mutters, trying to engrave the instructions in his head so he doesn’t muck up the potion anymore then he probably has.
Why the bloody hell are they so confusing, anyway? Just say it slowly or fast instead of hinting at it with more words than necessary!
”After that’s repeated 4 times, if the potion has gotten darker, reduce the heat. However, if the potion has taken on a yellow tint instead of the needed ladybug tint ( just say red, is that so hard?) , then increase the heat after every 2 minutes for a standard of 8 minutes overall.”
Harry looked down at his potion and winced.
It was a muddy green color.
He guessed it was a good thing they were doing so much review, after all.
He looked back at the book, hoping against hope that it was salvageable. “Once you’ve added the…oh fuck sake,” he whispered the last bit, wanting to pull his hair out for the utter shite luck he was dealing with, “once you’ve added the Billywig Sting Slime, not to be confused with the Billywig Wings—usually used in the Laughing Potion as it has properties that help release twice as many endorphins when mixed with Blatta Pulverous—“
As he was reading, he noticed his glasses getting increasingly dirty —not foggy— and knew immediately it wasn’t due to the potion sitting in front of him.
Malfoy.
This is what he means when he says that his glasses haven’t been cooperating recently. He was hesitant to talk to Hermione and Ron about it (“ It’s okay to ask for help, and can make it clear to your brain about who you trust”) but as oblivious as he may act at times, he does think he knows what’s been causing these bouts of disruptions from his glasses.
“How have you mucked it up this time, Potter,” A lazy drawl sounds from behind him. Harry tenses on instinct, hating how the slightly disappointed voice gained a reaction. He didn’t mean to fuck up the potion, honest!
But, well, he wasn’t going to be reasonable about it if Malfoy wasn’t.
As he was turning around, a ready retort right on the tip of his tongue, he noticed how Malfoy’s tall frame was hunched around the shoulders, tie slightly rumpled (like he’s been nervous, and trying to loosen it?), and his usually indifferent mask held a hint of barely concealed defeat— stronger than his usual amount this year.
It worried Harry more than he’d care to admit—and while he was biting his lip he wondered when his subconscious decided that Malfoy became someone he cared so much for.
By the time Malfoy made his way around Harry and to the workbench, Harry’s glasses were now also foggy beyond repair and he needed to remove them.
As he was cleaning his glasses on his robes (knowing it was pointless if last week was any indication), he quickly realized he hadn’t responded and blurted out—
“Sorry, Malfoy,” he said, trying to push how genuinely sorry he was into his voice (if not exactly sorry that he might’ve ruined Malfoy’s day more than normal, then for how he really did intend to do the best with this potion), and Malfoy looked shocked at the apology before reconstructing his mask of cool indifference back into place.
It didn’t go too well with his defeated posture but Harry wasn’t about to mention it. He could tell that he wasn’t the only one who noticed the way Malfoy carried himself now—so different to the haughty arrogance from a few years ago, and so different from the rumpled and sleep-deprived boy during his Trials—but from the looks Malfoy was given in the Hallways, Harry could tell that his reaction more resembled the concern Pansy carried then the Joyful attitude Seamus held whenever he saw him.
But, well, it wouldn’t do to dwell on it. Malfoy was his own person, and Harry knew better than to pray into his life—any more than normal that is—lest he gets his head bitten off for asking the wrong question.
’How’s dear old Daddy doing holed up in Azkaban? Lost his mind yet? What about the Manor, y’know, the big old Mansion that was probably taken into the Ministry's custody?’
No, no way was he going to ask, no matter how curious he may have been. Besides, the Prophet had already written 6 or so articles detailing all the happenings regarding the Malfoy family only weeks after the Trials finished. The reports wasted no time at all reciting every little flaw and gore-y truth about Malfoy’s “fall from grace”. Harry shuddered in passing empathy, remembering how adamant the Prophet was about learning everything about Hermione’s parents and the—
‘Whole un-filtered truth! That’s right, curious readers, our reports are still working diligently to learn about The-Brightest-Witch-Of-Her-Age’s story.
With all the attention focused on The Golden Boy, no one’s been asking any questions regarding where the elusive Hermione Granger went this summer. Maybe a secret rendezvous with a hidden lover? Or maybe the brief journey involved the state of her parents—oblivated during the War by none other than herself.
Stay updated, lovely readers, for you can count on the Daily Prophet to keep you in the know about all that’s hidden by the Golden Trio.’
Hermione was livid when she received an owl from Molly asking how she was holding up after the news got out. She was unaware—as were all three of them considering their lack of subscription to the Prophet—but Molly still liked to keep up to date with it because of the “self-help” tips she’d like to impart to her kids once in a while.
Harry continued to clean his glasses, to no avail, and ended up just shoving them back onto his face with a defeated sigh.
Seeing was overrated anyway.
“How did you manage this anyway? I’ve not even been gone for 20 minutes and it already looks hopeless.” Malfoy said, a hint of his old sneer trying to come out but quickly falling flat. The implied Idiot was still received loud and clear. Malfoy looked exhausted and before Harry could stop the question—
“Did you get any sleep last night?” He blurted, flushing from the neck up when he realized he’d said it out loud. Before he could backtrack on his words, Malfoy turned and from what Harry could see, gave him an incredulous look mixed with quiet disbelief. “Yes, Potter, I got loads of sleep in between all the nightmares and studying I needed to catch up on.” He said, infusing his words with faux cheerfulness while rolling his eyes.
