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Chapter Text

Wangsheng Funeral Parlour sits on the edge where Diagon Alley meets Knockturn Alley. To the average passerby, it looks dreadfully somber from the outside, but Narcissa Malfoy has always had a good eye for architecture. She can appreciate the Chinese-inspired design of the building, glowing lanterns with Chinese characters printed on the side hanging at the front door. The proprietor greets her at the entrance with a beaming smile on her face. "Welcome, Mrs Malfoy!" Hu Tao is an affable young lady with brilliant red eyes and a bizarre business sense. Narcissa distinctly remembers Lucius telling her that the new business in Knockturn Alley was driving Mr Borgin absolutely barmy. "Come in!"

"Thank you, Miss Tao." Hu Tao takes Narcissa to what seems to be the equivalent of a drawing room. The mahogany table is smooth to the touch, without a speck of a dust lingering on the surface. Hu Tao is good at domestic upkeep, or perhaps she has staff or house-elves to do the cleaning for her.

"Tea?" offers Hu Tao, grinning impishly. Narcissa likes that smile—has it seen it on Draco's face more than once, before everything.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

It's not the sort of tea that Narcissa is used to drinking, she finds. It's a Chinese tea, she notes, and it smells absolutely divine in her handle-less, flower-patterned tea cup. She doesn't know how to hold it in a way that won't make her seem uncouth, so she waits for Hu Tao to fill her own cup and take a sip, copying the movement.

"All right, Mrs Malfoy," Hu Tao gets down to business once the pleasantries are over with, "What can I do for you today?"

So Narcissa explains to her that Lucius' maternal uncle recently passed away. The person who usually handled traditional pureblood funerals had been exposed for tax evasion and found dead on his way to France. "I've heard things," Narcissa says, carefully, as she watches Hu Tao soak up this information. "From acquaintances and the sort. That the service you provide is unparalleled."

"You're correct, Mrs Malfoy. Wangsheng Funeral Parlour has existed for seventy-seven generations and boasts the best funeral services in Britain—nay, all of Europe! We do all sorts of funerals around here, because we believe that funeral ceremonies allow for us to move on to the next realm with dignity. It's what every witch, wizard, and even Muggle deserves. We always cater to our client's specific requests, and we're familiar with a multitude of pureblood last rites from the 1600s onwards. Rest assured, if you choose to move forward with us, we will not disappoint."

That is—it's reassuring. Hu Tao's idea of advertising might be obnoxiously sticking flyers on Mr Borgin's shop window and buying out every advertising space in the Daily Prophet, but just from the way she speaks, Narcissa knows she's the real deal. She offers a certainty not many can during these trying times. It's already impressive that she can still smile as she runs her business in a changed Diagon Alley where everyone eyes one another with suspicion and shops close before sunset.

The funeral is arranged for next week, Hu Tao calling in a few of her Undertakers and explaining to Narcissa that they will be assisting her, before she sees Narcissa off at the door. "I'll see you soon, Mrs Malfoy," Hu Tao says, pleasantly. "Have a good afternoon!"

"A good afternoon to you, too, Miss Tao."

The funeral goes well, just as Hu Tao promised. Narcissa becomes a regular at the Parlour after that, wanting to foster her relationship with Hu Tao, but stops coming when Voldemort moves into Malfoy Manor. From an outsider's perspective, the Manor might have painted an awfully grim picture. But Narcissa's memories of this place before the move are nothing short of bright and wondrous. It is here she raised her only son, unable to bear any more after him, and it is here where she grew her prized white roses. Lucius likes to keep peacocks on the lawn, and while Narcissa has never been too fond of animals, they've become an achingly familiar sight as well.

When one of the Lestrange brothers decapitates a peacock with a Cutting Curse—out of nothing more than cruelty and spite—something inside Narcissa stutters, knowing the worst is yet to come. But her Occlumency shields have always been strong, and—should anyone take an unwelcome peek into her mind—nothing more than mild disdain for the Death Eaters' poor manners and awe for the Dark Lord and his extreme tactics will be shown.

Briefly—in a fit of madness, perhaps—Narcissa considers taking the poor peacock to Hu Tao so she can arrange it a funeral.

She almost cries when she sends Draco off from the Manor on September 1st. She heard his screams when he took the Mark, and he is far too skinny, face gaunt and pale. She remembers wiping jam off the lip of her little boy before she and his father accompanied him to the King's Cross in 1991.

"Be safe, Draco," she whispers as she holds him. She's trembling. Afraid that the Dark Lord will tear him away from her at any given moment.

He inhales sharply, sounding near tears, but doesn't reply. Perhaps he's afraid—that if he speaks, everything will come tumbling out, and he will cling to her and cry like he did when he was a child. Eventually, they must part.

Draco is gone.

And she's so afraid of what will greet her the next time he comes home.

Dumbledore dies.

Killed by Severus Snape, a traitor to the Light.

Narcissa cries herself to sleep that night—Lucius being tortured in the basement of the Manor for Draco's failure—and knows that she will never be able to repay Severus for what he has done for her family.

Hu Tao is anticipating big business. She's well connected already, and has done many burials and cremations since Voldemort's reappearance, and she has no doubt that they will call upon her to handle the funeral of Albus Dumbledore.

She is correct.

The funeral takes place in early July of 1997, at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's her first time seeing the famous school, but she has no time to take in the sights. There's a skip in her step on her way to the Black Lake, where the people are gathered to say their goodbyes, but it tapers off as she approaches. Everything is as she arranged earlier in the week, and she doesn't have to do much as his grieving loved ones. Songs are sung, speeches delivered, and many weep. A funeral is always a solemn affair.

Hu Tao mostly watches from afar, a few steps behind the last row of seats.

And it's here she first meets him—a broken boy, though not quite as broken as he will be yet. There's still a bit of puppy fat clinging to his cheeks, and his glasses are dusty and chipped. The lightning bolt scar is noticeable even from a distance. He looks quite alone, the Boy-Who-Lived. His best friends are still crying over Dumbledore, but they will soon join him.

Hu Tao gets to him first. "Harry Potter, correct?"

Harry gives her a wary look. "That's right. Look, if you're after an interview—"

"Not at all," Hu Tao says, seriously, because anyone can see how distraught he looks at the moment. She might have her eccentricities, but she's not as cruel as the vultures of the Daily Prophet. "I came to express my condolences. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr Potter. You must've been close."

Harry looks like he's about to break out into tears. But he holds them in valiantly, allowing Hu Tao to touch him on the back tentatively. Some clients don't like to be touched, but she has a feeling that Harry's not one of them. He needs to be held—not by her, but by someone. But something as simple as a tap on the shoulder is something she can offer. "Thank you," he chokes out. "Sorry, you're—?"

"Hu Tao, 77th Director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour," Hu Tao answers promptly, offering him a half-smile. "I arranged the Headmaster's funeral."

"Oh. Oh! Thank you. For doing all that."

"No sweat, Mr Potter. Giving the dead a dignified send-off is my job."

"Harry? Who's this?" His friends are here now. It's the girl with the bushy hair that asks, her eyes ringed with red from weeping.

"Director Tao," Harry replies. "She arranged the funeral."

Ron and Hermione express similar thanks, which Hu Tao accepts with that smile of hers. It amuses her a little, how they all seem to think Tao is her family name and not her first. She doesn't bother correcting them—they can call her whatever they wish. "I'll see you again," Hu Tao says as the funeral wraps up.

"Hopefully not too soon," Ron jokes.

"Hopefully," echoes Hu Tao, "But death awaits us all."

When she returns to the Parlour that day, it's raining in Diagon Alley. She puts up a black umbrella, water splashing onto her white socks. The lanterns that hang on the front of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour guide her home, glowing brightly in the dark. She stops when she notices a man standing by the entrance, his dark clothing soaked. His eyes are faraway, blond hair stuck to his forehead as he stares at something that isn't there. The wind blows through where Diagon Alley meets Knockturn Alley, and he turns.

He's not a man, Hu Tao thinks. He's just a boy.

He looks like he's dressed for a funeral.

She can't sense any ill intent from him, so she approaches him, holding her umbrella up so it covers the both of them. "Hello," she says, brightly. "You look a little lost. What are you doing out here, all by yourself?"

"I'm..." His lips are chapped. The muscles on his pallid cheeks tighten as he speaks. "I'm going to a funeral."

"Oh, that's nice. A relative of yours? Or a friend?"

He shakes his head. "No. Neither."

Hu Tao scrutinises his appearance. "Dumbledore's?" It fits his age group. When he tenses, she knows she's correct. "It was over hours ago," she tells him. "You missed it."

"I know. I... I don't know where to go. I don't want to go home."

He's so young. Hu Tao wonders if she ever looked like this. Maybe when her grandfather passed away, and she shouldered the responsibility of inheriting his business as well as organising his funeral. Both of her parents had passed by then. She was thirteen.

Water drips from his hair and down his face. They remind Hu Tao of tears. "Do you want to come in for tea, then?"

"Tea?" He repeats the word, baffled.

"Yes. Lovely day for tea, don't you think?"

The downpour of rain is almost deafening.

"I have meat buns as well," she continues. "And dumplings. I don't have scones. Are you hungry, Mr Malfoy?"

He looks up, eyes wide. "You—"

"I know your mother. She used to come over a fair bit. I did your great-uncle's funeral, you know."

"I think I remember you."

Hu Tao's shoes are good quality, but they're well-worn. She can feel the water soaking her socks at the big toe. She'll have to buy new ones soon, from Mr Salamander's Shoes in Several Sizes. "I bet people tell you that you look like your father," she jokes. "But you don't. You look more like your mother." She holds open the door for him. The lights are on inside, and—knowing Meng—he's probably lit a fire in the hearth. He always does on rainy days. He gets cold easily. "You'll catch your death standing out here. I like Narcissa. Don't want to bury her only son anytime soon."

But Draco doesn't move. "I won't impose," he mutters. "I should be going, anyway, before they miss me."

"Who, Mr Malfoy?"

"None of your business," he snaps, and he turns on his heel and marches off. Probably to Floo home. Hu Tao has a Floo, too, but since he doesn't want to come in...

"You're always welcome, you know!" she calls after him. "Come around anytime you like!" After a beat, she yells again, before he disappears under a sheet of water, "And don't forget to spread the word about the Wangsheng hospitality!"

Draco vanishes in the darkness, obscured by the unrelenting storm.

Hu Tao wonders if she'll ever see him again.

The Battle of Hogwarts takes place on the second of May. Hu Tao throws herself into her work, her services more popular than ever. There's no time to rest, but Hu Tao barely feels the exhaustion creeping up on her. She's buried her fifty-second Hogwarts student—his Muggle parents sobbing throughout the ceremony—and is about to leave the grounds when she runs into a half-giant carrying a stack of wood.

"Goodness, great sir!" Hu Tao looks up at him, the hem of her funeral attire sweeping the ground. "You are extremely large."

Hagrid takes it in stride. "Now who might yeh be?"

"Hu Tao, the 77th Director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour! I was just finishing up some business here. I must say, I've never seen someone as big as you before."

"Part-giant," Hagrid gruffs, a little embarrassed. "Why don'tcha run along now, eh? Leave the rebuildin' ter the grown-ups."

It occurs to Hu Tao that this man apparently thinks she is a child. She will be twenty-two this year, on July 15. Did he even listen to her introduction at all? Probably not—he looks like he has a lot on his mind.

By the end of the month, the requests begin to dwindle. People are still mourning, but most loved ones have been buried or burned or sunk into the ocean by now. It gives her ample time to relax, delegating the few requests she has left to her trusted Undertakers. What this recent experience has taught her is that she is in desperate need of more staff. Between her, Meng, and the Ferrylady, they just barely managed to keep up with their endless list of tasks. She has more than enough money in her vault to spare some expenses for one or two new hires.

It's times like these that she misses her old Consultant, Zhongli. She left him behind in Liyue; he'd been out the day Wangsheng Funeral Parlour was mysteriously spirited away to another world with her, Meng, and the Ferrylady inside it. But Hu Tao has always been good at adapting to strange circumstances—it comes with the job.

Hu Tao sticks a sign on the front of the Parlour: Now hiring! 1 Consultant and 1 Undertaker. Enquire within.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. The last thing we need around here is more of you freaks."

Hu Tao turns around at the familiar voice. "Good morning, Mr Borgin!" He always sounds like he's gargling rocks. "Fine weather we're having!"

Mr Borgin is glaring at her, her lovely building, and her hiring sign like he's just been gravely offended by it all. He's never liked her, Hu Tao can tell, but she's very used to dealing with his type. All of his insults and glowers slide right off her like water on a duck. Mr Burke is usually a bit friendlier toward her. Not as prickly as Mr Borgin. "The day you finally disappear is the day I'll be able to die peacefully."

At the mention of his death, Hu Tao lights up like a firecracker. "Speaking of, Mr Borgin! Since we're shop neighours, I thought it'd be nice to give you these!" She digs through the pockets of her shorts before pulling out two crumpled coupons and shoving them in his hand. "Buy one casket, get one free! I was thinking, since you and Mr Burke have been partners for so long, wouldn't it be wonderful if—"

Mr Borgin throws the coupons right back at her face. "Get outta here, Hu Tao! The war's over, you can start packin'!"

"Aiya!" huffs Hu Tao, hands on her hips as Mr Borgin marched back to his shop. "Does he think me only a money grubber?" She picks the coupons off the ground and puts them back in her pocket, humming an old Liyuen tune under her breath.

There's not much to do today. Meng and the Ferrylady clean up the Parlour while Hu Tao sweeps the front. The tinkling laughter of children doing their back-to-school shopping reaches her ears. To her right is Diagon Alley. The hacking coughs of hags is audible to her left. Hu Tao likes both sounds. Over the years, they've become the sounds of home.

She hums the same tune, singing along in her head.

First hilichurl is sick,

Second hilichurl probes,

Third hilichurl gathers,

Fourth hilichurl brews...

No one disturbs her sweeping. She's done the entire strip of road outside her building three times when she finally puts down her broom. She's not gone exploring in Diagon Alley during the back to school season, so she might as well see what it's like. There are children of all ages running about in the shopping square, dragging their poor, exasperated parents to every shop they deem interesting. A few first years scurry past Hu Tao, nearly bumping into her, and their guardians cast her an apologetic look as they make haste after their runaway kids.

She gets ice cream at Florean Fortescue's, taking a seat at one of the outside tables and content to languidly eat her melting dessert while soaking in the sights of shopping season in full swing. The eve of September is fast approaching. It's been nonstop funerals since May, and people are ready to celebrate their victory and start looking toward a brighter future. Hu Tao thinks it's admirable of them—appreciates how they find strength even after terrible tragedy.

There are free copies of the Daily Prophet in a stand by the shop window. Hu Tao's picked one up, and reads it as her ice cream continues to melt. The front page declares: THE LAST DEATH EATER TRIAL PUTS THE SPOTLIGHT ON THE MALFOY FAMILY.

The article contains a special sort of outrage. Hu Tao can vividly imagine whoever wrote this going through their supply of quills at an alarming rate as the force of their hand, trembling with fury, reported on how the Malfoy family practically got off scot-free. Social pariahs, yes, but though Lucius was sentenced to Azkaban, Narcissa and Draco did not receive any hard penalties.

Hu Tao's heart warms when she sees Narcissa in the photos—looking pale and unhealthy but undeniably relieved—leaving the trial with her son, Draco, by her side. The boy doesn't seem to be reacting well to the crowds, his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast.

Perhaps Narcissa will be available for tea soon.

The doorbell above the ice cream parlour dings, and the next people to come out are familiar faces. She meets Harry Potter's gaze—his eyes round in surprise. "Director Tao."

"Good afternoon, Harry! Ronald and Hermione."

"Hey, Hu Tao!" Ron smiles at her. She was the one to arrange Fred's funeral—had offered her condolences to several sobbing Weasley clan members in addition to Harry and Hermione. "Mind if we join you? And for Merlin's sake, just call me Ron."

"Aiya! Take a seat, take a seat! You three are always welcome. Even you, Ronald. Doing your back to school shopping?"

"Just me," Hermione says, "Ron and Harry won't be going back to Hogwarts."

"Oh?" Hu Tao spoons the rest of her intact ice cream into her mouth. There's a little melted puddle in the cup. "Why not?"

Ron shrugs. "Never been much of a scholar, to be honest. Me and Harry were both accepted into the Auror Training Program."

"You mean you were," Harry corrects. "I'm still deciding."

"Well, if you ask me, mate, you should take it. Didn't you always want to be an Auror? Don't look a Hippogriff in the beak and all that."

"Still," Harry insists, and all three of them gaze at him curiously. He fidgets under their stares, clearing his throat. "Actually, I was debating on whether to return to Hogwarts or not..."

Hermione claps her hands together, delighted. "Oh, that's wonderful, Harry! Having your NEWTs means that you can qualify for a lot more other jobs! If being an Auror doesn't turn out to be what you want to do, you could look into other options."

"He's the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, 'Mione," points out Ron. "Who'd deny him a job?"

"Well, for starters—"

Hu Tao laughs, bright and loud. "Stay friends, you three. Till death do you part."

It's the last day of August when Hu Tao sees someone huddled underneath her lanterns. Just like last time, it's raining. Her black umbrella is propped on one shoulder, and she's carrying two grocery bags. He's curled up so tightly into himself that he looks small to her. Almost completely unnoticeable. Hu Tao drops her grocery bags—Tesco; the wizarding side of London doesn't sell the Asian oils and spices she likes to use in her cooking—and holds her umbrella over him.

He looks up with red-rimmed eyes. His hair is a mess, and there's blood crusted on his forehead. His clothes are torn in some places, and he's not wearing any shoes.

"Mr Malfoy," Hu Tao says, softly, kneeling beside him.

His throat bobs. "You," he rasps, "You said I could come here. Any... Any time I liked."

"What happened to you?"

Stubbornly, Draco shakes his head. "I can't go home like this."

"Come in, then. You could've knocked, you know. Meng and the Ferrylady are home." She unlocks the door and pushes it open, letting Draco in. A wet puddle follows him in. She lets him use the shower, unbothered that he's taking over an hour in there.

The Ferrylady pops her head in the sitting room. "Guests? Should I prepare dinner?"

"Yes, please," Hu Tao says, graciously. "And just one extra serving of rice should do."

Since Draco is taking so long, Hu Tao pops down to the Muggle London and buys a hoodie, some pants, and some male underwear. He's still in the shower when she folds the new clothes in the guest room, placing them on the bed. "Mr Malfoy." She knocks on the bathroom door. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen."

Sure enough, Meng and the Ferrylady are seated in the dining room fifteen minutes later, already eating. Hu Tao eats, too, before she puts rice, meat, and vegetables into a plate and takes it to the guest room. The door is closed. He's out of the shower. She knocks again. "Mr Malfoy?"

"You can come in," he answers from inside.

Hu Tao pushes the handle down. Draco is fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs crossed. He doesn't look as small as before, but there's something haunted in the boy's' eyes. "Aiya, Mr Malfoy," she clicks her tongue, "Normally, I don't like people eating in the bedroom, but I'll make an exception for you."

"Draco, please. Mr Malfoy... Lord Malfoy... That's what people call my father."

"Draco, then," she acquiesces peaceably. She sits down on the bed next to him. "Are you going to tell me what happened? Or are you going to tell me to buzz off like Mr Borgin does every Tuesday?"

He laughs, but the sound is watery. "They... They tried to..." He fiddles with the sleeve of his black hoodie. Draco's eyes harden. "It served me right, I guess. For being a Death Eater," he spits.

Hu Tao has seen much. She's buried all sorts of people, including people whose bodies had been ripped apart by other people in all sorts of ways. She's quiet as she absorbs what little context she has—and she knows. She knows, and she isn't sure if she should say it out loud. People do all sorts of horrible things to each other, stomping each other into the ground before kneeling to help them up. "Draco," Hu Tao says, slowly, "Did they try to touch you? Forcefully?" When he says nothing, it's all but confirmed. She stands. "We need to tell someone—"

"No!" he says, harshly. "I don't remember their faces anyway. And my parents—my mother—she can't—" Draco looks up at her, stricken. Once again, she is struck by how young he looks. "Please. They mustn't know. They mustn't. I didn't come here so you could make a big deal out of this. This is my burden."

The wind knocked out of, Hu Tao sits back down. "They... They didn't get far did they?"

"No," Draco utters, bitterly. "Not as far as they wanted to." He looks like he's going to be sick, and Hu Tao puts the food on the nightstand and guides him to the toilet. He dry retches, but nothing comes out. He must've eaten nothing the whole day. She hums her hilichurl song beside his ear as he heaves by the toilet, hoping that it will give him some reprieve, if any.

When he's done, he washes his hands, grimacing in the mirror. Hu Tao is polishing her Staff of Homa as she waits for him. He gives it a curious look but doesn't venture any further. "Do you want to stay the night?" she asks. "You can go home in the morning. It's getting late."

"No, it's fine. I... I don't want to go home. Not yet."

"School starts tomorrow, though. Are you going back?"

"I have to. It was the condition of my pardon. If I don't... I'll be carted off to Azkaban."

"Aiya. How cruel of them. But it's all right. You don't have to go home. Going home can be hard, sometimes."

Draco hesitates by the doorway, the bathroom door swinging shut behind him. "You don't mind?"

"Hm?" Hu Tao cocks her head. "Mind what?"

"Why are you so nice to me?" His brow creases. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You're Narcissa's son."

Something in his expression crumples. "I'm a Death Eater. I stood on the side of the Dark Lord."

"At least you stood," Hu Tao points out. "Those who stand for nothing fall for anything."

While Draco sleeps deeply in the guest bedroom, Hu Tao confers with Meng and the Ferrylady in the sitting room. "You two," Hu Tao says, solemnly. "I think it's time."

"Time?" Meng parrots. "Time for what? What do you mean, Director Hu?"

"Do you remember what happened when we first arrived?"

The Ferrylady folds her arms across her chest. "How could we not? It was my first time ever seeing a green man."

"I know he's still here," Hu Tao says, pulling out a mirror from a nearby drawer. "And I need him right now."

"What for?"

"Draco is going back to Hogwarts tomorrow. I can't follow him there. But I heard Headmistress McGonagall's still looking for applicants for the Muggle Studies post."

"This late into the year? School starts tomorrow."

Hu Tao giggles, morbidly. "After what happened to the last teacher, well... Very interesting, no?" Her little ghost companion, Boo Tao, circles around her before she pinches him by the tail. He struggles between her fingers until she lets go, and he tumbles dramatically through the air like a deflated balloon. "Silly Boo." She clears her throat. "Anyway... Mr Piccolo, are you there?" she says to the mirror. "Mr Piccolo. Mr Piccolo!"

The mirror ripples like a stone cast into still waters before Piccolo's great green face shows up scowling in the mirror. "I told you to only use this for emergencies."

"Well, this is one," she says. "Sort of. Look, I need your help, okay?"

Hu Tao explains the whole situation with Malfoy, Piccolo's mien growing stonier and stonier with each passing word. "So," he surmises, "You want me to pose as a teacher so this Malfoy brat doesn't get killed—or worse—by his own classmates?"

"Pretty much."

"I refuse."

"Aiya, please!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Aw, come on! You owe me, Mr Piccolo. And you used to live among Muggles, didn't you?"

"Back in my world, yes, but—" He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not all the same. You know that, Hu Tao."

"We're in this together," Hu Tao reminds him. "Strangers in a new world with no way to get back. Is it really so much to ask? All you do is sit under waterfalls all day, anyway."

His glares daggers at her. "I do more than that, you damn brat. But fine. I'll fly to Hogwarts in the morning."

"Yay! You're a true friend, Mr Piccolo."

The mirror call ends after that. Hu Tao puts it back in the drawer.

"Why do you care so much?" the Ferrylady asks. "You usually don't. You used to stay in your own line. Business is business. I thought that was all that mattered."

"Aiya. Times change. I couldn't..." Hu Tao trails off, thoughtfully. "I guess I couldn't look away. I didn't want to look away. Is that so bad?" The Daily Prophet she got from the ice cream shop is on the coffee table. She looks at the front page again, where Narcissa is desperately trying to shield her son away from flashing cameras, loud demands, and groping hands. "Besides," she murmurs, more to herself than to her Undertakers. "I get the feeling today wasn't the first time something like that happened. Aiya. He really is too pretty for his own good."

Chapter Text

Mr Borgin does not trust the director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. He thinks her a poor neighbour, a loud menace, and an overall nuisance. She has little to no shame in her dealings; even Mr Borgin balks at the thought of shoving flyers advertising funeral rites and coffins into people's faces. He schemes different ways to be rid of her, but—to his dismay—she is still alive and well and inviting him over for tea (he declines every time).

"What Gryffindor hellhole did she crawl out from?" Mr Borgin asks himself most days, peering at the grand building of Wangsheng through the curtains of his office window with his beady eyes.

Short of reporting her business to the Ministry—because no store-owner in Knockturn Alley has any business bringing upon the watchful eyes of the government upon their street—he tries almost everything else to get rid of her.

His first tactic was intimidation. Sneering, spitting, cursing at her. Insulting her blood purity—despite not knowing her heritage—her parents, her extended family, the upkeep of her shop, and the way one of her Undertakers, Meng, wilts at the sight of him. But she took everything in stride, laughing straight at his face and offering him one of her bloody coupons.

It quickly became clear intimidating her out of the street wasn't an option.

The next thing he did was send a hit-wizard, offering him an ample amount of galleons and a free cursed artefact, after her while she slept. He never heard back from the hit-wizard, but he did see the Ferrylady suspiciously wheel a closed casket away somewhere the next morning.

He tried a more pacifistic route next, searching for empty allotments in Diagon Alley, Horizont Alley, and other adjacent Alleys for her to move into.

"Oh, but Miss Tao!" Mr Borgin said, giving her a greasy grin. "You'll be sure to attract more business there!"

His efforts were for naught. She gave him that knowing smile of hers, thanked him, and assured him that she was perfectly happy with the current location of her shop before sending him on his way. When he returned to his shop in a dark mood, he discovered a piece of paper in his robe. Incensed, he bellowed in rage, a wave of accidental magic shaking the whole shop and destroying some of his more delicate wares—the blasted woman had sneaked a coupon into his pockets!

Lastly, driven by desperation and a newfound hatred of coupons, he set the funeral parlour on fire. It was here he found out that Hu Tao had a near supernatural control of fire, quickly beating the flames into submission with a flick of her fingers and a twirl of her strange staff. Her staff members didn't even look worried as they watched Hu Tao seize control of the fire and starve it of oxygen.

Today, Mr Borgin is carefully wrapping a cursed necklace in a parcel with dragon-hide gloves. He intends to take it to Director Hu Tao as a 'peace offering'. If this fails, he might just call upon a favour one of his associates owes him to get rid of her once and for all. It's a short walk from his shop to the funeral parlour, and he's adjusting his hold on the parcel carefully when he sees him for the first time.

Mr Borgin feels his knees go weak.

Because there, chatting amicably with Hu Tao, is a green man. It's not as if the wizarding world is lacking in magical creatures with green skin—the goblins that run Gringotts are the colour of seaweed—but the man is well over seven feet, muscular, and has pointed ears that his turban doesn't cover. A white cape billows dramatically behind him, and his teeth are sharp and fanged.

Hu Tao laughs at something he says before she spots Mr Borgin, waving him over.

"Hullo, Mr Borgin!" she greets, nearly falling to the side as she peers around the green man's great bulk.

Mr Borgin licks his lips, greasing his hair back with one hand. "Good morning, Director," he says back, slowly.

"This is my business partner, Mr Piccolo!"

"Pleasure," Piccolo sneers, baring all of his teeth in what Mr Borgin assumes is meant to be an attempt at a polite smile.

Business partner.

Hu Tao has a business partner.

Mr Borgin feels faint. He's never met a man like Mr Piccolo—is he of troll descent? Or one of the legendary Fae?—but his well-honed instincts tell him that this man is not to be trifled with. "It's good to meet you," he says, weakly.

"What's that you're holding?" Hu Tao glances at the package in his hands. "Is that for me?"

"I—er—" Mr Borgin squeaks when Piccolo snatches the parcel from him, his long nails ripping the paper apart in an instant. He holds the cursed necklace with his bare hands, and Mr Borgin's mouth goes dry when the jewellery hisses and spits, the dark curse its been afflicted with quite literally burning away at Piccolo's touch. The man smirks. Mr Borgin takes a step back.

"Here." Piccolo gives the necklace to Hu Tao. "It's safe."

"Ooh!" Hu Tao beams at him, then at Mr Borgin. "You're so kind! I'm sorry, Mr Borgin, I have nothing to offer you except—" she fishes a colourful piece of paper out from the little pocket on her vest-shirt and presses it into his palm "—this."

Mr Borgin stares blankly down at the crumpled up coupon in his hand. For the first time since he was but a child, he feels like weeping. But Piccolo and Hu Tao are both looking at him expectantly, and he takes a deep breath, folding the coupon in half and placing it the pocket of his robes. "Thank you," he says, strained. "Miss Tao."

Hu Tao lights up, no doubt ecstatic that he's finally accepted one of her coupons with good grace. "Well, you and Mr Burke are getting up there in years—"

"Hu Tao," Piccolo groans, rolling his eyes.

"—so I'm sure you'll find some good use for it! They expire in a year, but I'll be sure to make more!"

Mr Borgin just nods, wanting nothing but to retreat back to his little shop, where there is no green man with pointy teeth and an unsettling aura staring at him. He excuses himself, scuttles away, and slams the door behind him. Then, as an afterthought, he flips the sign from 'open' to 'closed'.

Fine, let Hu Tao have her way.

Mr Borgin values his life too much to continue interfering.

"He was trying to kill you, you know," says Piccolo.

"Kill me!" Hu Tao gasps, hand going over her mouth. "Why would anyone want to kill me?"

Piccolo gives her a dry look. "Yes, why indeed?"

It's been a few years since he descended upon this land with Hu Tao and the staff of Wangsheng. A freak accident of the universe, really. But he's carved himself a quiet space here, away from society—until now. Hu Tao looks up at him with shining eyes, and he can't help but think of a younger Gohan peering at him with those same eyes.

"On a scale of one to ten," Vegeta once sneered, "How whipped are you?"

Hu Tao is admiring the necklace now, humming that silly song of hers under her breath as she twirls the gems and beads in her fingers. "Maybe you should've left it cursed. It adds a little spice, no?"

"Hu Tao, if I left it cursed, you would be dead."

"Aiya, you are so not fun!"

"Well, being dead isn't fun!"

Hu Tao sticks her tongue out at him before she sobers up somewhat. "Are you ready to go? Today's the first of September—the students will be returning to Hogwarts."

Right, his job interview. Piccolo frowns, apprehensive. He's never worked a day in his life, really—back in his old world, he spent his days taking care of the Lookout with Dende and Mr Popo, very rarely entering the human realm outside of Bulma's gatherings or family dinners at Goku's. The spawn of the former Demon King that once terrorised Earth—or, well, the other Earth—now about to head off for a job interview for a teaching post. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on him. "I'll be there in under a second, Hu Tao," he tells her, and it's true. He can circle the planet at least several times under a second.

"But are you ready?" she presses, standing on the tips of her toes and smirking.

He flicks her forehead gently and she whines, clutching her head. "Be careful of that Borgin guy."

"Hey! I'm always careful, I'll have you know."

Piccolo doesn't deign her a response. With a flicker, he's gone, blasting through the air faster than the human eye can see.

Teaching, huh?

Well, if anything, Piccolo's had some experience being a teacher.

It's really just a matter of if Hogwarts has a 'no throwing students at mountains' policy.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall has met an assortment of people in her long life. She is, thus, unusually good at reading people even without the aid of Legilimency. The middle-aged man sitting in front of her is... Well, Minerva tries not to stare so much. There's nothing outwardly wrong with him, not really, but she can't help but think he looks like someone's pureblood child stuffed into dress robes for the first time. She doesn't sense any malice from him. He's just awkward, in a sense. Job interview nerves maybe? But he did so well.

"Mr Piccolo," McGonagall says, crisply. "After careful consideration, I've decided to accept you as Muggle Studies Professor for one year. Should things go well, I am happy to talk about renewing and updating your contract."

"Thank you, Headmistress," Piccolo replies, dabbing a handkerchief at his sweaty forehead. His skin is strangely pale, as if he has not seen the sunlight for a long time, and his mousy brown locks are flat against his scalp.

A quill and parchment appear out of thin air, the latter detailing the specifics of his tenure. Piccolo signs quickly, his handwriting an indecipherable scrawl. The parchment rolls up and snaps shut with the Hogwarts seal wrapped around.

"Now," McGonagall says, severely. "I kindly ask you to drop whatever glamour charms you are using."

Piccolo stills. "I don't think you want me to."

"I insist. There have been too many incidents in the past related to secret identities."

He sighs. "Must I?"

McGonagall merely cocks an eyebrow.

"Fine."

There's a shimmer and then the pale man in front of her disappears to reveal a giant green man of over seven feet. Despite herself, McGonagall gapes for a solid five seconds before she recovers. "Well," she says. "This was certainly not..."

Piccolo scowls, crossing his arms. "Do you get it now?"

"I understand, Mr Piccolo, but our institution does not discriminate between wizard and creature. You have shown aptitude and higher-order intelligence. I have no reason to decline you a position here. It might take some time for our students to get used to you, but they will eventually."

"Somehow, I am not reassured."

McGonagall ignores him. "There's not much time until the feast. I suggest you get to know your environment and start outlining your lesson plans."

"Of course, Headmistress."

He turns to leave, his white cape almost smacking McGonagall in the face as it billows behind him. Honestly, if Snape was still here, she reckons Piccolo would give him a run for his money. She glances up at the line of portraits in the office, Snape's shrewd gaze following the retreating figure of Piccolo. "Penny for your thoughts, Severus?"

Snape's lip curls.

McGonagall looks back down at her desk, taking out a parchment that lists all of the Hogwarts staff. Magically, Piccolo's glowering mien has been added at the very bottom of the paper, listed as the Muggle Studies teacher.

What an odd fellow.

At any rate, though, she's certainly had weirder.

Slowly, steadily, Hogwarts is being rebuilt. There's an entire section of the castle that's closed off to students, wards set around the area so that students won't be able to pass through and hurt themselves. Harry arrives on the Hogwarts Express with Hermione's presence to ground him to reality.

"Oh, Hogwarts." Hermione breathes in the scent of the nature on the wind. "How I missed you."

After much deliberation, Harry caved in to Hermione's insistence—he's back at Hogwarts to catch up on his education and, hopefully, graduate with all of his NEWTs. The first year students are escorted over the Black Lake with Hagrid, while the rest of them take the carriages up to the castle.

"Aren't you excited, Harry?" Hermione beams at him. "It'll almost be like old times again."

"Hopefully, there won't be anything out to kill me this year," says Harry. "But it's good to be here."

It's a lie, actually. Not about anything killing him, but—

"What do you mean I need to see a mind-healer?" Harry says flatly, meeting Head Auror Robards' gaze. They're in his office, Harry seated directly opposite Robards.

"It's exactly how it sounds," Robards says shortly, steepling his fingers. He has a fish tank on his desk, colourful goldfish swimming around. Harry's seen it before, but he's always drawn to it. The choice of pet is strangely humble. He has a few more scars on his face than when Harry last saw him, likely having acquired them from the most recent Death Eater capture operation. His beard is thick but neatly groomed. "Potter, I'm not taking on a traumatised child as an Auror no matter who you are or what you saved us from."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said. I'll accept you into the Auror program without the required NEWTs. But only on one condition—that you see a bloody mind-healer."

Harry gives him a dark look. "You accepted Ron."

"Weasley underwent the same mental assessments as you and passed."

"But I didn't?"

"Use your head, Potter. We wouldn't be having this conversation if you did. In fact, Miranda brought up many concerns to me."

Harry vaguely remembers Miranda to be the medi-witch that examined all potential Auror trainees, though he can't exactly recall her face because she had her nose in her clipboard over half the time. "No," he refuses. "I won't go. I won't." He won't have someone poking around in his head, snooping like Voldemort once did. "Surely, there's another option?"

Robards considers this. "There is one."

He isn't sure what to expect, going into his eighth year at Hogwarts. He takes the carriage up to the castle grounds with Hermione, Neville, and a Ravenclaw boy who is drinking a carton of strawberry milk—Terry Boot. He remembers Terry being in Dumbledore's Army—a nice chap, if only a little distracted at times. "Wonder who the new professors will be," says Terry as he sips his milk.

"What are the open positions again?" wonders Neville. He's holding what looks like a baby mushroom in a pot. From a glance, it doesn't look magical, at least not to Harry. It just looks like a regular mushroom, white with a round cap and a veil around its upper stem. Perhaps it's a project for Professor Sprout, or maybe a personal endeavor of his.

"Muggle Studies," Hermione answers promptly. "Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Transfiguration."

"Not Potions?" Terry laughs. "Slughorn's always saying he's going to retire."

"I'm not sure about that one, actually. I guess we'll have to see."

The journey up to the castle goes peacefully, though Harry doesn't talk much. Just watches the scenery pass them by. They occasionally draw him into conversation, but mostly leave him alone. Hermione and Neville understands he needs some space, and Terry's too occupied with his milk and Neville's mushroom ("Wow, looks cool! What does it do?") to pay Harry much attention.

When they get off, Professor Sprout is there to greet them with a pleasant smile. She's lost some weight, and there are dark circles around her eyes, but she's as friendly as ever. Just a little more tired. She keeps an eye out for the returning eighth years and herds them to the side, the other students minus the first years going through the usual entrance.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," Professor Sprouts says kindly. "But let's wait until everyone's here."

"What do you think's going to happen?" Terry whispers to them.

Everyone is at a loss for answers, though, even Hermione. They just mill about, muttering quiet greetings to their other classmates when they trek over. Everyone stands with their own housemates, Harry notices. There's a tangle of Ravenclaws—Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, Lisa Turpin, Padma Patil, Mandy Brocklehurst, and Sue Li—and Susan Bones holds court over a group of Hufflepuffs: Hannah Abbott, Ernie Macmillan, Wayne Hopkins, Zacharias Smith, and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Terry joins the Ravenclaw boys shortly, grinning and lifting a hand in greeting. The Gryffindors that came back excluding Harry, Neville, and Hermione are Parvati Patil and Lily Moon.

The last to arrive are the Slytherins. By far, they are the smallest house, composed of only Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. They keep their heads down and stand further away from the rest of the students.

Harry knows Malfoy is here as a condition of his pardon. He's not sure why Parkinson and Zabini have returned—if he were them, he wouldn't be able to show his face here at all. Malfoy catches his gaze, then, eyes narrowing, and Harry looks away and back to Professor Sprout.

Professor Sprout casts a Tempus spell, frowning at the time and looking behind her shoulder, like she's expecting someone. Almost ten minutes pass before she sighs and puts her hands on her hips. "Apologies for the delays, students. Your Head of House arrived only this morning, so it's likely he got lost on the way here."

"Head of House?" echoes Anthony Goldstein.

"I suppose I should say Head of Eighth Year," corrects Sprout. "To put it shortly, because of the number of you and your unique circumstances, Headmistress McGonagall and the Board of Governors has decided to group you all together as a single cohort. You will all be living together as if you are one house."

That gets a cry of uproar, Harry included. Eighth Year! Harry doesn't want to be part of this new house—he's a Gryffindor. He belongs up in Gryffindor Tower, not... shoved away in some space with people he's barely spoken to. Not to mention the Slytherins. He sneaks a look at them—Parkinson looks downright horrified, and Zabini is grimacing. Malfoy's expression is decidedly neutral. Unreadable. For some inexplicable reason, Harry suddenly wants to know what's going through his head. Is he scared like Parkinson? Apprehensive like Zabini?

"Everyone, settle down," Sprout calls for calm, sounding exhausted, "I know it's sudden—"

"There won't be a re-sorting, will there?" demands Michael Corner.

"Are any of us Head Boy and Girl this year?" wonders Ernie Macmillan. "Or is it the seventh years—?"

"We're sharing dorms?!" Lisa Turpin makes a face.

"Quiet."

A deep, gravelly voice rumbles from behind Sprout, a man steps out of the shadows with a glint in his eye. Harry blinks, looking up at him. He has several heads over Professor Sprout, but that's not the most alarming part—this man is green. He's not dressed like the other professors, wearing instead what looks to be a purple martial arts gi with a white cape and turban. If not for his great height, his shoulder pads would surely take somebody's eye out. He has sharp, pointed ears like a house-elf's, and Harry thinks he can see equally sharp teeth when the man talks to Sprout.

"Professor Piccolo!" Sprout looks relieved, and, for a moment, Harry feels bad for stressing her out so terribly. "I was just explaining to your students about their new circumstances."

"Thank you, Professor Sprout." Piccolo steps forward, scrutinising them with hawk-like eyes. It's not windy right now, but Harry thinks he sees Piccolo's cape swaying slightly. "I'm sure you're all hungry right now, so I'll try and keep this quick. Welcome to your eighth year at Hogwarts." He snaps his fingers and everyone's ties turn silver. There are a few gasps. "You are all considered adults, though I don't know why. As far as I'm concerned, you're all children. But, regardless, you are all now under my care. I am your Head of Year, and you can forward any concerns you might have to me. You will be taking all core classes together. For those with electives, you will take them with the seventh year students. Timetables will be issued after dinner, in the common room. Any questions?"

Ernie raises his hand to repeat his inquiry about student government positions.

"What's your name, boy?" asks Piccolo.

"E-Ernie, sir. Ernie Macmillan."

"Macmillan, there will be no place in the student government for the eighth years."

"Oh, okay." Crestfallen, Ernie lets his hand drop.

"How is this going to work, exactly?" Susan Bones asks next. "I mean with our dorms situation."

"Girls and boys are separated. Each dorm room will have five to six students in it."

No more questions are asked. They're all still reeling from the suddenness of it all, and Piccolo has no qualms in sending them on their way to dinner. As they're about to head off, though, Piccolo stops them. "One more thing." His gaze is steely as he regards them. "I have a zero tolerance policy for bullying and harassment. Should I catch any of you participating in that sort of shit, I will personally make sure you regret setting foot in this school. Understand?" No one dares say anything. Piccolo's presence is suffocating. "Good. Now run along to dinner, you brats."

They waste no time, making haste to the Great Hall. The Sorting's already finished. It's almost exactly like how Harry remembers it, but he hears Hermione take a sharp intake of breath next to him. "Look," she murmurs, pointing at an extra table in front of the High Table, perpendicular to the student tables. He knows it's for them. It has to be.

Neville is stroking his potted mushroom when they sit down. "How's my little Amy?" he coos at the fungus. Harry swears it wiggles a little in response.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asks Harry, frowning ever so slightly.

"Fine," Harry says. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She hesitates. "You've been quiet, lately," she says, carefully. "Harry, you know you can talk to Ron and I about anything, right?" Hermione worries her lip. "Harry, you literally died. There's... There's a lot to unpack, you know?"

Harry knows that Hermione has nothing but good intentions, but she's reminding him too much of Robards right now. "'Mione, I'm fine, really," he insists, a touch irritable.

She doesn't look convinced, but lets the matter go. Just in time, too—the food arrives, fresh and hot, and they dig in. Harry is sitting so that he's facing the High Table, and it's difficult not to look at Piccolo—Professor Piccolo, Harry, he hears Hermione correct in his head—who now sits where Professor Burbage used to. He doesn't eat anything, opting instead to drink languidly from a tall glass of plain water. Professor Sinistra offers him some baked pasta, but the green man declines.

"Bit of a hardass, isn't he?" Anthony says to Harry. He's on Harry's right, while Hermione's to his left. "The new professor."

"What kind of creature is he, anyway?" says Harry. "A troll of some sort?"

"Far too clever to be a troll," opines Justin Finch-Fletchley from opposite Harry. "Trolls can barely string a sentence together."

"Goblin, then?" suggests Lily Moon, who's a bit further up the table.

"But he's so tall," says Hannah Abbott.

Their Head of Year's species is heavily debated during dinner. Lily insists that he must be related to the goblins, while Wayne Hopkins thinks he's part-giant like Hagrid. Michael Corner says he's an elf variety with utmost certainty. "Honestly," says Hermione when Lisa Turpin finishes her explanation of why he's part-giant, part-goblin, and part-elf, exasperated. "I don't think it's our place to be discussing this. It's awfully impolite."

"Hermione's right," agrees Sue Li, who Harry has never heard speak before. She's a waif-like Chinese girl with straight bangs, rectangular glasses, and a nose that points upward slightly, giving her a snooty appearance. "It doesn't matter what he is. He clearly has human intelligence and, as long as he's a good teacher, I honestly couldn't care less."

Michael sneers ever so slightly. "Oh, I agree. But others might not." He's looking pointedly at the end of the table, where the three Slytherin students are minding their own business. Harry follows the direction of his gaze.

A sort of hush settles over the Eighth Year Table.

"What?" Zabini says, brusquely. "Why the hell would we care?"

"Malfoy hates Hagrid," points out Wayne. "Tried to get him fired. Hates anyone who isn't, well, you know."

Pureblood. A follower of Voldemort. Harry despises Malfoy, and he's eager to see him get torn a new one in front of everyone. He waits for a snapping retort from Malfoy, who can never keep his mouth shut, and so are several at the table. Michael's eyes are gleaming; he's itching for a fight. Zacharias Smith also has his attention on Malfoy, something a bit darker in his stare.