After he said it, however, his eyes widened in shock? Bloody hell I really need better glasses, and he quickly cleared his throat before going back to the potion notes in front of him. “Never mind what I just said, Potter. You didn’t hear anything, alright?”
”Er, yeah, sure Malfoy, whatever you say.” Harry said somewhat bemusedly, looking across the classroom and catching Pansy’s eye. This was probably the most he’s ever spoken to Harry during a potions lesson, as he was usually quiet and kept to himself, but Harry wasn’t as opposed to it as he would’ve thought.
From what he could see squinting and all, Pansy seemed to be giving him a slightly puzzled, if not outright confused, look too. It unnerved him if he was honest. After last week she approached him and insisted he calls her by her first name. She shook his hand and everything like they were in the middle of a business meeting instead of the Great Hall.
Parkin— Pansy had tried to wave at him in the halls but it always came out slightly awkward and her smiles, while probably meant to be pleasant, were more like grimaces. She connected more quickly with Hermione—to the resounding shock of most ex-griffindors, but they managed to find a common ground with Ancient Runes (they were the only 8th years who took it and seemed to have an in-depth understanding of the subject that no one fully understood).
She seemed like she was on a mission to be as pleasant as she could to Harry and Hermione. She looked as though she was struggling more with Ron, maybe more fear that he’d lash out in characteristic Weasley Rage? Harry couldn’t be sure, and, honestly, didn’t care enough to pry. Although, Harry thinks to himself, she has been trying to get to know Ginny as well—always trying to study with her or accompany her to classes…
Looking back at his notes, Harry noticed that his glasses were only getting worse and—
“Will you quit squinting, Potter? Honestly, you look like an old man who misplaced his wand and didn’t know how to charm his glasses clean…”
”Oh.”
Harry looked up at the slight sound of understanding that came out of Malfoy’s mouth, confused as to what he could be noticed after just insulting him.
He was looking at Harry, or more accurately, his glasses with a dawning comprehension, looking like he’d connected certain dots in his head and like he’d finally solved a puzzle. “Forgot how to cast a cleaning charm, have you?”
”No,” Harry huffed, forgetting about where they were and instead focusing on what Malfoy was saying (not that it was hard). “My cleaning charms work just fine! The only problem, not that it's any of your business, is that they don’t seem to work on my glasses.” Harry conveniently left out the part where they seemed to only be in need of cleaning when around Malfoy, of all people, but it wasn’t that important anyway.
Malfoy looked like he didn’t believe him, but Harry wasn’t surprised—it was an odd discovery for him to digest too. Every charm, spell, potion, and even a good old fashion clean cloth hadn’t gotten rid of the problem whenever he was near Malfoy. The only instance in which his glasses had properly gotten clean was when Malfoy had finally left the immediate vicinity around Harry.
And Malfoy didn’t even know that bit.
Malfoy looked unsure for a moment, like he wanted to say something but was worried he’d be hexed for it when there was a loud crack at the front of the class.
“Boys! Are you alright?” Professor Lackwinstor shouted, progressing through the desks and making his way over to where Seamus and Wayne Hopkins were both looking guiltily over at him. Harry peeked over the heads of the students in front of him to see what was going on and noticed that there wasn’t an explosion… per se. It looked more like a bunch of sparks and crackles—a bit like fireworks but less amazing—spurting out of their cauldrons at rapid fire. From where Harry was sitting, he couldn’t be sure if they were harmful or just obnoxiously loud.
“At least I didn’t do that, ey Malfoy?” Harry said, giving him a cheeky grin and raising both his eyebrows comically. Malfoy just sighed in exasperation, stealing Harry’s glasses when he was distracted and quickly wiping them on his robes before he could lose his courage. “There, try that,” Malfoy somewhat awkwardly handed the glasses back, having the decency to look sheepish while Harry just stared on in bafflement.
“Er, uh-thanks? I think…” Taking the glasses, Harry put them on and noticed how they were immediately so much cleaner than before. He opened his mouth to properly thank him again when Malfoy said in a rush, “Sorry, I know how weird that was but they were so foggy and it was, honestly, getting on my nerves, not that that’s any fault of your own—“ He added quickly, stumbling over his words in a very uncharacteristic display of nerves. His eyes were wide, his face as pale as a sheet, and looked a bit ill.
“Hey! Malfoy, mate, it’s fine—honest. Cheers for doing it too, I’d have probably ripped my hair out trying to figure out how to clean them anyway.”
While Professor Lackwinstor was deciding how to punish Seamus and Hopkins for their display, Malfoy was giving Harry an unidentifiable look that slowly morphed into a small, yet genuine, smile. “We wouldn’t want your hair becoming even more of a rats nest, I suppose.” He said, tentatively teasing back.
As they were all making their way out of the class, some laughing and others grumbling about the new essay they were assigned, Harry couldn’t help but have one reoccurring thought.
Malfoy looked quite nice when he smiled.