But Malfoy doesn't say anything, just continues to eat his dinner with a bored expression.

Michael snarls. "Are you ignoring us, you poncy git—"

"Oh, fuck off, Corner," spits Zabini, Parkinson mustering up her most aristocratic glare at his side. "Mind your own fucking business."

"Ignore them, Draco," Parkinson says to Malfoy. "They're just—"

"Just what, Parkinson?" laughs Lisa Turpin, sharp and cruel. "Not dirty Death Eaters?"

Hermione is scowling. "That's enough, all of you. Professor Piccolo is looking this way."

That does the trick. The tension is still there, with Malfoy looking furiously at Lisa, but nobody dares carry on. Piccolo is glaring at their table, and Harry wonders if those big ears of his are able to hear the conversation. Harry sneaks one more glance at the Slytherin trio. Parkinson looks very upset, on the verge of tears as she glowers down at the table. Zabini almost cuts through his plate with how heavy-handed he's being with his roast, and Malfoy... He looks livid, but he also looks exhausted all of a sudden. It takes Harry aback, and he looks away quickly. Don't, he coaches himself, It's bloody Malfoy. Malfoy, who did his damnedest to make Harry's life in Hogwarts hell. Malfoy, a blood supremacist and a Death Eater.

Harry doesn't pity Malfoy.

Harry can't bring himself to feel anything but disgust toward him.

Piccolo helps them settle into their dorms. The Eighth Year common room and dorms are near the Astronomy Tower. There are two dorms for boys and two for girls. In the common room, which comes with its own kitchenette, there's an announcement board next to the entrance. Piccolo pins up some parchment on the corkboard, allowing them to gather around.

BOYS' DORM 1:

Terry Boot

Michael Corner

Anthony Goldstein

Wayne Hopkins

Draco Malfoy

Harry Potter

BOYS' DORM 2:

Justin Finch-Fletchley

Neville Longbottom

Ernie Macmillan

Zacharias Smith

Blaise Zabini

GIRLS' DORM 1:

Hannah Abbott

Hermione Granger

Pansy Parkinson

Parvati Patil

Lisa Turpin

GIRLS' DORM 2:

Susan Bones

Mandy Brocklehurst

Sue Li

Lily Moon

Padma Patil

"I trust that you will all behave," Piccolo says, gruffly, crossing his arms. "Headmistress McGonagall has been kind enough to allow some leniency for you—your curfew will be eleven in the evening and not ten."

That gets a few murmurs of appreciation.

"Now, everyone come get their schedules from me."

A haphazard, half-assed line forms in front of Piccolo, who Harry is starting to think reminds him of Snape. They both have billowing cloaks and an understated flair for the dramatic, and a blunt, no-nonsense manner of speaking. At least Piccolo doesn't hate him, though. When that's all done and over with, Piccolo leaves without giving any speech. Harry's not surprised. He doesn't seem like the type.

"Who's taking Muggle Studies?" Justin asks, wanting to be the first to get his hands on any rumours about Piccolo. He's a notorious gossip, that one—Harry hasn't forgotten how he spread that he was the Heir of Slytherin in their second year.

Only a handful of them are in that class. Hermione, Sue Li, Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, Lily Moon, and—to Harry's surprise—Malfoy.

"Muggle Studies?" Harry blurts out to Malfoy, who's standing a bit behind him.

"What of it, Potter?" Malfoy says, annoyed.

"Didn't expect it from you, that's all," says Harry, equally pointed.

"You don't know me, Potter. Don't act like you do."

Harry's eyes darken. "I know exactly who you are."

"Oh, fuck off, Chosen One." Malfoy's lip draws back in a slow sneer. "You don't know me at all."

"We know you're a Death Eater," Michael says, loudly. "That's all we need to know." He yelps when Sue Li shoves him aside. "What the hell, Sue?"

"You were in my way," she says, testily. Sue looks around the room, looking terribly vexed. "Is everyone going to just keep standing around? Whatever. I'm going to bed."

Zacharias Smith hums thoughtfully as Sue leaves, a few other boys and girls heading for their dorms as well. "Michael's got a point, though. He is a Death Eater." His eyes flash. "And so much more."

He's already impossibly white, but Malfoy pales further. He sets his jaw and turns his back on them, marching to his dorm. Warily, Harry follows, the snickers in the common room growing fainter as he spots his trunk next to a bed.

And so much more? What did Smith mean by that? Harry wonders as he and Malfoy unpack in silence. Anthony is already in the bathroom, showering by the sound of it, while Terry Boot is opening up his trunk to reveal several cartons of strawberry milk. Harry's brow rises. Michael and Wayne swagger inside next, chuckling as they speak about something or another. From the way they look at Malfoy, Harry suspects that something will happen sooner or later.

Bugger, he thinks to himself that night, when it's dark and Terry is snoring in the next bed, Maybe I should've just picked the mind-healer.

Piccolo's new office once belonged to a man named Severus Snape. He knows because the man's name is on a plaque at the door, and Piccolo has to slide it out. Head of Eighth Year. He doesn't know what McGonagall was thinking. She's clearly getting up there in years. Groaning, he removes his cape, tossing it aside, and winces when the weighted shoulder pads forms a small crater in the stone floor, next to the rug.

Quietly, he sets up his new desk. The desk is big—big enough to accommodate for his size, and there's still much empty space by the time he's finished decorating. Mostly because the only thing he's added to it is a worn photo of him and Gohan in a simple wooden frame. Gohan is smiling into the camera, wearing his graduation robes, while Piccolo stands proudly beside him, a smirk on his face.

He feels a tug on his navel, and conjures up his flashing two-way mirror in a puff of smoke. He answers, and Hu Tao's face is taking up the entire mirror. "Mr Piccolo!" she says cheerfully, backpedalling to show him a burnt hunk of meat. Piccolo sees she's still wearing Mr Borgin's formerly cursed necklace. "Look what I made!"

"Do I even want to know?" Piccolo snorts.

"I'm practicing my Sunday roast!"

"Well, keep practicing, you clearly need it."

"Aiya, you're so rude. I hope you don't talk like that to your students." Hu Tao wags a finger at him before putting the burnt roast aside. Somewhere in the background, Piccolo can hear Meng yelling. He wouldn't be surprised if Hu Tao started a fire in the kitchen. "How are they, anyway?"

"What am I supposed to say?" Piccolo grumbles. "They're brats. Hot-tempered, traumatised brats." At least Gohan, however traumatised from fighting alien invaders since age four, was mild-mannered and polite. "They're adults in this world. But they're anything but."

Hu Tao nods, surprisingly serious. "And what about Draco?"

Draco Malfoy. To be honest, Piccolo wouldn't have noticed him if Hu Tao hadn't told him to watch out for him beforehand. Malfoy is a slip of a boy, so pale and slight he almost fades into the background. Hu Tao hasn't disclosed to him in detail why exactly she wants him watched over; Piccolo assumes it's not her story to tell. "He doesn't talk much," Piccolo says in the end. "But it's obvious his peers dislike him. And I don't say that lightly. Hu Tao, what's going on?"

"Aiya. This is what happens when you isolate yourself from society to meditate under waterfalls..."

"Hu Tao."

"I'm getting there!" Hu Tao pouts. "Patience is a virtue, Mr Piccolo. Anyway, there was a war recently. Draco Malfoy was... He was on the bad side. But I know he regrets it. His choices. And... a lot of really bad stuff happened to him, too. He's a victim of circumstances as well as... that other bad stuff." She sighs. "Just make sure nobody goes too far with him, okay?"

"Yeah, I can do that. I have to prepare for tomorrow's classes. Good night, Hu Tao."

Hu Tao smiles at him, gently. "Good night, Mr Piccolo."

Chapter Text

Over the years, Piccolo has learned a great deal about patience. Exercising it, however, is a completely different matter altogether. He is a big green man whose only better in terms of height in this school is the half-wit giant that teaches Care of Magical Creatures and frequently endangers students during his classes—people are curious, people want answers, and people are annoying. The younger years he dealt with this morning had pestered him nonstop until he had roughly told them to all please be quiet or meet their untimely end.

"Professor Piccolo! Is it true you're part elf?"

"Last time I checked, elves weren't part of the Muggle world. Keep your questions relevant, O'Mara."

"Is that your real skin?"

"It's about as real as your chances of passing this class, Boland."

"Professor! Professor! Have you ever eaten anyone before?"

"No, Peterson, but I know a few guys that have and I'm happy to introduce you to them if you keep running your mouth."

"Professor, is it true that you're actually Professor Snape back from the dead because you didn't like the afterlife?"

"Get out of my classroom before I personally escort you to the afterlife."

He hopes that his afternoon class, seventh year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws plus the small handful of eighth years that take Muggle Studies, will be a step up from all the ogling and the questioning. Gohan, give me strength, Piccolo prays, sighing as he goes over his notes for the seventh year curriculum one last time in his office. He's never been one for teaching—it was a miracle in itself that his first student—Gohan—grew up into a successful and well-adjusted young man. No one would ever guess that Piccolo'd thrown him into a mountain at the tender age of four!

(Though, to be fair, Piccolo himself had only been eight years old. In human years.)

Now much older than eight, Piccolo strides to his classroom with his planner in one hand, his cape swishing majestically behind him. Stragglers heading to their own classes don't even bother hiding their gawps as he passes them. A lost first year runs into his leg and stares up at him fearfully.

"What are you waiting for?" Piccolo bares his teeth, taking a guilty amount of pleasure in seeing the first year go white in terror. "Hurry up and get to class, brat."

"Y-Yessir, Professor Piccolo, sir!"

He scurries off, and Piccolo sighs and shakes his head before entering his classroom. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws are seated on the opposite sides of the room, while the eighth years secure a spot near the top of the classroom in the middle section of the seating. Well, most of them, anyway. The Granger girl McGonagall speaks so highly about is sitting a few rows down with a red-haired Gryffindor girl and a spacey blonde with radish earrings and a blue tie to indicate her as a Ravenclaw and a dark-haired young man—Corner, is it?—is laughing at a dumb joke one of his Gryffindor seatmates made. The remaining eighth years—Sue Li, Anthony Goldstein, and Lily Moon—are sitting together, with Draco Malfoy off to the side by himself.

The buzz of amicable conversation dies down when he walks in, wide eyes following his every movement as he makes his way over to his desk and puts down his things. "Afternoon, class," Piccolo says, brusquely. "I am Professor Piccolo. Welcome to Muggle Studies, where our learning outcomes are as self-explanatory as the subject name."

Granger snickers a little at that before she disguises it into a timely cough. A few other Muggle-born students chuckle, though the vast majority of the class look confused.

"I trust that you have questions about my origins," Piccolo continues after he takes the roll, voice dryer than the Sahara, "If you could please save them for outside of class, or preferably never at all, I would appreciate it. I'm here to do my job and you're here to learn. So if we all play our parts with due diligence, there will be no issue between us. Understand?"

"Yes, Professor," the students chorus uneasily.

"I've done the liberty of disposing of the old, outdated curriculum," Piccolo goes on, "Any old notes or textbooks you now have are entirely worthless to this class and will not help you at all. We are starting from scratch."

"But Professor!" A Ravenclaw girl puts her hand up. "How will we possibly fit everything into one year?"

"With hard work, breakneck speed, and indomitable spirit, Miss Singh. Now let's begin. Topic one—" the chalk behind Piccolo floats up and scrawls the title of the topic on the board behind him "—What is a Muggle?"

The first topic is understandably dry. Granger is taking notes at an impressive pace, but the rest of the class looks thoroughly bored. It's not a concern—he intends to cover at least another two more topics before class ends, unlike the previous Professor, who'd dedicated an entire week's worth of classes into exploring the uses of a rubber duck. The first topic takes ten minutes at most to go through, and the students start looking slightly more awake when he begins the second topic. "Topic two—household items." With a burst of his own Namekian magic, Piccolo manifests a toaster in the air, and everyone gasps. "This is a toaster."

"Blimey!" says a Gryffindor with messy hair and a ruddy face, Benjamin Salmon. "What is that thing? Some kind of Muggle death weapon?"

"No. Does anyone want to enlighten us on what exactly a toaster is used for?"

Granger's hand goes flying up, as do a few other Muggleborns', but Piccolo picks Michael Corner, his eighth year student, instead. "Yes, Corner?"

"It's used to make toast," Corner says smugly, as if he's just announced the answer to the meaning of life.

"Astounding insight. Mr Corner is correct—" Piccolo spins the toaster around lazily in the air, allowing for everyone to get a view of it at every angle "—the toaster is used for making toast."

Corner scowls at his tone.

"Why don't they just do it the normal way?" someone asks dumbly.

Piccolo deadpans. "Right, how silly of the Muggle to use a toaster rather than magic to heat up their bread."

He conjures up a few more toasters and gives them to the students to be passed around. Amazed murmurs ripple throughout the classroom as most of them touch a Muggle invention for the first time. Granger has evidently taken a shine to him, judging by the glint in her eye when she looks at him, and he can guess why when he overhears her say to Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood: "Finally, we're getting into more modern times!" Then the toaster comes her way and she starts lecturing Weasley, Lovegood, and whoever else is nearby on how one can adjust the crispiness and char of their toast by pressing the lever down harder or lighter.

The toasters disappear in a puff of smoke once Piccolo deems they've spent enough time with it. He gets a few voiced complaints and whines. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you're all fascinated, but it's time to move on. Our next item will be the washing machine." He summons a washing machine in front of him, one with a two star energy rating sticker on it. It's heavier than the toaster, so he orders them to leave their seats and come crowd around the thing.

The only student that doesn't come down is Malfoy, who is hunched over his book. Frowning, Piccolo appears behind him in the blink of an eye. "Malfoy."

The boy startles. "What the hell? How did you—?"

But Piccolo isn't listening, staring—intrigued—at the rather detailed drawing of a toaster in his workbook. It's probably as good as Gohan's artwork, and that boy is a genius if Piccolo's ever seen one. "Impressive," he muses, ignoring Malfoy's wary look. "Much more impressive whatever Callahan's doing, at any rate." Conor Callahan, Michael Corner's broad-shouldered Gryffindor friend, is busy beating the washing machine's hard metal with his fist and looking puzzled when it doesn't accomplish anything.

Malfoy leans back in his seat, a sneer forming on his face. He's relaxed somewhat, but he's still tense. "I wouldn't expect a finer touch from Callahan."

Down at the front of the room, Callahan aims a kick at the washing machine and glowers at it when all he gets from it is a throbbing big toe. Corner shoves him back exasperatedly and says something to calm him down. "Yes," Piccolo says, finally. "I can see why." He glances down at the workbook again. "You enjoy art, Malfoy?"

The mask is back up again. "On occasion," he says, offhandedly, looking away. His fingers close tightly around his quill.

Piccolo notices something else then—it's a warm day for September, and everyone else is out of their sweaters. But Malfoy's still wearing his, his arms covered by the grey wool. He's clearly trying to hide his body—scars, maybe?—and Piccolo doesn't pry, simply tucks that information away into the back of his mind. "Feel free to head down when you feel like it. I'll put the washing machine aside; it won't be going anywhere." With that, he goes, telling the students still at the machine to hurry back into their seats if they know what's good for them.

He shows off a few more extremely common household items ("Bloody hell, do they kill people with this 'ironing board'?!" "You seem to have an unhealthy fixation with Muggle execution devices, Mr Salmon.") until there's only five minutes left of the class according to the hourglass on Piccolo's desk. "Today, you will receiving your first assignment—" cue the groaning "—which will be one of only two assignments that you will be receiving for the whole year." The groaning stops, replaced by delighted whoops from the Gryffindor side. "You will be writing me a diary entry every week until the end of the school year where you imagine yourself as a Muggle. This week, your subject matter will be household items. It can be however long you want it—I will mark it by quality, not quantity. Dismissed." The bell tolls just as he finishes, and everyone starts putting their things away, chatting amongst themselves.

"Professor." As Piccolo is grabbing his things off his desk, Hermione Granger approaches him, breathless. "Thank you for today. I thought the class was brilliant."

"Granger, was it?" She nods. "It's about time wizards took their heads out of their asses."

"I quite agree, sir. Wizards can be notoriously backwards and ignorant in their views regarding Muggle culture. It's admirable that you're aiming on changing that."

"Well, someone has to. Frankly, it's embarrassing."

Granger opens her mouth to say something, but trails off when she notices Malfoy skulking around the washing machine, sketching furiously in his book. For a moment, Piccolo thinks she's going to call him out for whatever reason, but she wisely keeps her mouth shut. She gives Piccolo a short nod. "Have a good afternoon, Professor Piccolo." Then she's off, rejoining Weasley and Lovegood, who are loitering at the door.

Malfoy is a fast artist—the washing machine sketch is a bit more hurried than the toaster, but its uncomplicated shape doesn't make it difficult to recreate on paper. Before long, he's finished, muttering a thank you to Piccolo before leaving for his next class with his bag thrown over one shoulder. In his haste, his bag knocks Piccolo's hourglass over, and it shatters on the floor.

It's no big deal, and Piccolo is about to say as much (along with a warning to be more careful next time) when Malfoy flinches, shoulders hunching at the sound of glass cracking on stone. Piccolo frowns, reaching for him. "Malfoy—?"

Malfoy whips around, grey eyes terror-filled. Haunted.

Piccolo has seen that look in his eyes before, in an arena full of helpless spectators, and a crying four-year-old's gaze. Please don't hurt me, is the silent, unspoken prayer. "It's just an hourglass," Piccolo says, slowly, backing away. "I can make another one. Malfoy. You're in Hogwarts. My Muggle Studies classroom. You're safe. Can you hear me?"

There's an imperceptible shake to his shoulders, but Malfoy nods and swallows. "It's fine," he blurts out. "I mean—I'm fine. I'm fine." He grimaces, severely upset over something that most certainly is not the hourglass. "Goodbye, Professor. I'll see you next time."

He knows he should say something like 'my office is always open' or 'if you want to talk about it, feel free', but he's never been the type no matter Gohan's insistence on that he is capable of good, and Malfoy disappears out the door quickly, leaving Piccolo alone with a broken hourglass, sand scattered everywhere.

Sighing, Piccolo vanishes the mess with a wave of a hand.

It's a weekend when Ministry workers show up at Hu Tao's doorstep. She's eating a late breakfast that Meng prepared when the Ferrylady leads them inside—a man and woman that look like they'd rather be somewhere else. Judging by his robes and the badge pinned on them, Hu Tao makes the logical assumption that the man is an Auror. "Let me guess," Hu Tao says gleefully before anybody can get a word in, pointing at the lady, "Social worker?"

The witch gives her a bland look. "Of sorts."

"Yes! That's another score for Hu Tao!" Smugly, Hu Tao gets up and goes over to the chalkboard on the dining room wall where there's a tally going on under her name, Meng's, the Ferrylady's, and Piccolo's. Meng and Piccolo have the lowest amount of strokes, while Hu Tao is, inexplicably, on the highest. She adds the final stroke on her most recent 正 and giggles.

The woman is struggling to keep her professional mask on. "I am Constance Benevolence of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and this is Auror Samuel Downey." Indeed, the name badge on her perfectly pressed robes does say 'C. Benevolence'. "Miss Tao, your presence has been requested by one Narcissa Malfoy."

"Narcissa?" Hu Tao perks up. "Why didn't she just Floo over?"

The Auror smirks. "You may not be aware, Miss Tao, but—"

"Oh, right, I remember now." Hu Tao snaps her fingers, interrupting the put-out man. "House arrest and all. Poor Narcissa!"

Downey and Benevolence look very much like they want to throttle her for even showing sympathy for the woman but kindly refrain from doing so. Instead, the man clears his throat. "Should you agree to honour her with your presence, we will be escorting you to Malfoy Manor and subsequently acting as witnesses to make sure... nothing unscrupulous is discussed."

"That's a very broad term," Hu Tao says seriously. "If we say anything that might fall under 'unscrupulous', you'll have to very kindly inform us as we really wouldn't know any better thanks to unclear instructions."

Downey grits his teeth. "I will let you know."

"Good!" Hu Tao downs the rest of her lukewarm breakfast—congee with chunks of chicken and smelly cheese in it—and some water before prancing outside to Side-Along Apparate. She is not a witch, after all, and Downey and Benevolence probably don't want to lose sight of her, anyway.

She catches some of their conversation as they stumble through the door.

"—awful company—"

"What does she mean, unclear instructions?!"

Hu Tao pretends not to have heard as they sidle up beside her, Auror Downey offering her his hand. With a wave of a wand and a pop, she finds herself standing in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor, which are open. "Oh, wow," Hu Tao says as they walk up to the mansion, having never seen the Manor in all its glory before. "It's so beautiful! You can't even tell that Voldemort was living here!"

Downey stiffens up beside her, but Hu Tao merely hums and skips the rest of the way.

One of Narcissa's house-elves answers the door, a tiny little thing called Frilly, and leads them down to the parlour room to be seated. There's not a lot of colour in the house, and the room almost looks unwelcoming—which, Hu Tao deduces, is exactly what Narcissa wants it to be. Not her, per se, but rather her escorts. An unspoken 'you are not welcome' to Downey and Benevolence. Narcissa herself sweeps down the stairs in a black dress. Hu Tao is surprised—she's never seen Narcissa in all-black before; says it's a dreary colour. She's of half a mind to make a smart remark, but says nothing when she sees how haggard Narcissa looks as she sits. Frilly brings them tea and biscuits but nobody touches them.

"Auror Downey," Narcissa says tartly as she sits at the table. "Madam Benevolence." Her eyes soften as she addresses her last guest. "And Hu Tao. It's good to see you again, my dear."

"You're a sight for sore eyes as well, Narcissa," Hu Tao replies, smiling. "How have you been?"

"Not well, unfortunately." She glares balefully at where Benevolence and Downey are seated—so much so that Hu Tao half expects them to spontaneously combust. "I... I'm afraid I didn't call you here just for a friendly visit, Hu Tao. I... I need you to prepare to organise a funeral."

"For who?"

"... Lucius."

Hu Tao's jaw drops slightly before she closes her mouth. Lucius! Lucius Malfoy? How can he be dead? Well, Hu Tao knows death can be a sudden and abrupt thing at times, but to have it happen to Narcissa... She sobers up. "Of course." A pause. "Hold on—prepare?"

Narcissa's fists clench in her lap. "Lucius is currently in St. Mungo's," she says, bitterly. "It's highly unlikely that he'll ever wake up again, according to the Healers. It would be kinder to send him off than to let him rot in a bed, prisoner to his own body."

"Narcissa..." Hu Tao looks at her sadly. "What happened?"

Her sneer is so subtle but so vicious. "He was attacked. They say he mouthed off to a guard—" here, she looks toward where the Ministry representatives are sitting, and Hu Tao suddenly feels less kindly about them "—who apparently felt threatened enough to smash his skull in."

"You must understand, Lady Malfoy," drones Downey. "That your husband was a convicted Death Eater. Never forget that."

"How could I?" Narcissa snaps. "Nobody will ever let me forget that."

"For good reason," Benevolence says in her clipped tone.

"So?" Downey and Benevolence stare at Hu Tao when she speaks up. "He was still her husband."

"Miss Tao, you don't seem to understand—"

"I understand quite enough, Auror Downey," Hu Tao says in a tone she rarely uses. "I buried those bodies, you know. Victims of the war. Death Eaters and Muggle-borns alike. I know very well the consequences of the war, as a resident of the wizarding world and as a person with no magic."

A shocked silence reigns over the parlour room before Downey recovers first. "You—You're a squib?"

"Yes," Hu Tao lies. "There's barely a drop of magic in me at all."

"Then you should—"

Hu Tao flaps her hand at him exasperatedly, as if he is nothing but an inconsequential insect. "Aiya, don't you ever get tired of telling other people what they should or should not understand, say, feel, or do? I'm starting to think you're a control freak, Auror Downey."

Narcissa doesn't bother to hide her smile. "Indeed," she drawls. "One does wonder." Then she frowns again. "At the end of the day, my husband, who was wandless with his hands cuffed, was the victim of an act of unjustified violence by someone who had power over him in every conceivable way. I am not a fool. I know the Ministry will never take my side should I make a case of it. But let me make it very clear right now, Auror Downey, Madam Benevolence—My husband did not deserve this."

Another silence follows.

Benevolence takes a sip of her tea for lack of anything to say.

"I'll contact you another time, Hu Tao," Narcissa says eventually. "Thank you for coming today."

"I'm always happy to see you, Narcissa. And I am terribly sorry about Lucius."

Downey escorts her out of the Manor, though Madam Benevolence stays behind as she needs to prod Narcissa with questions related to her sentiments toward Muggles and Muggle-borns (as part of her house arrest order).

"He did deserve it."

Hu Tao stops walking and looks up at Downey.

"He did," Downey says. "And you won't convince me otherwise. He did terrible things under Voldemort. The guard who did him in is a hero."

"That's because you knew Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater," Hu Tao says matter-of-factly. "While Narcissa knew Lucius Malfoy, the husband and father and the man she loved. That's where the difference in opinion lies. I've seen it before, you know—people who grieve their partners despite the bad deeds they did. To them, it doesn't matter. Even when the whole world's turned against him, she will always be on his side." She digs around in her pocket. "Ah. Here it is."

Downey looks cautiously at the paper in her hand. "What is it...?"

"A coupon." She gives it to him, beaming. "I hope you put it to good use. Oh, and one more thing. That guard? He's not a hero. He's an opportunistic coward." Whistling the Hilichurl Song in her typical macabre whimsy, she frolics down to the gates, Downey silently trailing after her.

"Dear Draco. You're so pretty, aren't you? Let me touch you..."

"He is pretty, isn't he?"

"So, so pretty..."

When the glass shattered, it was like water had suddenly filled his lungs. It'd taken all of his effort not to collapse there and then, under Professor Piccolo's hawk-like gaze. Once he's a far enough distance away from the Muggle Studies classroom, he takes a deep, filling breath, leaning against the sturdy wall. Shit, Draco thinks, wildly. What if he finds out? What if he knows? But then he thinks: Calm down. There's no way Piccolo knows, because the only ones that know are all dead by now. He made sure of it. It was the first time he ever cast the Killing Curse.

It's not the worst he's ever reacted to those little sounds and actions that people often do. He's getting better, he knows he is. He has to be. Today is just a setback of sorts.

Nobody knows.

But then Draco thinks of Zacharias Smith and his strange remark last night, and a pit forms in his stomach. Smith is just messing with him because he's a fucking asshole, he tells himself, although uncertainty wavers in his chest. His next class is Transfiguration with one of the new teachers, though he doesn't know her name. She's already at the front of the room when he arrives, the last one in and not early but not quite late either, and sits with Pansy and Blaise near the back, both of whom murmur quiet greetings.

By the time he gets his books out, she's already started, leaning against her desk as she calls their names. It's the first time he gets a good look at her face, and he falters in opening his Transfiguration textbook. She's middle-aged, probably around the same age as his parents, but also familiar in a way he cannot explain.

"You may call me Professor Leong," she begins. Her voice isn't particularly loud, but it still carries through the room, firm. "I will be your Transfiguration teacher for this year. You are all adults in the eyes of the wizarding world," here, she sounds a little sarcastic, but Draco barely registers it, still trying to wrack his brains on where he's seen her before, "so I expect you all to behave as such. There'll be no fooling around in my class." She checks her wristwatch—silver and modern and sleek. "We've wasted enough time. Let's get started. Everyone, flip your textbooks to page six."

Leong gets Lily Moon, a Korean Gryffindor girl that Draco has never spoken to in his life, to read a few paragraphs on Human Transfiguration. There's an entire page dedicated to outlining the dangers of this branch of Transfiguration, as well as a brief list of known instances where a witch or wizard had transformed themselves into an inanimate object and found themselves stuck without intervention by a third party. Draco imagines turning the men who flayed open his body for their own pleasure into brittle glasses and hurling them against a wall.

"Very good," Leong says curtly after Moon finishes the last paragraph. "We will be working up to Human Transfiguration this year. It's an extremely difficult and dangerous sub-category of Transfiguration that requires control and precision. Not all of you will do wonderfully on it, but I intend on doing my damnedest to make sure you all get at least an Acceptable in your NEWTs. For now, we will start with Toad to Toadstool to refresh your magical memory." She moves her wand around in a pattern, and wordlessly summons one well-behaved toad in front of each student. Draco stares down at his warty amphibian woodenly.

She goes through the wand movements and the incantations, and it's admittedly harder than any Transfiguration spell Draco's attempted before. Not that he spent much of his sixth year brushing up on Transfiguration in the first place, and there'd been a severe lack of academia in the school when the Carrows were running it. The other students seem to be as much out of their depth as him, though. Both Granger and Patil—the Ravenclaw one—have to ask Leong to repeat the wand movements and the words and neither are successful on their first attempt, much to their palpable frustration.

"Eugh." Pansy makes a noise when Blaise's toad starts sprouting mini toadstools across its back.

"Don't 'eugh' me, Panse," Blaise scoffs, "It's better than what you can do."

"Oh yeah?" Pansy waves her wand, wincing when her toad's legs turn into mushroom stems. "Oh, don't say a word, Blaise."

"Hey, wasn't going to," says Blaise, but the smirk on his face says otherwise.

Draco shakes his head, then attempts it for himself. The toad does turn into a mushroom, albeit a very warty one. Blaise and Pansy clap with a touch of mocking sarcasm. "Oh, sod off, you two." At least his is more mushroom-like than toad-like.

Leong makes her way to their desk after praising Granger for getting her Transfiguration right after only one failed attempt. Draco's toadstool is still too warty, but Pansy's toad's head is now a red mushroom cap and Blaise's mushroom is nearly perfect except for two beady toad eyes peeking out from the cap. "Mm," Leong says, "Not bad. Show me what you're doing, one at a time."

Pansy goes first, repeating the incantation and movement. "Your flick is too sharp," Leong tells her. "Try round it out a bit more. Now you, Zabini." With her help, Blaise ends up with a perfect toadstool.

Finally, it's Draco's turn. He repeats what he did languidly, and Leong smiles slightly at him. "Good," she says, turning his toadstool back into a toad. "Now do that again."

He does, and—this time—it's a toadstool without warts.

"You were almost there," she says. "Good job, you three."

She leaves without fanfare, going to check on Potter, who's done an unfortunate job at butchering his attempts while Granger helplessly watches him do so. "I like her," Pansy declares. "She's not—well. You know."

Biased? A prick? An asshole? Draco knows what she means. She treats them like they're just her students, and not Slytherins who were on the wrong side of the war. Blaise and Pansy's families never denounced Voldemort, though they never openly supported him either. But being Slytherins and from old pureblood families, their silence is compliance as far as most people are concerned.

As Blaise and Pansy talk, Draco feels someone's gaze boring into the side of his head. Wearily, he turns to see Michael Corner and Wayne Hopkins openly glowering at him. He doesn't even remember them being friends before the war, but it seems they've bonded over their shared hatred of him. He looks away. No point in starting trouble with those pricks, though he doesn't doubt they'll probably try start something with him.

Then Pansy palms at her face, anxiously. "My skin feels hot," she says, twitching. "What on earth—" She shrieks when painful, leaking boils appear all over her face, victim of a silently—or quietly—cast Furnunculus Curse. Blaise shouts for Leong's attention, and Pansy is sobbing into her arms when the curse stops manifesting more boils on her skin. She looks horrid and Draco doesn't doubt she's in terrible agony.

"Zabini, escort Parkinson to the Hospital Wing," Leong orders.

As Zabini and Parkinson abscond, leaving Draco by himself, Leong looks around the room. "Who did that?" she asks, calmly.

Nobody says a word.

Draco's jaw sets as he scans the room, looking for some guilty faces. A few look smug—Smith, Corner, Hopkins, Lisa Turpin, Parvati Patil—while others seem confused or concerned. His gaze lands on Potter, whose green eyes are bewildered behind his spectacles, as if he can't believe what he just saw. Then Potter catches him staring and frowns, and Draco quickly looks away. Probably not Potter. He's too noble and self-righteous for that level of pettiness.

"Right." Leong remains unperturbed. "Everyone, head down to the front of the room and line up. Now."

They don't dare disobey. Leong has a presence similar to Piccolo's. Though she's not as gruff or scary as him, there's a steely edge to her that people don't want to tempt. The eighth years form an awkward and messy line in front of Professor Leong, who is peering at them severely. "Corner, you're up first. Hold out your wand. Prior Incantato."

"Professor, what's happening?" Parvati asks worriedly, fiddling with the long scarf around her neck. It looks like something Trelawney would wear.

"What does it look like, Patil?" Leong answers, flatly. "I'm checking your wands. Each and every one of you."

That gets them going. A murmur breaks out, as well as a few protests, but Leong silences them with a glare. "Blame the coward who didn't come forward," she snaps. "Assaulting a classmate and wasting everyone's time. If I had things my way, I'd have them hanging from the ceiling by their toes."

"Blimey," Draco hears Justin Finch-Fletchley mutter to Sue Li. "She's mad."

But Li is smirking. "She's efficient. I think I'm going to like her."

Leong's checking Smith's wand when the perpetrator finally steps forward. "It was me." Padma Patil walks up to the teacher with cool confidence that doesn't betray an ounce of guilt or remorse. "I hexed Parkinson's ugly pug face." She crosses her arms. "Is that a problem?"

"It is, actually." Leong looks her in the eye. "Because you're lying."

Padma blinks. "I'm not—You can even check my wand—"

"You are. You don't sound like someone who just cast a curse on a classmate. Offering up your wand so eagerly? No, you didn't do it." She's looking at Parvati, who's looking rather ashen in the face. "Come here, Parvati."

Meekly, Parvati does.

"Tell me the truth. Did you hex Pansy Parkinson?"

Padma steps forward. "Parvati, you don't need to—"

"Yes." Parvati lifts her chin defiantly, though she's trembling. "I did. And I'm not ashamed of it. She had it coming you know. She's been a massive bitch for years, she tried to give up Potter to Voldemort, and—" her voice cracks "—it's because of people like her that Lavender's dead."

"Did Miss Parkinson personally lift her wand up and cast the Killing Curse on Lavender?"

"What? N-no, but—"

"Did she tell Lavender's murderer to kill her?"

"Ugh, no, but—"

"Was she in a position to intervene but chose not to for whatever reason?"

"No! You're not listening to me—!"

"Then she is not to blame. You have wasted my time, your classmates' time, and assaulted a fellow student for no good reason. You have allowed your emotions to take a hold over you, resulting in this frankly disgusting display of hubris."

Parvati's in tears at this point, Padma holding her and glowering at Professor Leong, but nobody else says a word. A good portion of them look outraged, but everyone's wise enough to know that nothing good will come of arguing with her.

"Get back to your seats," Leong commands, and Draco swears he feels the temperature dropping several degrees. "Except for you, Parvati. Get out of my classroom."

Sniffling, Parvati exits, but Padma goes after her, throwing one last dirty look at Leong.

"Still think she's cool?" Finch-Fletchley says quietly to Li, the two of them sitting a row down from Draco.

"Whatever," Li says. "She could've been a bit nicer about it, but she was right."

"Seriously? I think even Professor Piccolo's better than her."

"What do you have against Professor Piccolo, Justin?"

Just when everything's calmed down, Headmistress McGonagall appears. At first, Draco thinks Parvati's gone and told on Professor Leong, but ice forms in his veins when McGonagall says, shortly, "Mr Malfoy, I need you to come with me to my office."

"What's he done now?" someone in Finch-Fletchley and Li's row says, but Draco doesn't catch who. He just packs his things and heads down to where McGonagall is waiting for him by the door.

"What is it?" he says tiredly. "Headmistress," he tacks on as an afterthought when he sees her cocked eyebrow.

"I'm afraid it's not good news, Mr Malfoy."

His mother is unable to leave the house, or else he's sure she'd be the one in McGonagall's office and not Auror Downey of all people. When he hears from the surly man that his father's been attacked and will probably never wake up again, announced in his unaffected professional tone, all Draco can think is: Oh.

Chapter Text

September 11, 1998

LUCIUS MALFOY REMAINS IN COMA

by Rita Skeeter

After a shocking attack at Azkaban last Friday, Lucius Malfoy remains bedridden in St. Mungo's with no sign that he will ever wake up. The attack occurred when Lord Malfoy verbally harassed Azkaban's Head of Security Liam Kelpis, who retaliated in an act of self-defence. Amidst talks of Mr. Kelpis being awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class, this reporter has been seeking the other side of the story. However, both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy declined to comment on the situation, though word in the pureblood circles states Lady Malfoy has been seeking the expertise of an infamous funeral director. We asked Wangsheng Funeral Parlour's eccentric Director, Hu Tao, known friend of the now disgraced Lady Malfoy and expert on all things grim and deathly, for comment, but she merely handed this reporter an expired coupon...

"Harry, we need to talk."

It hasn't even been a week since the newly minted Professor Leong reduced Parvati into tears and sent her out of her classroom, making her the most unpopular teacher in the history of Hogwarts. The eighth year students are widely regarded as war veterans and heroes—minus a few certain members of their cohort—and the news of Leong's 'unfair and derogatory treatment' of Parvati has spread like wildfire throughout the school. Neville and Hermione have quite a few unkind things to say about her, though they both are of the opinion that Parvati shouldn't have hexed Parkinson in the first place. Personally, Harry agrees with them. It was wrong of Parvati to attack Parkinson like that, but Leong was unnecessarily cruel about the whole thing. The hubbub of the school term is already a flurry of happenings, and it's only the second week. It's why Harry feels like a complete idiot when Ginny corners him near the Quidditch locker rooms one day. He's just finished an early morning flying session, and his stomach is growling earnestly for breakfast.

Ginny looks a bit dishevelled, as if she's thrown her uniform on haphazardly. The forenoon is chilly in September, but Ginny doesn't seem too affected by the temperature.

"Hey, Gin," Harry offers halfheartedly. "It's... It's been a while."

"Mm. It's too early in the morning for this shite, but this might be one of the few chances I have at catching you unoccupied." She sighs. "Harry, what are we?"

"We're..." The question gives Harry pause. Because, truly—What are they? Sure, they dated for a little while, and in the heat of the battle, he remembers thinking he fell in love with her as she cursed Death Eaters and Snatchers left and right with her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex as well as other, deadlier spells. But now everything's settled down, and...

"Why don't we go for a fly?" Ginny suggests, sensing his inner turmoil.

"Yeah," Harry says, lamely. "Sounds good."

Ginny grabs her broom from the shed and joins Harry up in the air again. They make lazy circles around the Quidditch pitch a few times before Ginny slows to a stop beside Harry. "That cleared my head a little," she says, offering a smile. "Well?"

Harry's cheeks are ruddy as he considers it. "I'm not sure," he says, eventually. "But I think I know one thing—It's not the same as before."

"No," she affirms, "It isn't."

Their relationship was forged by fire. Was tested in the heat of battle. And it still stands strong, but it's not the same. Harry thinks of what Robards told him, about the Head Auror's suggestion that he see a mind-healer, and then the ultimatum he was given—return to Hogwarts and get his head together here or see that bloody mind-healer. "Ginny," he says, honestly. "I don't think I can be the boyfriend you want."

"I didn't think so either," admits Ginny. "But—We'll still be friends, right?"

Harry grins. "Always."

"Oh, Harry, come here. I've missed you."

Their brooms clack as she reaches for him for a mid-air hug. It's a mess of limbs and laughter, but it's them, and Harry is so terribly relieved. Ginny will always mean so much to him—just not as a partner.

"Breakfast?" Ginny says as they land.

"Let me shower first," Harry answers. "I'll meet you in the Hall?"

When he emerges from the Quidditch locker room, the sun is almost fully up.

This time, instead of the Eighth Year Table, Harry sits with Ginny at the empty Gryffindor one. They're early, and most of the students and some of the professors are missing from from the hall. There's only one other Gryffindor on the other end of the table, reading a thick book about magical creatures. If Harry remembers correctly, her last name is Squid, though her first name escapes him.

They start eating as other students slowly trickle in. When the Great Hall is considerably filled up, Harry realises something. "Where's Luna?" The two are usually attached at the hip, and Luna's an early riser.

"Off to observe an experiment the seventh year Ravenclaws are conducting with the food," Ginny says easily as she butters her toast. "I think Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein in your year are involved in it, too."

"Experiment?"

"Yep. Something to do with enchanting the crumpets and watching how they socialise with one another after being sorted into Hogwarts Houses, I believe." She shrugs, either oblivious to Harry's befuddled stare or utterly indifferent. "They're all mad, you know, those 'Claws."

"That doesn't sound like it'll end well," Harry says.

"Definitely not," she agrees. "I, for one, cannot wait to see how this can possibly backfire."

"Why are they even doing this?"

"Because they're 'Claws, Harry, keep up. Also, I suspect they may be trying to make some sort of statement about inter-House hostility."

There's the sound of a muffled explosion from the kitchens. Harry fumbles his scrambled eggs, sharing a glance with Ginny. The buzz of conversation in the Great Hall falls flat for a moment before resuming uncertainly; the professors are exchanging deeply concerned looks with one another, but none of them seem particularly inclined to do anything. It's far too early for nonsense—they haven't even had their morning coffee yet.

The doors open, and a line of soot-covered Ravenclaws shamefully shuffle to their table in various states of disarray.

"What happened?" Ginny demands when Luna departs from her housemates to slide into her usual spot at the Gryffindor table next to Ginny.

"The crumpets got aggressive," Luna says, serenely. "Toby Frontbum's fault, really. That poor boy is suffering from a severe case of butterfingers as well as the Bugle Bug."

"Nice going, Frontbum!" Harry hears somebody from the Ravenclaw yell at a miserable looking teenager with an unfortunate pageboy haircut.

Luna smiles at him. "Good morning, Harry."

"Morning, Luna." Harry smiles back, still more than a touch bemused. He scoops up his eggs again and eats heartily, feeling like a weight has lifted off his shoulders. A fly and a good, open talk with Ginny has done wonders for him.

Professor Leong strides into the Hall, then, Justin and Sue trailing after her for some reason. Sue looks terribly triumphant about something, while Justin just looks tired. Leong looks vaguely annoyed by their presence, and sends them away with one sharp word. As soon as she's gone, Sue says something snippy to Justin and Justin snaps back with a remark that makes Sue's lip curl. A spitting argument almost breaks out, but Neville's timely arrival stops them. He's carrying Amy the mushroom in his hands, and Harry can't help but feel slightly alarmed that the mushroom is now the size and girth of his fist; the feeling is shortly justified when the mushroom opens its mouth—the maw located on the stem between the cap and the veil—and tries to bite a chunk out of Justin's arm.

"Sorry," he can hear Neville apologise profusely to a horrified Sue and Justin, "She's very feisty!"

Really should've just gone with the mind-healer, Harry thinks, not for the first time. He's suddenly very glad that he does not share a dorm with Neville, because while he's most certainly fond of Neville, he definitely does not want that thing anywhere near his prone, sleeping body. Imagine getting up in the middle of the night for a piss and getting a toe or two nibbled off. And oh, that reminds him— "Be right back." He stands up. "Left something up in the dorms."

Ginny and Luna let him go without any fuss, and he says a good morning to Hermione when he passes her in the corridor, his best friend looking a bit frazzled. He thinks of Professor Leong and Sue and Justin as he climbs the tower to the eighth year common room and dorms. Do I know her from somewhere? Maybe Harry's just imagining things, but he swears that he's met Leong somewhere before. Somewhere that definitely wasn't Hogwarts or Diagon Alley or any magical place he knows... He opens the door to his dorm room without announcing his presence, freezing when he sees Malfoy—shirtless—sitting on the edge of his bed with remnants of dittany smeared on his fingers, the length of his back glistening with the salve.

They lock eyes and neither of them speak, stunned by each others' appearance.

Harry's gaze trails down to the Dark Mark visible on Malfoy's forearm.

Then Malfoy's grey eyes go so cold and distant that Harry thinks he feels an Arctic wind blow through the room. He throws his shirt on hastily, doing up the buttons with deft fingers. They're slender, Harry notices. Perfect for catching a Snitch, or playing piano. "Well, don't just stand there, Potter," Draco says, irritably.

"I forgot something," Harry mumbles, heading over to his trunk and grabbing out his book bag. He stuffs it with the books he needs for today's classes. He tries to be quick, but his resolve goes astray when he thinks to himself: Were those scars on Malfoy's back? They look like curse scars of some sort. Like the horrible one Hermione has on her arm, one that they pretend does not exist on most days. Ones that ache when it's cold out or when it's raining. It's both today. Temperatures more appropriate for winter outside along with a light drizzle. Do Malfoy's scars hurt, too? He hesitates, looking up from his packing. "Malfoy—"

"What?" the blond snaps. He's fully dressed now, and the clothes make all the difference, turning him back into points and edges. Looking like the sharp-tongued prat he's always known him to be.

Harry scowls, remembering just who he's talking to. "Just—ugh, never mind. It's nothing." So what if Malfoy has scars? So do a lot of people. Nobody escaped unscathed from the war. Harry doesn't care if Malfoy has scars. Harry doesn't care about Malfoy at all.

He can feel Malfoy's sneer boring holes in the back of his head as he exits with his book bag in a huff. Malfoy always winds him up one way or another—his good mood from this morning has crashed down disastrously around him thanks to the git.

Hopefully, DADA will be interesting.

Thank Merlin Potter didn't go all saviour with a bleeding heart on him. Draco thinks he might have throttled the pillock if he had. That bespectacled busybody is the last person Draco wants pitying him. Still, it doesn't change the fact that he saw, which increases the chance of that he knows, and it disquiets Draco immensely. Calm down, he tries to tell himself, this is Potter. Potter with the emotional intelligence and observational skills of a troll.

He knows Potter saw—those over-sized spectacles of his have to be good for something, after all—but he has no right to ask. No right to know. Even someone as dense as Potter understands that.

Draco's doing up his tie when the dormitory door opens again, and Zacharias Smith appears at the doorway. He looks surprised to see Draco, then amused. "Well, well," he says, as if there's something very funny about this situation. "Potter did look like he was in a terribly foul mood. I guess now I know why."

"Oh, sod off, Smith," Draco snaps, trying to get around the taller boy, but Smith moves to hinder his way. He hates that knowing glint in Smith's gaze—the way he looks at Draco as if he's privy to all of his darkest secrets. Still, he keeps his chin high, unwilling to bend to a fucking Hufflepuff of all things. "This isn't even your dorm."

"You're not so tough anymore, are you, Malfoy?" Smith peers down at him, and—ugh—it feels like he's undressing him with his eyes. "I've seen it all, you know."

"Don't be a fucking pervert, you poncy bastard." Draco's expression twists in disgust. "I almost feel sorry for the 'Puffs who had to share a dorm with you."

"Know what a Memory Harvest is?"

"No," he says curtly. "Nor do I care to. Now kindly fuck off." Draco shoves Smith aside, yanking the door open and stepping out. Memory Harvest? What the fuck is he talking about?

"Malfoy," Smith calls after him, cruelly, "Daddy can't protect you anymore."

Draco ignores him even as his blood boils furiously, storming out of the common room. He doesn't even see a confused Terry Boot at the kitchenette, experimenting something with his copious amounts of strawberry milk. His nails are digging into the bed of his palm, his knuckles going white. Breakfast is wrapping up, and he grabs a slice of butter and jam slathered toast from the Great Hall before making his way to DADA.

He nearly gags on his toast when somebody slams into him so hard that he actually falls down, books and parchment tumbling out of his bag. "Oops." Draco hears voices snicker above him.

Oh, fucking—The last people he wants to deal with today after this clusterfuck of a morning with Potter and Smith are Michael Corner and his stupid posse of Wayne Hopkins and Lisa Turpin. Honestly, it's like the stars have aligned to punish him with their presences today.

"Corner," Draco says, tautly, as he stands and shoves of all his things back into his bag. "Hopkins. Turpin."

"You have a lot of nerve," Corner says, disdain clear on his face. "Sauntering in these halls like you still belong here. At least have some decency and scamper along the walls like the rat you are."

He makes a great show of patting down the front of his uniform, unbothered. "Are you done yet?"

Apparently not.

Hopkins smiles imperiously at him. Both boys are taller than Draco. "Are you going to fuck off and die in a ditch?"

"Not until Tuesday, at least," Draco drawls. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Hopkins, it doesn't suit you. Be a good little 'Puff and don't embarrass yourself."

"You have no right to talk," Corner says, coldly. "At the end of the day, we fought for what's right. You'll never be anything but a filthy coward and dirty fucking Death Eater, Malfoy. Don't you ever forget that. Ever."

God, he knows this better than anyone.

"Death Eater this, Death Eater that. Don't you have anything original to say? Or perhaps I shouldn't expect much from someone who only parrots the obvious from his arsehole."

"Original!" Corner spits, shoving him again. "There's nothing fucking original to say about you, you evil fucking bastard. My family died in the war. Because of people like you! You sided with Voldemort. You wanted to kill us all!"

"I—" Draco grits his teeth. "Kill you all? Don't be absurd. As if you're even worth killing."

"Oh, right. I forgot—kill all the Muggles and Muggle-borns, but I guess the rest are fine if they know their place—"

"Ahem."

Corner jerks away.

"You're in the way again," Sue Li says, rolling her eyes. Abbott, Brocklehurst, and Finch-Fletchley are standing behind her and it occurs to Draco that they are all friends. He's never paid attention to them before, so this is all rather new to him. "Seriously, Michael, do you make it a habit to loiter in busy areas?"

"Twenty Galleons!" Brocklehurst, who was busy sliding the beads on her abacus back and forth, glances up, almost manically. "On the Gryffindor crumpets."

Gryffindor crumpets? Draco stares.

Finch-Fletchley, who is apparently running some betting pool from what Draco can infer, nods and scribbles it down on a sheet of twinkling parchment, evidently enchanted. "That makes sense," he says. "They are the most aggressive so far. And the most popular vote."

Brocklehurst looks aghast. "Pop-ular?!"

Corner scowls deeply at Li, though Hopkins looks uncertain thanks to the frown Abbott is giving him. "Careful, Sue, keep this up and people'll start thinking you're Death Eater sympathiser."

"It's not about Death Eaters or non-Death Eaters," says Li, utterly bored by Corner's righteous outrage. "It's about what annoys me and what doesn't. Maybe this wouldn't keep happening if you just had a little more consideration for the foot traffic. Put me down as twenty on Hufflepuff, by the way, Justin."

Justin's quill flies across the parchment.

"Now," Li says, palming the doorknob, "I believe we go to school to learn."

"Oh," Abbott says when they open the door to DADA. "Oh, wow."

Even Corner, who usually has something to say about everything, is open-mouthed in shock. The classroom had been transformed overnight to a colourful environment resembling a coral reef in the bottom of an ocean. There are no tables, merely plush clams and oysters to lounge on; kelp reaches for the rippling ceiling, swaying in the air like the room is actually filled with water. Schools of fish swim across the walls, flashing silver and rainbow that isn't too harsh on the eyes when the sunlight from the windows hits them right. The floor is—the floor is sand. But it's not grainy or loose, instead packed tightly together. Near-transparent jellyfish float around the classroom; one of them phases through Abbott, and though she gasps at the sensation, it must not be a painful or terrible feeling.

Suddenly, Draco feels like an eleven-year-old boy again, experiencing the wonders of Hogwarts for the first time. Casting mending charms and Lumos and Wingardium Leviosa rather than the Unforgiveable Curses. Exploring vast, never-ending corridors instead of hiding away in a room and tinkering with a Vanishing Cabinet. A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows it down, stepping inside and taking a seat on a giant oyster beanbag. Its pearl is actually a very soft pillow charmed to look like a pearl.

"This is amazing!" exclaims Finch-Fletchley.

"It truly is..." Li trails off, looking almost sad about something.

Maybe, despite their differences, they're feeling just as he is right now. Trapped knee-deep in their own childish amazement, and devastated by a happiness that only exists in the past tense.

Corner, Hopkins, Turpin, Li, Abbott, and Brocklehurst go to sit down, the beads on Brocklehurst's mathematical instrument rattling, but Finch-Fletchley remains standing awkwardly by Draco. Never in his life did Draco think that Finch-Fletchley would willingly speak to him, but it seems anything is possible, because the boy turns to him and says, "She wasn't like this before, you know. Then she read a book of secrets and now she wants to take over the world. Sue, that is."

"Take over the world?" echoes Draco, because being the ruler of an empire is exactly the sort of gauche thing the Dark Lord sought.

"You can hear her laughing evilly in the bathroom sometimes." Finch-Fletchley shrugs, helpless. "Somehow, I don't doubt she'll succeed."

"And this is not at all worrying to you?" Even the Dark Lord was a mere schoolboy once.

"It's Sue. I trust her. She's sensible."

"Sensible."

"There's a method to her madness."

It's a—well, it's a strange turn of events. But the natural order of things restores itself quickly, and Finch-Fletchley rejoins Li and her friends, leaving Draco alone once again. At least until Pansy and Blaise arrive, and, fuck, he's glad to see some friendly faces for the first time this morning.

"All right now, Panse?" Draco asks as they sit on the clam beside him with Pansy in-between them almost protectively, noticing that Pansy's face is once again smooth and unblemished. "I heard that you had to stay in the hospital wing for a while." The amount of hatred behind that curse had been particularly nasty.

"Quite. Never let it be said that Madam Pomfrey isn't good at her job." Pansy's eyes darken. "So—I heard one of the Patils was responsible for that horror show?"

"If you're going to get revenge," Blaise says casually, flipping through his textbook to the correct chapter for this lesson, "You're going to need to exercise some caution."

"Revenge!" Pansy scrunches up her nose, tucking one long strand of hair behind her ear. "No, not revenge. Not now. No matter how careful I am, they'll all know it was me. If not me, then you or Draco. Even if someone else decides to hex her full of pimples, the blame will fall to us."

It's a sobering thought. As Slytherins, they are used to being first suspects, but now—after everything—they've gone from first suspects to only suspects. Flitwick—who is substituting for DADA until McGonagall finds a new teacher for it—isn't here yet, nor are the rest of the eighth year students, so Blaise inquires, gingerly, "How's your father?"

Ah.

He's been hoping to avoid this topic, though he finds it to be an impossible wish. Everyone knows by now what happened to Lucius—he spoke out of turn and was bashed across the head by a prison guard who was now hailed as a misunderstood hero for 'doing the dirty Death Eater in' by the general public. When Draco found out from Downey what had happened, he'd sat in his room the whole day and stared at the canopy of his warded bed.

"I haven't seen him yet," Draco says truthfully.

"Do you want to?" Blaise asks the million-dollar question.

"I don't know."

They leave it at that; their classmates are filing in, stopping short at the door like clockwork to gaze in wonder at the new appearance of their classroom. Granger looks particularly wind-blown today; her hair comes in five seconds before she does. Potter doesn't look as angry as he was when he left the dorm, though the annoyance returns quickly when he sees Draco sitting near the front.

"Our new professor," Pansy says suddenly. "They did this, didn't they?"

"Probably," answers Blaise. "An ocean fan, it seems. It reminds me of my childhood bedroom, actually."

The last student to arrive is Terry Boot, sipping on a carton of strawberry milk. He says hello to Potter, Granger, and Longbottom—who are, of course, all seated together on a sea cucumber couch—before plopping down comfortably next to Anthony Goldstein, who has his reading glasses perched on his nose as he browses a magazine about the intricacies of baking bread of all things. Draco is starting to think the 'Claws are either completely mad, absolute bores, or somehow both at once. In Goldstein's defence, though, he's always reminded Draco of somebody's grandfather. It's like the boy just skipped childhood, adolescence, the majority of adulthood and went straight to being a poster model for a geriatric centre.

Just moments after Boot sits down, the most bizarre man Draco has ever had the pleasure of seeing waddles in. He's obviously of the likes of Lupin or Firenze upon closer inspection—some kind of magical creature. He doesn't have legs, the lower half of his cyan body curling upward and ending in a spiral. His upper half is where he's most man-like. Draco thinks he's an underwater centaur of some sort. His ugly argyle sweater reminds him of what Goldstein wears on weekends, and he's balding in the middle of his blue head.

"Is that a seahorse?" Draco hears Potter whisper to Granger and Longbottom, the latter tickling the cap of his weird magical potted mushroom.

"Good morning, class!" His giant belly jiggles with the flourish of his wand. It's protruding unnaturally from the rest of his body; not even Slughorn's belly is this round. It seems even seahorse-men can have issues with alcoholism. "My name is Emmett Pragg, but you will refer to me as Professor Pragg!" Some bubbles emerge from the tip of his wand, and 'Professor Emmett 'Em' Pragg' is spelled in the air with said bubbles before they dissipate into nothing.

"Is that a seahorse?" Harry blurts out before he realises, though he manages to keep his voice just above a whisper. He's certain Malfoy heard from the slight turn of his head, but that doesn't matter.

Hermione opens her mouth to respond, but the new teacher's voice booms.

"Good morning class! My name is Emmett Pragg, but you will refer to me as Professor Pragg!" In an impressive—but frivolous—display of wand-work, he spells out his name in bubbles for the class to see. His accent is distinctly American. He takes the roll with lightning speed, not even bothering to look up for some of the names.

Lily Moon, a sleepy-looking Korean girl who Harry's only spoken to to ask her to pass the salt during dinner, raises her hand. "Professor Pragg, if I may—What exactly are you?"

"Ah!" Pragg beams, nowhere near as sensitive as Piccolo about his heritage. "Excellent question, Miss...?"

"Moon, sir."

"Miss Moon! Yes, you see, I am half seahorse and half man..."

It doesn't take long for Harry to realise that Pragg loves the sound of his own voice. Hermione, having learned from Gilderoy Lockhart, looks mildly horrified as Pragg fills them in on the details of his extensive and oddly incestuous family tree. Family wreath, really. At least his classroom is nice. Harry has long learned to count his blessings. About fifteen minutes into the lesson, Pragg is still waxing poetic about seahorse mating habits ("Thirty-seven percent of seahorse sexual encounters are same-sex acts!") when Hermione politely reminds him that they're actually supposed to be covering Nogtails today.

"Right, right." Pragg chuckles. "Got a bit too ahead of myself. Right, well, wands out! There will be no theory in my class—you can put your textbooks away."

No theory! Harry smiles. Perhaps Pragg isn't so bad, after all. While he's always taken to DADA like a fish to water, slogging through supplementary reading has never been fun for him. Not in the way Hermione finds it fun, at least.

Pragg summons a box about the same height as Dudley, and about just as wide. "Nogtail, was it?" he mutters to himself before opening the top of the box and reaching into it. The class watches, fascinated, as Pragg pulls out a squealing baby Nogtail. "Behold, the Nogtail!"

"Is this safe?" Ernie asks, looking faint. "I mean—it is a demon, Professor."

"It's only a baby!" Pragg reassures. "They're really quite docile at this age. Come around, everyone, give it a pet." He pulls on its tail, but rather than squealing, it snuggles into the crook of his arm, its legs folded on his bulging belly.

Reluctantly, everyone stands from their cushions and couches and ottomans and beanbags to tentatively touch the Nogtail, which blinks up at them with black, shiny eyes. "Aww," coos Hannah. "It's so adorable."

"It looks like a normal pig at first glance," notes Susan.

"That's how they get you, Miss Bones," Pragg lectures, "Sneak into pigsties and suckle on regular sows. A farmer that doesn't know what to look out for would never be able to tell the difference."

The petting is going well until Neville, Harry, and Hermione approach it. Neville is carrying Amy with him, as usual, having replaced Trevor (who now lives in a proper terrarium in the dorms) with it. Amy hisses at the Nogtail and the Nogtail hisses back, sitting up in Pragg's arms.

"Whoa, there, Ames!" Neville takes a step back. "Easy, girl."

Amy wriggles in its pot, agitated.

Pragg looks apologetic. "Perhaps its best if you leave your mushroom by your seat, Mr Longbottom."

"Yeah, good idea, Professor."

Zabini, Parkinson, and Malfoy are the last to come down and see the Nogtail piglet, Malfoy's bag strap still stretched diagonally across his person. Neville brushes past them, and nothing comes of it. But then—

"Nice arse, punk!"

Harry chokes on a guffaw.

Malfoy whips around so quickly his book bag nearly slaps Parkinson in the face, staring in thinly veiled disgust at Longbottom, who is looking incredibly flustered. "That wasn't me!" Neville denies, red-faced. He looks at his potted mushroom haplessly. "Amy! Don't say such inappropriate things to people!"

"Longbottom," Malfoy sounds strained, "What the bloody hell are you nattering on about? You really expect me to believe that it was your mushroom that—?"

"I didn't know Amy could talk, Neville," says Hermione, examining the plant curiously. "I've never seen anything like her in our Herbology textbooks."

"I didn't think she could talk either," confesses a very excited Neville, startling when Amy snaps and snarls at Malfoy. "And—Come on, Ames, I raised you better than that! No bitey-bitey or you'll make Daddy very upset!"

Blaise chortles. "Daddy."

"Fascinating!" Pragg cries. "Truly fascinating, Mr Longbottom."

"Yes, that's all well and good," Malfoy says impatiently, pulling away from Neville's snapping, sexually-harassing fungus. "But I'd appreciate it if your pet plant would refrain from making further remarks about my arse."

"Oh, it is very nice, though," Parkinson says, batting her eyes innocently before covering her snicker with one hand. She turns those big eyes of hers to Neville. "Say, how did you grow one of those, anyway, Longbottom? It's very... girth-y."

Malfoy groans, pinching his nose.

It's unfortunate, Harry thinks, because Parkinson's right and Malfoy really does have a nice arse—

"Harry?" Hermione is alarmed when Harry goes dead-eyed, staring blankly at the wall.

"Nothing," Harry grouses, "Just—nothing."

It's not too late to go to that mind-healer, but Harry has pride, goddammit. So what if Malfoy's arse is nice? Even a blind man can see that. It's what the arse is attached to that Harry takes issue with. Don't forget this morning, he chides himself. Even Malfoy is giving him a look, actually. Harry doesn't have it in him to scowl like he usually does, not after unwanted stray thoughts about Malfoy's arse.

The rest of class passes uneventfully, and Harry is helping Pragg put the Nogtail back into his box when the bell rings.

"Harry, my boy," Pragg says after thanking him, "I must say, I'm a big fan. For, well, you know. Thanks to you, my kids will be able to grow up safe." He rubs his belly lovingly.

"Yes," Harry replies automatically, more than used to people thanking him for using a third-year disarming spell to kill Voldemort, "I'm glad they'll—Wait, what? Your—?"

But Pragg is already sending Harry off to his next class, nudging him out of the door. "Run along now, Mr Potter! Don't want to be late, do you?"

"Er, no, but what did you—"

The door slams in his face.

The Ministry grants Draco and Narcissa approval for weekly visits to Lucius. An Auror has to be present with them at all times; when Draco hears of this, he rages silently in spite of his own feelings toward his father, fingers twitching by his sides as he thinks—What nefarious deeds could a bedridden, unconscious vegetable of a man possibly plot? His fury dies down when he arrives at St. Mungo's from Headmistress McGonagall's Floo and is greeted by the sight of Auror Downey and his mother in the lobby. His stomach lurches when he sees them together—Narcissa is thinner than he remembers. Has she not been eating well? Is it the stress of suddenly losing his father getting to her? Auror Downey doesn't look sympathetic at all, and Draco doesn't expect him to be.

"This way," Downey says.

Lucius Malfoy is being kept in a private ward, isolated from the other patients as a convicted Death Eater. They stop outside a grey, nondescript door, Draco's trepidation an icy rock in the pit of his stomach as the three of them hesitate in front of the door. Then Downey unlocks it with his wand, allowing Narcissa inside. At least he's a gentleman if nothing else. Draco wishes he could despise him, but he has since lost that right.

"Not going in?" Downey says to him when he remains rooted outside.

"I..." Draco swallows. "Just give me a moment."

"I'll leave the door unlocked."

When Downey disappears, Draco exhales and slumps against the wall. All his life, his father has been an imposing figure in the background. Distant, but never cruel—never once did Lucius raise a hand to him, though his words could be cutting at times. He isn't sure if he can handle seeing his father in such a state—the image of his bloodless, gaunt corpse etched into the back of his eyelids. His mind, usually so neatly organised through the power of Occlumency, runs frantically in wild and random directions, irrational rationalisations such as the healers must be starving him swimming to the forefront of his thoughts.

This is the man who taught him how to hate.

This is the man who taught him how to love.

A part of Draco can never forgive him for offering him to the Dark Lord.

A part of Draco can never forgive himself for not fighting harder. For telling himself that yes, it's all worth it and thinking that serving the Dark Lord would be the greatest honour for the Malfoy family. Even when things got worse—when Bellatrix tortured Muggles for her own pleasure, cackling as they writhed; when Potter, Weasley, and Granger were thrown onto the floor of his drawing room and all Draco could do was feign ignorance to save his own skin because even then he knew Potter's side needed to win this war; when Granger was branded with a scar that would haunt her for the rest of her life; when he laid awake in his bed and silently pleaded whatever higher power was up there to compel his father to take their family and flee Britain and never return—Draco clung onto the weak justifications that what the Dark Lord stood for, what he stood for by proxy, would ultimately mean something. That it wasn't evil at its most base and primitive form.

The war is over now. But people will always remember where he stood, and what he stood for, and—somehow—Draco wouldn't have it any other way.

"Pretty, pretty boy..."

"Death Eaters don't get to cry."

Footfall reaches his ears, and he turns.

Hu Tao is holding a bouquet of flowers, one of her staff members, the Ferrylady, by her side. "Hello, Draco," she says, warmly. One of the florets droops out of place, to which the Ferrylady grimaces, apparently taking umbrage with the underwhelming performance of the periwinkle petals. "It's good to see you again!" She sounds like she means it, and—instinctively—Draco nearly calls her out on her farce (which isn't actually a farce); Hu Tao has never deigned to subscribe to the inanities of conventional politeness outside of professional situations, preferring to march to her own nonsensical tune.

"Director," he starts, but Hu Tao shakes her head.

"Just Hu Tao, if you please!" She gives him an expectant look. "Have you seen your father yet?"

"Not yet. I was... about to."

"Let's go in together, then."

He can't argue with that—or maybe doesn't want to—so Draco allows Hu Tao to push the door open and guide him and Ferrylady inside. Hu Tao's Undertaker is solemn and doesn't say a word—so still and quiet that a stupider man—like Weasley—would mistake her for a statue—as they stop by his father's bedside. Lucius, in St. Mungo hospital robes, lays supine in the bed, pale and gaunt, eyes closed. Draco's throat bobs. His father looks like he's sleeping after a long day at work. He remembers being six, demanding his father's attention, only to find him slumped on the desk in his study, exhausted from hearing all sorts of vile (rightly deserved) things from others after the disappearance of the Dark Lord and restoring their family name. He remembers his mother holding his hand and leading him away, explaining gently that his father was tired and needed his rest.

Narcissa's hand is intertwined with one of Lucius', rubbing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. Perhaps she would cry into his chest if she didn't have an audience. Auror Downey is standing in the corner, alert as ever.

"Hi, Narcissa," Hu Tao says kindly, after putting the flowers in an empty vase.

Narcissa nods. "Thank you for coming, Hu Tao. I am afraid I am not in a state to discuss business today, however."

"I wouldn't expect you to. I came here to support your family, nothing more. You're my friend, Narcissa."

Their conversation fades into the backdrop as Draco stands over his father's prone form, one hand gripping the rail of his bed tightly. His hair—usually immaculately styled and gelled—falls over his face. Hello, Father.

Even if Hu Tao, the Ferrylady, and his mother aren't here, Auror Downey would be, and he feels stupid just thinking about talking to what is essentially the living corpse of Lucius Malfoy. He says nothing aloud, his regard for his father going unspoken as it always seems to be nowadays. His heart twists into knots in his chest as he thinks about all the questions he wants to ask him—questions that he will now never know the answer to.

Questions like: What were you thinking? Did you truly believe in the Dark Lord's cause? If Mother and I had protested, would you have allowed us to leave that life of servitude? Why did you do this? Did you hate them more than you loved us?

Draco brings a hand to his face, steadying his breath.

It's over now.

Everything's over.

Draco will never know the answers—may spend the rest of his life wondering what they are—but the world is moving on around him. Only in this empty, impersonal room does time seem to come to a standstill.

Visits are limited to one hour. As soon as the hour ends, Downey announces it and ushers them out, though he does have the courtesy to allow Narcissa a final goodbye kiss on Lucius' bloodless cheek.

The following weeks will be busy, Draco thinks absently as they leave the room, Hu Tao and her Undertaker saying their farewells. Lots of paperwork to be done. He knows Narcissa has been considering putting Lucius out of his misery sometime soon; once his father is dead and truly gone, he will be the Head of the family. Lord Malfoy. He'd always known he would one day become him, but never this soon. Never, never this soon.

Narcissa pulls him into a hug before he Floos back to Hogwarts. He melts into her embrace, holding her and burying his face into the crook of her neck. She's tall, but he's even taller now, the curtains of his teenage years drawing shut—he has to stoop. It's undignified but he can't bring himself to care.

"Your father loved you, Draco," Narcissa says, quietly, as they part.

I know. "If he loved me so much, then why did he—?" He breaks off, anguish rising in his chest and threatening to choke him. "He was a Death Eater," he says, in the end, feeling strangely pathetic for using the same argument against him that everyone does. "He made his choices." And so did I. "And look where that got him. Got us."

"Draco—"

"Father threw our family to the wolves." Draco turns away. "I'll never forgive him for that, nor will I ever forget it."

"I would never ask that of you. Your father was a man of many flaws. Still, I want you to know that—even at his lowest—he never stopped loving you, or caring about you."

Draco has not cried in a long time. He doesn't think he's cried since those men snatched whatever was left of his innocence from him, using his body for their own pleasure and delighting in his pain. After they left, he stood—aching and broken—and a cold sort of numbness settled upon him. He did not cry when his father was sent to Azkaban, or when people spat on him in the street, or when he was accosted in Knockturn Alley by equally sick men he managed to disarm before they went too far. He'd come close when Hu Tao fed him and clothed him and showed him kindness he did not deserve, but he did not cry. He draws in a sharp breath, a foreign stinging building up behind his eyes. "Goodbye, Mother," he says in a clipped tone, stepping into the Floo, "I'll see you another time."

Chapter Text

Piccolo wakes up in a foul mood. It's nobody's fault really; everybody has their off days, even former Demon Kings. Especially former Demon Kings. He sleeps upright in a meditative position several inches above the carpeted floor of his quarters, but his sleeping posture is in no way indicative of any sort of inner peace he might be nursing in his heart. Sometimes, he wishes he wasn't in this godforsaken world—wishes he's back with his family, back with Gohan, but he's already looked. Already experimented. There's no way back.

Piccolo is a long way from home.

He's not alone in this. Hu Tao and her Undertakers fell through the universe, too. Some days, he thinks sharing the burden of being an alien in a mundane society is what keeps him sane. What kept him sane even in his original world. Saving the world is a thankless job, after all, when there's no one around to see it.

Namekians don't need any sustenance besides water to survive, but Piccolo's always had a taste for meat. One couldn't know Son Goku for decades and not be cajoled into trying a piece of roasted triceratops thigh at least once. He rarely makes appearances at the Great Hall when he doesn't need to—preferring to have his food delivered to him in his quarters via the ever useful house-elves of the castle—but it's been a while, and some fresh air might do him some good. Professor Sprout—Pomona, as she insists he address her as—is always trying him to join the staff table during breakfasts and dinners. He's sure she'll be delighted to see him there. At least one of them should be smiling on this miserable Monday morning.

September and October passed in a great blur; today is the day before Halloween, and a muscle in Piccolo's cheek twitches when he sees the garish spider, pumpkin, and cobweb decorations in the corridors.

Nobody wishes him a good morning or an early happy Halloween as he walks down the halls; most of the students are scared shitless of him on a good day, and he knows he's scowling hard enough right now to give Vegeta a run for his money.

"—Death Eater spawn...!"

Piccolo stops, turning his head. The few students awake this early keep walking around him, giving him a wide berth. His ears are more sensitive than others'. It doesn't seem like anybody else heard that; if they did, they're not inclined to stop what must be a bullying situation. There's not much else it can be. His bad mood gets even worse as he rounds the corner and sees a group of Gryffindor boys—perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age—cornering a tearful Slytherin first year in an empty corridor. Their wands are drawn, and the little girl they're terrorising is without one. Piccolo notices one of the boys is holding a second wand and deduces that they must've disarmed her or snatched it from her with pure force.

"Nobody wants you here," the boy at the front of the little group jeers, prodding her roughly in the chest with the tip of his wand. He must be the leader. "Why don't you slither back where you came from, you dirty little—"

"Dude!" another boy hisses, grabbing his sleeve. He jerks his head to where Piccolo is standing, and he derives a vicious sort of pleasure in watching them all cow and try to play innocent.

"Professor," the lead bully babbles. "I was just—"

"Intimidating a first year for something she cannot change or control?" Piccolo deadpans.

The boys exchange vaguely guilty looks.

"But Professor," the dull boy whines. "She's just a slimy snake—"

Every word this boy says grates on Piccolo's nerves. He understands that these castle children aren't built as tough as Gohan, Trunks, and Goten are, but he wants so terribly to chuck him at a mountain and see how he likes it. Instead, he does the next best thing. He narrows his eyes, allowing killing intent to seep into the air. The boy stops talking and everybody freezes. "Go on," Piccolo says, his voice like splintering ice. "What were you about to say?"

His murderous rage is suffocating.

Nobody dares say a word.

Piccolo scoffs. "Pathetic. Ganging up on a weaker opponent... Gohan has more integrity than all of you chivalrous brats put together."

"Gohan?" someone squeaks out.

"Silence. You are not worthy of speaking his name." The boys gasp when Piccolo grabs the leader by the head and lifts him off the ground.

He screams like a little girl. "Let me go! Let me go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Gohan used to cry like this," muses Piccolo. "When he was four. And then I threw him at a mountain, and he learned to stop crying in front of me. Perhaps it's time for you to become acquainted with a mountain as well. They're very firm. Unyielding. Unlike your spine. Alas..." Piccolo puts him down, almost gently. The boy weeps in relief, openly bawling as his friends look on, horrified. The Slytherin girl is mute, peering up at Piccolo with wide eyes. "I will have to settle for removing house points."

The bullies sag in relief.

"Nine thousand and one points to Gryffindor."

There's the sound of something exploding in the adjacent corridor, followed by screaming.

"The Gryffindor hourglass just blew itself up!" Piccolo hears a girl shriek.

"Nine thousand one points from Gryffindor. And another nine thousand and one for good measure. Get out of here, you cowardly punks." Piccolo smiles icily, teeth on full display. "I cannot wait until the rest of your house finds out about how you lost them over nine thousand points."

The boys waste no time scrambling off, pale and shaking. The one who had the girl's wand drops it on the floor. Piccolo glances down at the girl. "You okay, kid?"

The Slytherin girl picks her wand up off the floor. "Fine," she says, quietly. "Thank you, Professor."

"Keep your head up," Piccolo orders, and she finally looks up at him again. She's not as broken as he feared. He still remembers the way Gohan's eyes looked the months following his father's sacrifice. Children are surprisingly resilient. "They won't be bothering you again."

"Is it really true?" she asks. "Did you really throw Gohan at a mountain?"

Piccolo quirks a brow. She balks.

"Right, well," the girl chatters on, "Thanks again, I guess. I know you're a teacher and it's your job, but you're the first person that's..."

He frowns. "This happens often?"

"Here and there." She shrugs, disturbingly nonplussed. "We're Slytherins, after all."

"I don't care if you're the Ginyu Force reincarnated," Piccolo snaps, "You're eleven. Fool of them to blame you for the sins of your fathers."

"And mothers. There were lady Death Eaters, too, you know."

Cheeky brat. "You know what I mean."

The girl wipes away the last of her tears, smiling up at him mischievously. "I'll see you around, Professor." She tucks her wand into her sleeve and scuttles off.

"Guys," Neville says, looking at the scattered ruby gems in front of him. "I think somebody's exploded the Gryffindor hourglass." He, Hermione, and Harry are standing in the corridor leading down to the Great Hall, a few other students crowding around the mysterious mess. Neville's plant snaps at innocent bystanders, and he has to pull the mushroom close to his chest.

This is not what Harry was expecting to see on this fine morning. Well, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but it certainly isn't standing knee-deep in a puddle of rubies. Who would want to blow up the Gryffindor hourglass, anyway?

"Astute observation, Longbottom."

Malfoy's voice draws Harry's attention away from the rubies. His green gaze meets Malfoy's grey one, but he can't see any hostility in his eyes. Just a wariness. He's gotten thinner, somehow. Too thin. It's easier to notice in the light, when they're not in the dimly lit dorms. About halfway through October, he stopped styling his hair in that poncy way of is, letting it fall naturally over his eyes partially. He's with Parkinson and Zabini, as usual. The latter looks greatly amused by the sight.

"Malfoy," Harry greets, an unspoken warning in his tone.

"Potter," Malfoy replies, evenly.

Hermione picks up a ruby, scrutinising it. "It looks like it exploded because it was suddenly overfilled." How she determined that so quickly is beyond Harry.

"Can't be any more than three hundred around here, though," says Neville, thoughtfully.

They look to Malfoy and his friends, as if they would know anything about it.

"Don't look at us," Parkinson says, rolling her eyes. "We just got here."

"We weren't accusing you," Hermione begins, only to be cut off by Malfoy.

"Save it, Granger. We all know what you—" here, he looks at Harry and Neville, too "—think about us."

"You've never given us reason to think any differently," Harry points out, curtly.

Malfoy glares at him. "I have no reason to prove myself to you, Saint Potter."

"Oh? So you're just too good for us, is that it, Malfoy?" Harry nearly groans when Michael Corner, Wayne Hopkins, and Lisa Turpin swagger up to them, tiny pieces of ruby crackling beneath their shoes. They've been seizing every opportunity to rile up Malfoy ever since the term started. To Malfoy's credit, he mostly just ignores them or snaps back devastatingly on occasion. But even Harry's sort of sick of them by now. He remembers Michael as being a member of Dumbledore's Army, so he can't be that bad—certainly not as bad as Malfoy—but by Merlin is he tiresome.

"Please," Zabini groans, rubbing his temple, "It's fucking Monday. Circe, have mercy."

"Don't you look well, Parkinson," Lisa goads, smirking at the black-haired girl. She tosses her blond locks over one shoulder. "I think your face could be improved with a few pimples, though. I remember Professor Leong's first class quite thoroughly—it compliments your nose!"

"Get your head out of your arse, Turpin," Parkinson sneers back, "At least my face can be improved; can't say the same about your shite personality."

"You should watch your back, Parkinson. Some of us girls don't forget so easily. You're not so high and mighty anymore, now, are you?"

"Hullo, everyone!" Terry Boot practically skips toward them, the carton of strawberry milk in one hand responsible for his good mood. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen Terry drink water before, or anything else besides flavoured milk. "Lovely morning we're having—Sizzling salamanders, the Gryffindor hourglass has been eviscerated!"

Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson take advantage of the distraction to depart from Michael and company's poisonous influence, entering the Great Hall. Michael glowers at Terry, who just blinks in confusion.

"Let it go," Harry says, tiredly. "It's just Malfoy, Michael. He's not worth it." Malfoy, who wakes up early to shower and deal with his cursed wounds so the others don't see. Harry only knows because he's a light sleeper from his days squatting in a tent during the Horcrux Hunt. He wishes he could sleep through the rustle of bed sheets and the barely audible winces. It's strange, but he's starting to have more respect for Malfoy than for Michael, who's been acting like a right prat.

Michael grunts.

"Will anyone tell me what's going on?" Terry asks, only to be ignored.

"So," Hermione says as she, Harry and Neville sit down at the Gryffindor table rather than the Eighth Year one. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"What?" Harry is puzzled.

"Malfoy," she clarifies, "You stood up for him."

"No, I didn't." Harry's brow lowers. "Why would I ever stand up for Malfoy?"

"You did," she presses, "In your own way. You didn't even realise, did you?"

What—realise that he's started preferring Malfoy to Michael because Malfoy at least has the decency not to run his mouth anymore? Huh. Harry pauses in buttering his toast, disquieted.

"What's this about Malfoy?" Ginny immediately pounces, swiftly leaving her conversation with Romilda Vane to join them.

"Harry's defending Malfoy," Neville sums up.

Harry grimaces. "That is not at all what happened! Again—why would I? Malfoy's been a right git to me for years."

Hermione thumbs her lip. "I have a few theories, but I'm not sure if you'd like to hear them, Harry."

"Well, you're right." Harry stabs his fork through some hash browns. "I won't, because I didn't defend Malfoy. In fact, I'm more interested in why someone's just up and decided to blow up an hourglass."

She gives him one of her we'll-talk-about-this-later looks but reluctantly acquiesces to changing the subject. "I'm wondering that as well."

"I know why," Ginny says, grinning. "Apparently, Piccolo did it."

"Piccolo?" Hermione, Harry, and Neville parrot, with only Hermione tacking on 'Professor' at the front of his name.

"Why would Piccolo destroy it?" Neville looks baffled. While he's distracted, Amy gobbles up his waffle, swallowing it whole in a frankly horrifying display.

"Word on the grapevine is that a few third year Gryffindors were bullying a first year Slytherin. Obviously, Piccolo took issue with that—as he should—and took away so many house points that the hourglass just blew up."

"But that's impossible!" Hermione protests. "There's no minimum amount of gems that surpassing would cause the hourglass to just—well, explode. In fact, I would think that it would implode if that were the case."

Ginny shrugs her shoulders. "Hey, I'm just the messenger. More tea, Harry?"

Harry holds out his cup. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Gin."

"Still," Hermione is saying, "This is concerning. A first year being bullied by upper years? For what? Being sorted into the 'evil wizard' house?" Her voice is dripping with caustic sarcasm. "This is exactly the sort of thing that perpetuates an 'us versus them' mentality and isolates an entire demographic of wizards and witches from society with how far-reaching House influence goes..."

Harry and Neville eat their breakfast and drink their tea, wisely allowing Hermione to finish her rant. He does think about Hermione's words, however—she has a point. Malfoy and his gang might have been awful to put up with during their younger years, but not every Slytherin is evil or even mean. Daphne Greengrass had never caused them issues, and Theodore Nott had been decent enough to lend him a quill when they were partnered together for a project in DADA in third year. Neither of them returned for this year, but the point still stands. Slytherin... is just a house. There are good and bad people in every house. How simple it really is.

Maybe it's because he's fought so many battles, but house rivalries feel so juvenile to him now. What fault could those Gryffindors have found in a bloody first year aside from the one they assigned her for being a Slytherin?

Harry's eyes drift over to where Malfoy is talking with Zabini and Parkinson. The rest of their classmates are sitting far away from them, which is nothing new. Michael is glowering at Malfoy, which is also nothing new. So is Zacharias Smith, actually, though it feels different from Michael. The glint in Smith's eyes make Harry's skin crawl. He's never liked Smith. He looks away before Malfoy or any of the others can catch him staring, finding himself staring at Piccolo instead.

The green man—Harry still hasn't figured out what he is; though he knows Hermione discourages them from asking him point blank, he also knows she's been poring over textbooks to try and find out herself—is conversing politely with Sprout. The Head of Hufflepuff looks very happy to have him join them, and it occurs to Harry that this is the first time he's seen Piccolo in the Great Hall since the Sorting. Makes sense—Harry's always pegged their Head of Year to be an introverted type. A bit like Snape, actually, though even Snape showed up for breakfast and dinner most days.

A few seats down from Piccolo is Professor Leong. They've had several classes since her dressing down of Parvati, but the distance between her and the eighth year class has only grown. Her familiarity haunts Harry still, but he's in no hurry to unveil her identity, whoever she may be to him. She doesn't seem like she has any ulterior motive, even if she is a bit... stern. It's actually quite hilarious watching the jolly Professor Pragg engage her in conversation, undeterred by her brusque replies.

"All right, Potter?"

Harry tears his gaze away from the High Table to see Conor Callahan slide into the seat next to him. He's a broad-shouldered young man and Keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Ginny's ranted about him before—about what a right prat he can be. Callahan is grinning crookedly at him, as if expects banter from him. Harry's not quite sure why—he's only spoken to Callahan once or twice before.

"Yeah," Harry says. "I'm good, thanks."

"Professor Leong, eh?" Callahan nods in approval. "She's my mum's age, but she's easy on the eyes, isn't she?"

Harry supposes she is, but that's not why he was looking at her. "Sure. Whatever you say."

Hermione is giving Callahan one of her looks—the same look she used to give McLaggen whenever he got within a metre of her—but she says nothing, instead chewing her toast rather aggressively. Neville reaches for a crumpet, but Hermione slaps his hand away. Right. Harry'd almost forgotten the crumpets are now a hazard. He watches haplessly as his own crumpet—untouched on his plate—spontaneously grows legs and the symbol of Slytherin appears in its centre. A few of the other crumpets get up—Gryffindors, mostly—and start attacking the lone Slytherin crumpet.

"Tough luck on the dorms situation," Callahan is still talking, oblivious of the crumpets' war and Hermione's looks, "Heard you got stuck with Malfoy."

"How'd that get out?"

"Michael's a friend." Callahan's lip curls. "Fucking Death Eater poof. The only good Death Eater's a dead one."

"We'll get them all," Harry says, slowly. "The Aurors are working double time to catch the escaped ones."

"Ought to make a report then. There's one living in these castle walls. How'd they miss that one?"

"Malfoy had a trial, Callahan." Hermione breaks her silence with a sharp reprimand. "He's here as part of his probation."

"Yeah, yeah." Callahan waves a hand at her and Harry feels the temperature drop. "But we all know he deserved to go to Azkaban like his old man. At least someone finally had the decency to do his father in."

"Really?" Harry says, steel entering his voice. "Personally, I think it was cowardly."

The chatter ceases.

Callahan mutters something under his breath and excuses himself.

"Dick." Ginny glares daggers at his retreating back. "I think I would've thrown one of these ruddy crumpets at him if he said another word."

When Harry looks down at the table again to eat his eggs, he sees the Slytherin crumpet's been torn to pieces by the rest.

Hu Tao's always wanted to come to Hogsmeade. She did pass through the village a few times when she was doing funeral rites for the fallen after the Battle of Hogwarts, but she's never been able to enjoy the sights. She Floos through the public fireplace in the Hog's Head and skips to the bar counter.

"Can I help you?" the bartender gruffs.

"One Butterbeer please!" Hu Tao orders with a beatific smile. She's become quite fond of Butterbeers—if she ever gets to return to Liyue, she'll be sure to share the recipe with Xiangling.

"Hn." The bartender, Aberforth Dumbledore, turns his back and prepares to whip up a drink.

Meanwhile, Hu Tao takes in her surroundings. It's a shady place, that's for sure, with mysterious hooded figures sitting all by their lonesome at every corner table. But she finds comfort in the on-the-nose secrecy. Her Butterbeer arrives just as Piccolo does, wearing his human disguise, Shen. Hu Tao can tell it's him by the way he scowls. "Yo, Piccolo! It's been a while, eh? How's the teacher life?"

"About as awful as I expected," Piccolo snorts. "Gohan was a special case. I'm not built to teach snotty brats."

"There, there." Hu Tao pats him on the back. "How's Draco?"

"He's..." Piccolo contemplates his next words. "Quiet. Keeps his head down. His classmates don't like him and I can't blame them for that. I suspect he might be experiencing harassment, but I don't have proof. These kids are sneaky and not even I can be everywhere at once." He taps his fingers on the counter. "His diary entries are interesting."

"Diary entries?" Piccolo explains to her the assignment he's given his class. "Ah. What's in them?"

"Most of them don't put in any real effort," Piccolo sounds disgusted, "Since I don't judge by length. They think they can write a half-assed paragraph and get away with it. But Malfoy... I think it'd be easier if I just showed you." He snaps his fingers, and a sheet of parchment poofs into existence. Piccolo's Namekian magic is a fascinating thing to witness; Hu Tao never tires of it. "Here."

Hu Tao takes it from him, beginning to read. Draco has excellent penmanship; he must've been writing with a quill his whole life. She thinks he would be a dab hand at calligraphy if he tried it.

The parchment reads:

Dear diary,

Today, my parents took me to the airport to see me off. It's my final year at school, so it's the last time they'll be able to do it. Mother and Father both hug me, even though other people are watching. I ride the plane every year, flying the short distance over to Scotland to attend boarding school. The airport is confusing and it's easy to get lost in, but I've long gotten used to it. Sometimes, I wonder if I can just walk into another terminal and board a different plane. I'm not sure where to—to anywhere, perhaps. I wouldn't mind. The right plane could take me to France, or America, or Australia. I could go anywhere I wanted.

But if I go, I'm not sure if I'll ever come home. I like to think I couldn't bear to leave Mother or Father behind. And maybe it's true, partly. If I stay, I'll never go. If I go, I'll never come back. Perhaps I am being dramatic. Yes, maybe I would come back. Because we live ordinary lives, and Mother and Father have ordinary jobs and ordinary friends. We're safe here, and I am loved, and my friends and I intend on pursuing our tertiary education at Oxford or Cambridge. Vince and Greg will be taking apprenticeships under tradesmen, however. They've never been keen on studying. Pansy wants to become a writer for The Guardian and Blaise wants to learn more about other countries and foster good relations with them on behalf of the Prime Minister. Theo will take over his father's business once he learns the ropes.

Isn't this, then, a life worth living?

I'm not sure why I ever wanted to leave at all.

"The topics for that week were Muggle transport and Muggle schooling," Piccolo says when Hu Tao finishes reading it. "It's one of his shorter entries, but it stuck to me. It was the only one where I gave him less than an 'O' for not detailing the subjects further, but it was so... personal." He closes his eyes. "An ordinary life—It was what Gohan wanted so terribly for so long."

There is beauty to be found in the mundane. She often told Xiao this, back then. She wonders if he ever misses her. She likes to think he does. "Gohan. He was your ward, right?"

"Of sorts."

"Did he ever get what he wanted? An ordinary life?"

"Ordinary? Certainly not. But he fought hard to live his life in peace, and he did get there in the end."

"Draco's still fighting," Hu Tao observes.

"Yes," agrees Piccolo. "He is. They all are."

"Hmm... Well, enough about Draco." Hu Tao kicks her legs languidly, gripping the sides of the stool. "Anything interesting set to happen this Halloween?"

"Apparently, there's to be a Halloween Dance." Piccolo rolls his eyes so hard that Hu Tao half-expects them to fall out. "Gohan never attended these dances," he adds, petulantly. "There was no such thing at his school."

"Not a fan of dances, mighty Demon King?" Hu Tao teases.

"From what I can tell, it's going to be a night of wrangling drunk and horny teenagers." He shakes his head. "Humans. That's not even the worst part. There's a compulsory theme. And it's werewolves and vampires."

Hu Tao laughs so hard she almost falls out of her chair. "Werewolves and vampires! You?!"

"It's not too late to blow up the planet," Piccolo says, darkly.

"Oh, but you wouldn't do that, would you? I think you care about these kids, Piccolo."

Piccolo gives her a withering look. "I'm only here to protect your precious Malfoy from being traumatised beyond recovery."

"And you're doing a fine job. I think something big would've happened by now without you."

"Hmph."

"Aiya, just take the compliment. Besides, if you hate the theme that much, I'm sure the Headmistress will relent."

Piccolo's lips pucker like he's just sucked a lemon. "Yeah, about that. There was an... incident, and McGonagall's not too happy with me." At Hu Tao's expecting gaze, he sighs and says, "I may or may not have picked a kid up by the head and threatened to throw him at a mountain this morning." A beat. "Also, I accidentally exploded the Gryffindor house points hourglass and they're currently sitting in the negatives. Two students are also in the hospital wing getting the glass plucked out of them."

This time, Hu Tao does fall off her seat, shrieking with laughter all the way down.

"There's a theme?" Draco's eyebrow twitches when Pansy reveals the information to him. They're seated on a stone bench in the Middle Courtyard, Pansy chattering away about tomorrow night's Halloween Dance to him. There was a time where he couldn't stand her voice—talking of mundane and silly things as she clung onto his arm—but he finds himself grateful for it now. It fills the silence. Pansy is content to talk even when he doesn't respond, an unspoken understanding of sorts between them. Blaise is usually with them, too, but he's holed up in the library today, finishing off one of Leong's hefty Transfiguration essays so he can fully enjoy himself on Halloween night.

"Yes, there's a theme, Draco!" Exasperated, Pansy puts one hand on her hip. "Where's your head been these days?"

"Contemplating my future, mostly," Draco says, tartly. "You know, soon to be Lord Malfoy at all."

To her credit, Pansy takes his caustic words in stride. "All right, all right. You were brooding. Got it. The theme is werewolves and vampires, by the way."

"You're joking."

"Also, it's mandatory." Pansy smirks. "Oh, don't make that face, Drakey-poo. You already have the complexion of a vampire, all you need is the suit and the dramatic cape."

"Perhaps I'll stay in the dorms this year," Draco says gravely.

"No chance—McGonagall's on the prowl, doing her darndest to get everyone involved in the name of inter-House unity. Reckon there's a good chance she'll go spare if she finds out you of all people are skipping out."

Him of all people, right, because Draco actually means something to the students of Hogwarts and decent society. Blatantly snubbing a connection-building event will be an excellent start on the path of being a pariah for life. He sighs, crossing his arms. It could be worse. McGonagall could've been heartless enough to make it a Potter cosplay event.

A circle of second years sitting on the lawn scatters when Filch hobbles up to them, the elderly Mrs Norris padding after him. "Oohgloo inspection!" he's barking, waving his cane around. He walks around with a hand-held aid now, having hurt his leg beyond total recovery during the Battle. Draco is of the opinion that he secretly likes it because it gives him the reach and an excuse to smack children around with it. "Stay right there and empty your pockets!"

The unfortunate fourth years who saw him coming too late open up their bags for Filch, loudly protesting that they are not in possession of any of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes contraband, the latest toy added to Filch's ever-growing list of banned items being the recently released Oohgloo.

"Buys all the seasonal catalogues," Blaise said to him last week. "To know what to ban next."

At least some things never change. There's a weird sort of comfort to be found in the sight of Filch harassing school children, determined in sniffing out any hint of wrongdoing. Even during his nightmarish seventh year, when the castle was run by the Carrows, Filch never changed, already demented enough to be wholly unmoved by the Carrows' own brand of sadism. In fact, Draco got quite the impression that Filch was rather insulted by the Crutacius Curse being thrown around the halls, finding them unoriginal and an affront to the art of torture.

"I'm going as a vampire," Pansy is saying, blissfully oblivious to Filch's torment. "A lot classier than a slobbering werewolf, in my opinion. At least vampires are cognizant."

"Pansy," Draco says abruptly.

"Yes, Draco?"

Will it get easier? he almost asks, but doesn't. It's such a weak, timid question he cannot bear to voice aloud, not even to Pansy, who is one of his closest confidants. Deep down, he thinks he already knows the answer. Things do get easier, but not better—not for people like him. That's reserved for people like Potter and Granger and Longbottom and Weasley. Draco can't imagine a life ahead of him where he doesn't skulk through shadows with his tail between his legs, blacklisted from pureblood circles—from any circles, really—living and dying quietly.

He does not want to live a life like that.

But he doesn't think he has a choice.

"Nothing," he says in the end. "What's Blaise going as?"

Chapter Text

It's nearly pitch dark in the dorms when Draco stirs awake on Saturday morning, the cursed scars on his back and torso throbbing mercilessly. He throws off his covers and sits in the comfort of the blackness for a while, steadying his breathing. His gifts in Occlumency keep the worst of the nightmares away, but at the cost of a pounding headache when he awakes. He waits for the pain to dull, for his body to adjust, before sliding his legs off the mattress. His toes curl in the carpet; he allows his eyes to adjust in the darkness.

Quietly, he fetches a clean change of clothes and a fresh towel from his trunk. He's closing his trunk when he hears a barely audible whimper. Draco freezes before he turns his head toward the direction the sound came from. That's Potter's bed. He knows Potter usually casts silencing charms around his bed, along with a few wards—no doubt scarred by his experiences on the run—but he must've done a poor job of renewing them before he went to bed last night.

"No," Draco hears Potter mumble. "No... No... Don't hurt them... Please..."

It's really none of his business. Potter won't appreciate him sticking his nose where it doesn't belong—will probably hex Draco to pieces if he even tries to wake him up. Potter has his own demons to face, just as Draco has his. Still, Draco re-casts a silencing charm over his bed, and the whimpers cease. Corner and Hopkins are tossers in general—he's typically on the receiving end of their jibes, but it's best not to allow blood to keep floating in the water.

The crushing guilt makes itself known when he enters the boys' bathroom, squeezing his chest. He knows, on some level, he's at least partially responsible for Potter's suffering. Draco still remembers—vividly—the fateful day the Snatchers threw him, Weasley, and Granger into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, their faces swollen and bruised.

"Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

"I can't—I can't be sure."

Draco twists the taps, and the water pours over him; he wishes it would wash away the memories. He doesn't take long—Corner and Hopkins are early risers, and he doesn't want to risk running into them while naked and vulnerable. He towels off and is applying salve to his cursed wounds when the door opens, and Potter stumbles in, sobbing and rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. Draco, hidden behind a partition that divides the showering area from the sinks, presses himself to the tiled walls. In the mirror, Potter shudders and swears, hiding his face in his arms as he sinks down to his knees.

The Murtlap Essence starts drying on his fingers as he stands, listening to Potter's muffled cries. He heaves on the occasion, but is otherwise too quiet for a man experiencing some sort of attack or breakdown. Water drips from the ends of Draco's fair hair as he stands as still as a statue with his back to the partition. Fuck, what is he even supposed to do? He's not supposed to be hearing this. He's not supposed to ever be hearing this, or seeing this. Where are fucking Weasley and Granger when he needs them? Hell, even Longbottom or Boot would have more of a right to be privy to this scene than him. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Draco gingerly touches the Sectumsempra scar that reaches from the jut of his hip to his shoulder.

Eventually, Potter stands up, his figure rising in the mirror. He looks like hell. He twists the tap of one of the sinks, then takes off his glasses to splash his face with water. Draco finishes tending to his wounds and buttons up his collared uniform shirt. He's adjusting his hold on his pyjamas and towel when he accidentally knocks over Boot's shampoo bottle, wincing when it clatters.

"Who's there?!" Potter whips out his wand, paranoia flaring to life.

"It's just me." Draco steps out reluctantly, grimacing. He flinches back when Potter takes an automatic step toward him. "Don't shoot, Potter."

"You..." Potter falters, his wand arm falling to the side. He looks torn. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough. I was here first, you know."

Potter doesn't contest that. He'd be an idiot to. No one came in after him. The awkward silence draws out for longer than Draco likes, and he makes a move to step around Potter when the man says, "Wait."

Despite his better judgement, Draco pauses.

"Don't... Please don't tell anyone."

Hah. Draco lets out a small snort that has Potter glaring. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have hesitated to jeer at Potter and then spread nasty rumours of him crying and wailing in the bathrooms like a first year girl riddled with homesickness. He doesn't blame Potter at all for thinking that, but it still stings. Knowing who he once was, and knowing that people will only ever see him as such. "Your secret's safe with me," he says, albeit more quietly than he intended. "Don't make a habit of it, yeah?"

"Sorry," Potter says bitingly, "I'll try keep it to myself next time. Or what would you have me do?"

"I don't know." Draco sneers at him. "You have friends, don't you?"

Not bothering waiting around for a response, he closes the door behind him, even though he knows better than anyone that there are just some things you can never bring yourself to tell your friends.

Prick.

Harry glowers at the door. His anger melts away almost instantly, though, replaced by a mixture of relief and—bemusement. Malfoy saw what he saw and he's just—going to keep it a secret? He passes a hand through his hair before reaching for his toothbrush at the sink—might as well get ready for the day while he's here.

War changes people.

Harry's seen it in the way Hermione rubs her arm on cold or rainy days. He's seen it in the way Luna tenses whenever someone approaches her blind spot, one of her eyes never quite the same after her stint in Malfoy Manor. He's seen it in the way Ron seasons a poison-detecting salt over his food every time they go out to eat, begging off occasionally to take a peak at the kitchens.

And Malfoy...

He flinched.

Malfoy flinched.

It's hard not to notice, because Harry used to flinch like that when Uncle Vernon was in one of his moods and roaring obscenities at him for being a freak. Did he think I was going to hurt him? It's a troubling thought. He doesn't want Malfoy to be afraid of him. It's rather ironic to think, Harry knows—having Malfoy be too afraid of him to say or do anything against him had been one of his fleeting childhood wishes, when all he wanted was for Malfoy to bugger off and leave him be. But it makes his gut clench now—Fear was the methodology of the Dark Lord.

What has the war done to Malfoy?

The sun is just beginning to rise when Harry puts on his uniform for the day. Michael and Wayne are making coffee at the kitchenette and talking to Anthony about something. They say good morning when they see Harry come out of the dorms.

"Is Terry still sleeping?" Michael asks.

"Like a pig," quips Harry.

"Typical."

"Pigs sleep an average of eight hours a day," Anthony says. "Just for the record."

"Blimey, did you hear that, guys? Terry's worse than a pig."

Wayne asks, "Seen Malfoy anywhere, Harry?"

Harry shakes his head. "No," he lies easily, making a cup of coffee for himself.

"Pity. The coward's been getting up early. Can't face us."

"Can you blame him?" Harry counters, feeling mildly guilty about what he says next. "After what he's done, it's a miracle he can even show his face around here."

Michael and Wayne laugh. Anthony doesn't join them—merely fixes Harry with an unreadable stare while bobbing his tea bag in his mug. The boys—well, Michael and Wayne—banter a little more at Malfoy's expense, and Harry's saved from having to join in their impromptu bashing session when Terry stumbles into the common room, still in his pyjamas. Not a morning bird in the slightest, Terry mumbles a dreary greeting to them before snatching Michael's cup from his hand, downing the lukewarm coffee, and shuffling back to the dorm, where the bathroom is. Then he doubles back to grab a bag of feed for Mr Snicks, his pet hamster, from under the sink, drinks Wayne's coffee, too, and heads back up again.

"I think I'll go out for a fly," Harry excuses himself, "Weather's perfect for it."

"I should get ready," Anthony adds. "It's the first Hogsmeade Weekend today and I need to grab some supplies from Scrivenshaft's."

The corridors leading to the Eighth Year dorms are empty, which is nothing unexpected. Students tend to sleep in on Saturdays. Harry debates whether or not to head to Gryffindor Tower and invite Ginny out for a fly, too, but his train of thought is completely derailed when he hears his name being called.

"Psst, Potter!"

Harry turns a full circle before he sees it. Or, rather, him: The disembodied head of this year's Head Boy peering around a handwoven tapestry of Mabel the Mollified training her crups to bite male strangers in the balls. His name escapes him; he's a blond, slightly round-faced Hufflepuff boy who Harry has only ever seen in between classes or at mealtimes. Brandon, he thinks. Or is it Brent? Braxton? Brayden?

"Psst," the Head Boy hisses, beckoning at Harry. "Over here!" He looks terribly hassled. Harry looks left and right before approaching the tapestry. "Boy, am I glad to see you."

"Can I help you?" Harry arches a brow.

"Potter, I think I'm going mad."

"Is that why you're hiding behind tapestries?"

"No, I—ugh, it's just that—I can't let him see me here." He cranes his neck, eyeing the empty corridor suspiciously as if he expects them to be jumped at any moment.

Harry, intrigued by his bizarre behaviour, says, "Let who see you here?"

The Head Boy looks up at him with wild desperation in his eyes. "Ernie!"

"... Macmillan?" Harry wonders what the Head Boy is so scared about. Ernie Macmillan's harmless as far as Harry's concerned. Sure, he's a bit pompous, but he's certainly no Michael Corner or Zacharias Smith or—heck—even Draco Malfoy from before the war. The worst Ernie's ever done in Harry's book was during second year when he helped Justin spread rumours about Harry being the Heir of Slytherin.

"Please, Potter," the Head Boy begs from behind the tapestry, "You have to stop him."

"Stop him from doing what?"

"From—Look out!" He pulls Harry into the hidden alcove behind the tapestry, bringing a finger to his lips. "Be very, very quiet..."

Equal parts alarmed, curious, and exasperated, Harry indulges the Head Boy, taking a sneak peek to see who has the Head Boy's Sneakoscope—because he's carrying one—spinning like mad. He doesn't know whether to be surprised or not when Ernie ambles down the halls, looking like he hasn't slept in a week and wriggling his fingers like an old pervert about to make a pass at Madam Rosmerta. Harry ogles the strange sight. Honestly, he hasn't been paying much attention to Ernie these days, too wrapped up with classes, Malfoy, and just... existing as himself, really. "The band, oh, yes, the band!" Ernie is muttering to himself as he passes the tapestry, none the wiser of his audience. "I'll make sure they'll play this evening even if it's the last thing I'll do! That'll show 'em; I was born for this, born for this... And, of course, the Frog Choir!" His voice trails off as he drifts further away, lost in his own ramblings. All right, then. Evidently, something drastic has happened in the time Harry last saw him—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and relatively sane on the first day of term—to, well, now.

"What's wrong with him, Br...?" Harry asks.

"It's Brian. Brian Chapman. And, well, it started off as pity at first," replies Brian, scratching the back of his neck. "Everyone in Hufflepuff knows how badly Ernie wanted to be Head Boy last year. But, then, well, you know—"

"Voldemort," Harry supplies.

"—yes, Voldemort and his poorly managed mid-life crisis. The castle was turned upside down and the student government was abolished. Anyway," Brian sighs, "It was very obvious that Ernie wanted to be part of the student government, and while we couldn't make him Head Boy, we invited him to meetings and all that. Made him feel included."

"And I'm guessing that didn't work out well?"

"Oh, it did work out. Just... too well, and not quite in the way we envisioned. He just—he has so many plans and events he wants to do and we just don't have the manpower or the budget to do most of them so he's running us ragged and bossing us around and—"

"Okay, I think I'm seeing what's going on here. Brian, mate, you need to draw some boundaries." Playing mediator to the Head Boy of Hogwarts at seven in the morning is the last thing he expected to be doing today, but the world works in strange and mysterious ways. In any case, it's a good distraction from the nightmares and Malfoy's assessing eyes—the grey gaze he can't seem to get out of his head. "Stop letting Ernie push you around. You're the Head Boy, not him."

"I wish it were that easy," Brian says, miserably. "I tried putting my foot down but... He's a monster, Harry. A monster!"

Harry's first thought is how anyone could possibly look at Ernie and think him dangerous. But then he remembers what he just saw—Ernie skulking down the hall with twitching fingers and bloodshot eyes and mumbling rather sinisterly to himself—and it occurs to him that Ernie might do something extreme if he's denied of his wishes. "All right, I see your point. Er, have you tried talking to the Head Girl about this?"

"Adanna? She hates him. And she hates me even more for creating this whole mess."

Harry winces. Adanna? As in Adanna Okpagu, seventh year Gryffindor and one of Ginny's four infamous Detestable Dormmates? She's Head Girl this year? Suddenly, Harry feels very sorry for Brian. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"Come on, Potter," Brian cajoles. "You're the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, aren't you? Ernie will listen to you, right?"

"Brian, I'm not even sure if Professor McGonagall could stop him as he is. We might have to call in the Aurors."

Brian looks faint.

Then someone draws the tapestry aside, staring. "Harry? Brian?" Ginny stares at them. Her hair is in a braid slung over her shoulder today, a cosmetic vine twisting through it like a snake. She notices Brian's dishevelled state and her brow rises surreptitiously. "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen."

"It's not what it looks like—"

"Ginny, come back!"

She turns on her heel, amused. "If you're going to be snogging someone after the Halloween Dance, you ought to be more careful than that."

Harry blinks. "Halloween Dance?"

Ginny's face falls.

"You're going to Hogsmeade—"

"Ginny, it's just a dance—"

"—and you will buy these items—"

"Ginny!"

"And then, Harry James Potter, you will meet me in the Gryffindor common room at six."

Draco's not entirely sure when he started noticing men. It must've been sometime early in his teenage years, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. In any case, he can appreciate a fit man, and Longbottom's about as fit as a man gets. It's actually kind of baffling—Longbottom, the fat little cry-baby he used to bully in their younger years, is now a muscular Adonis. Longbottom will never give Draco the time of day, and Draco can't really see himself with him anyway, but he can appreciate his build. Also, Pansy can't seem to shut the fuck up about him.

"I swear," Pansy says over breakfast, stabbing her fork in a very unladylike manner into her pancakes. "That I'll get into his pants before Easter. No, before Christmas, even!"

"That's nice and all, Panse," says Blaise as he butters his toast. "But I don't think Longbottom's interested in anything that doesn't photosynthesise under the sun."

"So what if Longbottom's got a green thumb?" sniffs Pansy. "I'm a Slytherin. We invented green."

"Abbott's got her eye on him, too, you know," Draco says casually, hiding a smirk behind his cup of breakfast tea. "Who do you reckon Longbottom would choose between the two of you?"

"Hannah?" Pansy looks conflicted all of a sudden. "Hannah likes Longbottom?"

"You didn't know? I thought someone with as sticky a beak as you would've caught wind of it sooner," Blaise teases.

Draco turns his head to the left to spare a glance at Hannah Abbott, who's laughing at something Bones said. They're surrounded by friends, Li plotting over her next evil plan, Brocklehurst glaring at her abacus so hard the space between her eyes and the wood start sparking, and Finch-Fletchley making mooney eyes at Li while he still can because she will surely dig them out when—not if, no, Draco has come to suspect that it's only a matter of time when it comes to this girl—she catches him.

Potter doesn't sit at the Eighth Year table with Longbottom and Granger today. Instead, Longbottom's mushroom, which is now approximately the size of a malnourished ten-year-old, is sitting in Potter's usual seat. Potter himself is looking incredibly harassed at the Gryffindor table, the Weaslette nagging him about something or another, to which he is reluctantly acquiescing. There's some movement across the floor; the crumpets, charmed to last, are having another territorial war in the Great Hall.

It's all so lively and animated that it's hard to imagine it was only a few months ago that Voldemort had stormed the castle, leaving burning scars and cold bodies in his wake. There's a warmth to the castle, though there's the lingering chill of death that seeps through these castle walls, too. Draco sees it in the ice of Corner's eyes, and the perverse emptiness of Smith's smile. Albeit he's not the only one the Death Eaters have left their mark on, the world is moving on. And he sees himself—and Blaise and Pansy should they choose to continue to stay with him in the long-run—out of place. Cut away like a particularly offensive picture in his mother's copy of the Prophet.

These moments aren't for us.

"No, I couldn't do that to her," Pansy is saying, rather vehemently at that.

"No?" Blaise cocks a brow. "You've done worse things to girls for less."

"Not to Hannah, though."

"Oh, yes," Draco joins in once more, remembering Blaise didn't grow up in the same circles as them, having arrived in Britain just two years before their first year at Hogwarts commenced, "They did ballroom dancing together."

"Ballroom dancing? You and Abbott?"

"And what about it?" Pansy says snippily. "Daphne, Hannah, Millie, and I used to all study under Madam Rosier. All the girls did once they were old enough to learn."

"Not Bones?"

"No. Too much of a feral farm-girl for anything refined, that one."

They continue to eat, Pansy recounting stories of her shared childhood with Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bulstrode, and Hannah Abbott. Most of the high society pureblood children run in the same circles, and almost all of Slytherin House had known each other pre-Hogwarts. And though he's never been close to any of them besides Pansy, Draco wonders what the Slytherin girls are doing now. He hasn't kept in touch with them, and he doubts they've been much thinking of him now that he's a pariah. He asks as much, flippantly, as he butters his scone, and Pansy—always eager for a reason to gossip—readily shares.

"Millie just got engaged to a rich lord in the South of France—"

"She didn't!" Blaise grins widely.

"She absolutely did! I never thought she had it in her. And Daphne, well, you know she's always been a bit of a free spirit—"

"Was she?" Draco interjects in a bored drawl. "I don't remember much of her at all." Truly, all he can recall is a pretty face, a stolid expression, and golden hair, brighter and more vivid than his will ever be no matter how much gel he puts in it. "Only that you didn't like her much."

Pansy's face pinches. "Oh, do be quiet, Draco; you're the one who asked, so the least you could do is pay attention. Yes, it's true, she and I weren't on the best of terms for the majority of our Hogwarts years, but we were friends from before school."

Draco finds out that Daphne Greengrass is planning on taking her NEWT exams at the Ministry, which is a surprise—Daphne can go her whole life without working if she wants to. He's not entirely ignorant of the girl, of course; she's a pureblood, one he's known (vaguely) since childhood, along with Pansy and Theo (how is Theo anyway?), and she has an inheritance larger than the Parkinson and the Zabini's combined. Her father owns Greengrass Gardens and Wizarding Britain's largest hotel and resort: Goditha. Not to mention the business from her mum's side: Selena Selwyn's cosmetics line, Selena's Secrets, is hugely popular in Britain as well as overseas. Even more surprising is that she wants to work as a journalist, something that Pansy no doubts finds to be beneath her from her snide tone as she tells them all about it.

"Following the footsteps of that girl, of course," Pansy spits. "Do you know she has a tattoo now?"

"I have a tattoo," Draco says, somewhere between trenchant and morbidly glib.

Pansy and Blaise both grimace.

"Right, well, moving on. Tracey Davis is finishing up her schooling in Ilvermony, and..."

Fully invested, he doesn't see Potter glance at him over from the Gryffindor table, though he's not nearly distracted enough not to feel it.

Having Ginny's weird roommate, Squid, sniff at his clip-on tail is admittedly not a great start to the night. Romilda and Ginny exchange a tired glance, the former's makeup tools spread all over the ottoman. It's six o'clock in the evening in Gryffindor Tower's cosy, red and gold common room, and most of the girls are locked away in the bathrooms or their dormitories in preparation for the Halloween Dance. The boys are more lax about it, standing around with their ties loose around their necks as they wait for their dates to finish getting ready. The fire crackles merrily in the hearth and the place is abuzz with noise and excitement.

"Look," Harry says, discomfited by the sight of Squid's nostrils flaring as she inhales deeply. "If it bothers you that much, I'll just not wear it—"

"Bup bup!" Squid's spindly finger lands on his lips, and he recoils. "I've just finished the inspection, and I'm pleased to announce you've passed with flying colours."

"I hate you all," declares Romilda. "Except you, Harry." She flutters her eyelashes at him. Harry looks away.

"Oh, shut it," Ginny snaps. "Don't you have any shame, Romy? Your boyfriend is literally on the other side of the room."

"Merlin forbid women do anything."

There's the creak of the hinges, followed by the steadfast tap-tap-tapping of the Head Girl's military step. "Ugh, if it isn't the terrible twosome," snarks Adanna Okpagu as she enters through the portrait entrance. "And Potter. Evening."

"How do you do?" Harry asks, a little awkwardly. It's embarrassing to admit, but the Head Girl has always scared him a bit. She reminds him of McGonagall.

"Adanna," Ginny says, gravely.

"Adanna!" Romilda hisses like a snake.

Squid yanks at Harry's werewolf ears, nose at the ready.

The seventh year Gryffindor girls are unusual, to say the least. Harry would take Lavender and Parvati giggling behind their hands during breakfast, lunch and dinner any day over this bunch. Romilda and Ginny tolerate each other most days, but there's always been an underlying hostility in their relationship. Adanna is a bit of a Hermione—not in the overzealous scholar way, but the domineering personality way. She's uncompromising, and it doesn't make a good combination with the flighty and vain Romilda and the fiery and outspoken Ginny. Squid is just plain weird and is more passionate about animals than Aberforth is passionate about his goats, which is a red flag in itself. Harry doesn't think anybody should like anything more than Aberforth likes his goats.

Their dorm situation is a bit of a circus. Harry's pretty sure it's been set on fire in the past; he recalls McGonagall evacuating Gryffindor Tower once during fourth year, a few days prior to the Yule Ball. It's honestly a miracle that they haven't killed each other yet.

The final member of the seventh year Gryffindor girls flounces out from the dorms, then, a feather-headed blond named Margot DuPont, who fancies herself French when everyone knows she was born and raised in London. "Bonsoir," she says, happily, in her choppy fake accent, twirling twice to show off her frilly dress. "It eez a very nice, ah, 'ow do you say, très bien evening?"

All the girls groan. Squid breaks out into a sneezing fit when too much synthetic fur goes up her nose. "P-pass," she says in between sneezes. "Con—achoo!—grats—achoo!"

"Get out of here, Margot!" bellows Romilda, shooing her away. "We have a Boy Saviour to dress up! And for heaven's sake, Delia, leave the poor boy's costume alone!"

It's barely a costume, really. Harry'd forgotten all about tonight's Halloween Dance, and only a pair of ears and a tail and a furry vest he'd purchased from Hogsmeade, thrown over his regular clothes, will be his costume for tonight. That, plus the legendary makeup skills of Romilda Vane.

"I'll make you the handsomest werewolf yet," vows Romilda as she starts applying something or another on his face. "Keep still, darling. That's right, very good." Romilda herself has chosen to be very liberal about the theme, in a shredded dress that shows a lot of leg and a lot of cleavage. A 'maiden fallen to a werewolf's rugged charms', she says she is. Her boyfriend, Mitchell Watson, is eyeing her hungrily across the common room. If he hears any wet noises from tapestry-hidden alcoves tonight, he will do everyone a favour by dutifully ignoring them.

"Stop," Ginny says when Romilda dabs her brush on a coloured square in her palette. Harry can't quite make out what colour it is from the angle. "Green? What are you thinking, Romy?"

"It brings out his eyes, Gin."

"His eyes are already green, Romy, it'd do the opposite."

Adanna, who's been watching so far with the slightest sneer on her lip, opines, "I'd go for the violet, personally."

"Isn't that a bit girly?" Harry says. He's promptly silenced on that matter when all girls bar Squid shoot daggers at him with their eyes. "Er, never mind. Carry on."

"Perhaps our dear Head Girl is right on this matter," Romilda concedes, begrudgingly, as she finishes Harry's eye make-up. "We have a bit of time. How's fake blood sound?"

"Forget it, Romy." Ginny starts packing up the tools. "It'll be quarter to by the time we're done. Merlin knows how much of a perfectionist you are when it comes to the arts. Adanna, aren't you going to change? We've barely half an hour till we have to be at the Great Hall. Aren't you on the Committee?"

At the mention of the Committee—the student organisation in charge of this event—Adanna's gaze darkens. "Ah, yes," she mutters through gritted teeth, "the Committee. Wherever shall I begin?" She plops down on the couch, a few second year students scattering away from the general area. "Mark my words, ladies, I am going to kill Brian Chapman."

"Brian?" Squid parrots. "Now what's Brian done? He's a nice lad. Has a pet rat. So cute."

Romilda, never one to be deterred from gossip even when the one gossiping is an enemy, quickly switches her attention to Adanna, as do a few of the surrounding upper years that dare to brave her presence. Ginny and Squid don't partake; the latter races back up to the dorms to feed her cat while Ginny turns her body to face Harry, an impish smile spreading rapidly across her freckled cheeks. "Got a hot date tonight, Harry? Perhaps one with a hapless Mr Chapman?"

"For the last time, Gin." Harry breathes a sigh of long-suffering. "There's nothing going on between me and Brian." Brian's nice, but he's too soft. And he's a bloke. Harry's not sure if he likes blokes; Uncle Vernon certainly'd never approved of blokes who like blokes, just like he didn't approve of his tax dollars going toward poor people. It makes Harry want to like blokes on the sole principle that Uncle Veron would probably go spare, but he's still not sure if he actually does. "Trust me, you'll be the first to know if anything in that direction happens. What about you? Who's the poor sod you've roped into going to the dance with you?" He laughs when Ginny punches him on the arm.

"If you must know," Ginny says primly with her nose pointed in the air, her upper lip trembling as she tries not to dissolve into giggles. "I'm going with Anthony." Harry stares. "Come on. Anthony Goldstein from Ravenclaw? He's in your year, Harry."

"Anthony... Anthony!" Harry sits up straight, scandalised. "He's a total drip!"

"Oh, come off it, Anthony's a perfectly nice boy."

"Gin, that boy's idea of a good time is reading Yeast and 1001 Ways to Use It cover to cover before bedtime. I would know, I share a dorm with him! His light doesn't go off until well past midnight!"

"You're being ridiculous, Harry, I'm sure he likes other things."

"Like?"

Ginny chews the inside of her cheek. "S'pose I'll find out tonight. Think he fancies a bit of Quidditch?"

"I'll tell you what he fancies," Harry says blackly. "Sourdough."

"You have to admit, though," Ginny leans against him, smirking, "There are worse picks out there. At least it's not Smith. Or Malfoy."

Ginny and Malfoy? Harry balks. That's not an idea he likes to entertain; he doesn't know who'd be worse off in a relationship with each other. "Jesus, Gin, don't even joke."

"Oh, relax. You're so fun to wind up, Harry. As if I couldn’t handle Malfoy."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Harry says solemnly. "I know Malfoy's a Death Eater and all, but—" He breaks off guffawing when Ginny leaps to her feet wielding one of her fuzzy bunny slippers. A chase around the common room ensues; the world melts away into a hearty blend of childish mirth and joyful howling and Harry wishes it could last forever.

The Halloween Dance, to put it simply, is a few Death Eaters short of a disaster. In fact, Harry is of half a mind that inviting Death Eaters couldn't possibly make things worse. The poor state of affairs makes complete sense to Harry, who saw a wide-eyed, hopped up on coffee Ernie Macmillan chain-smoking through an entire pack of Muggle cigarettes in the pumpkin patch a few hours prior to the dance. Someone's filled the tuba section with soap, and pink bubbles are blown up into the air as the band plays on in spite of it. It's also clear that none of the violin players have any actual experience with the violin because most of them are holding their bows incorrectly. The Frog Choir is out of tune and everyone's half a step behind each other, the ensemble having been hastily thrown together by Ernie and his overworked crew.

"Having fun, Harry?!" Terry Boot yells over the commotion as they do a jig in the middle of the crowd. The Great Hall has been cleared out, the tables rearranged so that everyone has room to mingle and dance. Terry's painted whiskers on his face and called it a night.

"Lord," mutters Hermione from Harry's side. "I can barely hear myself speak." She's put in significantly more effort than either Harry or Terry, wearing a slinky black dress and fangs, a vampire lady. "Squash, Harry?" She offers him a cup, which she must've gotten earlier by the drinks table.

"Thanks, 'Mione." Harry takes the drink. "I'm parched." He downs it in a single gulp. It's good—perhaps the only thing the student government's done right tonight. There's a strange burn in his throat that accompanies the slide of the liquid, but he chalks it up to magical shenanigans. Big parties like these are not usually his scene, but he thinks he might enjoy himself if he's with his friends.

A conga line of students is forming in the middle of the hall. Harry sees Neville sandwiched between Parvati Patil and Lisa Turpin, looking like he's having the time of his life. A few heads behind, Parkinson is glaring so hard at the two girls that Harry half-thinks she's about to set them on fire with wandless magic while Zabini chuckles behind her. They're the last ones in the conga line, no one quite so willing to place their hands on someone with Death Eater associations, but the two Slytherins don't seem to care, or even notice.

It's then he realises that Malfoy's not with them.

"Mr Snicks is looking a lot healthier lately," Terry is saying to Hermione while Harry frowns. "Loads more colour to his patches than before, and his fur's no longer falling out! That hamster tonic of yours is a miracle, Hermione."

"Oh, that's brilliant, Terry, I'm glad it was helpful," Hermione answers, plastering a smile on her face. Her eyes dart to the side. "I daresay Mr Snicks has got a few more years left in him..."

"Either of you seen Malfoy?" Harry interrupts.

"Malfoy?" Hermione and Terry echo. "Can't say I have," adds Hermione. "Is something wrong, Harry?"

"Just wanted to make sure he's not up to anything."

"I'm sure he wouldn't dare, not when he's got the threat of Azkaban hanging over his head." A grim reminder of Malfoy's situation, but one that he most certainly has earned in Harry's opinion. "Do you want me to go look for him?"

"Er, no, it's all right." Rather odd of Hermione to offer her help on that front, but Harry brushes it off, lifting his cup to his lips to find it empty of squash. "I'm going to get another drink—you two want anything?"

"No, we're fine!" Terry says happily. "Say, Hermione, about Mr Snicks—"

"I'm off to dance!" Hermione steps around him. "That conga line is looking brilliant!" Zabini casts a bemused glance over his shoulder when Hermione invites herself to the back of the line, muttering darkly.

At the refreshments table, Harry ladles himself some more cordial, drinking full cups of it like they're shots. The house elves have outdone themselves with this one—it's just the right combination of sour and sweet, and the burn becomes pleasant, then nonexistent, after his fourth cup. It reminds him of firewhiskey in a way, though he's not had much opportunity to drink copious amounts of it like he's doing now with the squash. Harry turns around to return back to his friends, only to run right into the last person he wanted to see tonight, never mind that he was inquiring after him earlier.

"Watch it, Potter," Malfoy jeers at him. He's dressed as a vampire tonight, and his pale face fits the costume perfectly. It's sharply tailored compared to his Hogwarts robes, showing off his tall, lithe build. He looks nearly angelic, but he's play-pretending a monster.

"Malfoy," Harry says, evenly. "You look... Appropriate."

"Really? You look appropriate, too," Malfoy says, smugly, "Being an ill-bred, slobbering animal suits you."

Harry's jaw tightens. The wound of Remus' death is still fresh in his mind, and as Malfoy stands there—enunciating each insulting word with his flat drawl—all Harry can see is Remus and Tonks in the Great Hall, eyes closed and hands intertwined. "Better an animal than a Death Eater," he snarls, aiming to hurt, and a vicious sort of pleasure blooms in his chest when he sees Malfoy falter ever so slightly, knowing he's hit the mark. His head is swimming and his blood is burning. Somewhere in his hindbrain, he thinks he might be drunk somehow.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy snaps, strained. "I'm not doing this tonight."

"Well, I am," Harry sneers. "We all know you don't belong here, Malfoy, let's not pretend."

Malfoy narrows his eyes. "Are you drunk? You're drunk, aren't you?" His gaze lands on the bowl of squash just as Harry squares his shoulders threateningly. "Stand down, I'm not exchanging fisticuffs with you like a Muggle."

Drunk? He's not drunk. He's perfectly sober and he's never felt more conviction in his life. "You don't get to pick when or when we do or don't do this—"

"What on earth are you saying?"

"—so why don't we address the elephant in the room, then, huh?"

"All right." Malfoy's scowl deepens. The downturn of his mouth is something Harry feels so terribly intimate with, having seen it twist in that way up close and personal since their fated encounter on the train, all of eleven years old. It feels like it was made just for him, like he inspires a special brand of hatred from Malfoy. "Go on then, Potter. Say what you want to say and be done with it."

"God, where do I even start?"

"Why not at the beginning?" Malfoy mocks.

"Years," says Harry. "For years, you went out of your way to make us feel small. It's not nice to have the tables turned on you, is it? We'll always remember what side you stood on when it mattered most, Malfoy. You'll never be welcome here. You shouldn't even be here."

"I know very well I'm not exactly welcome in these halls. I don't need bloody Saint Potter telling me what I already know."

On a roll, Harry says cruelly, "Why not? You did your fucking utmost to make us feel like we weren't welcome. You taught me what my pathetic excuse of a Muggle uncle couldn't—how to hate another person."

He looks away. "If I'm so terrible, then why did you testify for us at the trial?"

"Because I'm not a heartless fucking monster?"

"And I am? Do you think I'm a monster?"

"You're..." I think you're just a boy, like me. The music is loud and disjointed and the room smells like sweat and sugar, sending pain shooting through his head. "You're not..."

Malfoy cuts in, "What do you want from me, Potter?"

"I don't know!" Harry shouts, lifting a hand to where his scar used to throb. His head and his heart feel like they've been cleaved right open—the war was only yesterday. "I just want you to go away!"

"We can't all get what we want," Malfoy says, calmly. Too calmly. "Now if you're done harping on me, I have better things to do than entertain your righteous, alcohol-induced spiel." With that, Malfoy turns on his heel and stalks away, gait stiff. Harry watches him leave, glaring at the floor. He follows through the motion of another swig, then realises that his cup is empty again.

Harry takes a deep breath, grabbing a jar of cold water and filling his cup with that instead of the probably-spiked cordial. The chill bites into the inside of his mouth and makes his teeth ache, but it snaps him back to clarity. The fuzzy, honest fury from before slowly creeps away. Shit. His gut clenches. Why did I say that? He exhales sharply. No. Everything I said was the truth. We both know that.

The clock strikes ten, meaning curfew for the third years and under. The younger students groan as the professors herd them off, the prefects too busy partying to do their duty for tonight. There are protests, but clipped words from McGonagall quickly put an end to the unrest.

There's a bit of a recess in the atmosphere, the dancing slowing down to a near languid pace as people grab more refreshments or sit down at the rest area for a chat and a break. The conga line has grown significantly since Hermione joined the line, and Harry's mood blackens when he sees a triumphant Callahan leaning far too close into Hermione's back. This gets a sharp word from her, and he raises his hands in mock surrender.

Eventually, Hermione storms off, spotting Harry by the drinks and making a beeline toward him.

"That no good cad," Hermione seethes without preamble, "God, it's like McLaggen all over again."

"Want me to hex him for you?" Harry says, hopeful.

Unfortunately, she waves a hand at the suggestion. "Thank you, but it's nothing I can't handle myself. At least he's not as persistent as McLaggen—I think he's just like that with any girl with a pulse." She inhales. "I saw you talking with Malfoy earlier."

Harry groans. "Can we not, Hermione?"

She rolls her eyes. "You and I will sit down and talk about this one day, Harry Potter, but tonight is not the night. It's late, I'm hot, I'm bothered, and I think I may be slightly tipsy. But still—" Hermione crosses her arms "—I thought you ought to know that Callahan's not only a lightweight, but a violent one, too. He bragged to me that he was going to 'put Malfoy in his place' and 'show him how Hogwarts really feels about him'. I told him off, obviously," she's rambling now, "but I don't know if he took it to heart."

Oh, and you speak for all of Hogwarts now, do you, Callahan? Harry lowers his brow at Callahan's direction, but the boy is already swaggering away with his equally broad-shouldered friends. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you care." Hermione peers at him. "Despite everything, you care more than any of us."

"I... I don't," Harry says weakly. "I don't. Not really."

"Harry."

"Look, what do you want me to do?"

"Obviously," Hermione sniffs in a tone that she typically reserves for when she's beating Transfiguration theory into his and Ron's heads so they can do their homework without flying blind, "I want you to do what you want to do. We'll all sit down and discuss your complexes someday, preferably with a mind-healer—"

"I don't need a bloody mind-healer—"

"—but you've never been able to turn a blind eye to unfair behaviour," she finishes, tilting her chin up at him.

"Unfair? And it's just so unfair that Malfoy's finally reaping what he sows, is it?"

"You're telling me," Hermione says, dryly. "After spending years in Gryffindor, I've learned that people are not creatures of rationality." She squeezes his arm. "Do what you think is right, Harry. I won't ever look at you differently for that."

Hermione's right. Logically, Harry knows that Malfoy's condemnation in Hogwarts is not without reason, but it bothers him—bothers him more than he'd like to admit—to see Malfoy on the receiving end of the treatment he used to dole out to others. No matter how much Harry thinks he deserves it. "He'll probably be pissed at me, the ungrateful prat."

"Probably."

Swearing, Harry goes after Malfoy, passing by a conversing Sprout and Piccolo near the drinks table, but he's nowhere to be seen. Piccolo looks absolutely murderous, wearing a pink party hat that has what looks like a child's drawing of a werewolf scribbled hastily on the side rather than his usual turban. His fists are clenched at his sides and his shoulders stiff like he's been hit with a Full Body-Bind. Sprout, meanwhile, appears to be utterly oblivious of the impending deaths of everyone within a kilometre radius, the dumpy little witch chattering enthusiastically to the Muggle Studies professor.

"Have you ever considered getting a job in the Muggle world?" Sprout asks.

"Pomona, I'm a green slug man," says Piccolo, woodenly. "No amount of affirmative action is going to get me a normal job."

"Sorry to bother you, professors," Harry begins apologetically as he stops in front of them. "But did you see Malfoy pass through by any chance?"

"Mr Malfoy?" Sprout frowns. "No, I can't say I have."

"Malfoy?" Piccolo interrupts Sprout's subsequent pondering of the blond's whereabouts. "Why? I was under the impression you two weren't friends." He doesn't let Harry get a word in, continuing with an unwarranted dose of suspicion, "You're not planning anything, are you, Potter?"

"No!" Harry says indignantly. "Of course not, I—yes, Malfoy's a prat, but—" He already got what he deserved. Harry's lips thin. "I don't care enough about him to do anything about it," he settles for in the end, the words coalescing thickly at the back of his throat like they used to when he lied to the likes of Professors Snape or McGonagall. Piccolo fixes him with a flat look, but Harry can practically feel the moment Piccolo relinquishes his hostility (for now), his oesophagus clearing up abruptly.

"We'll keep an eye out for him, dear," Sprout says kindly. "But I'm sure Mr Malfoy's just gone off to enjoy himself with his friends. It is a party, after all." She lifts a glass toward Piccolo, who gingerly clinks it with his own glass of clear liquid before pulling out an enchanted mirror.

"Oh, for the love of—" Piccolo swears. "That nosy parker. I need to take a call. I'll be back."

As Piccolo disappears out a side entrance, Harry wanders through the hall, keeping an eye out for a white blond head; he's jostled through the sea of students, most of whom are too high on life or squash to notice him. But yet another hurried apology tumbles out of Harry's mouth when moving bodies shove him right into a group of Gryffindor fifth years that are gyrating too close to each other for comfort.

"S'all right, 'arry!" slurs one of the boys, Arty Bearhold, as he smacks his arse against Demelza Robins’.

Harry squints, then sniffs at the air. "Are you lot drunk?"

"No!" Dennis Creevy says, looking happier than Harry has seen him since Colin's memorial service. "Of course not!"

"Demi!" exclaims Harry, exasperated.

"Sorry, Captain," giggles Demelza.

"I'm not the captain anymore—I—just—how did you even manage to get this sloshed? Was it the cordial? Please don't tell me it was the cordial."

"Dunno!" yells Arty at the top of his lungs.

They continue their drunken dancing. Harry shakes his head, knowing he isn't going to get anything coherent out of them. He jumps when a hand taps him on the shoulder, whirling around to point his wand at Sue Li's unimpressed visage. "Put that away, Potter," Sue snaps, pushing his wrist aside as he relaxes. Like Romilda, she's barely abiding by the theme, wearing a traditional Chinese dress with a pair of fuzzy ears—much like his own—perched on her inky hair. Her eyeliner is dark and smoky, reminding Harry of, say, Courtney Love.

"Sorry." Harry lowers his arm, sliding his wand back up his sleeve with a flourish of magic like Sirius taught him to do. "Habit."

Sue is standing with her arms folded and her hip cocked, everything about her screaming a roguish sort of confidence that he rarely sees on her. Then again, he's seen more of her this year than he has the last six thanks to their cohort's unique living situation, so perhaps he just never noticed. She and Cho used to be mates, or so Harry thinks. He can somewhat recall her trailing behind Cho as one of her giggly girl friends. "Are you looking for Malfoy?"

"Have you seen him?" Harry has to holler over the noise, beginning to understand Hermione's earlier frustration.

"No, but I think you'd best find him quickly!" Sue hollers back, a rather wicked smile slashing across her red-painted lips. "I think there might be a rather nasty surprise waiting for him!"

Nasty surprise? Harry cocks a brow at Sue. "What, like a prank?"

Sue shrugs.

"Sue. What are you—? You better tell me what's going on." Wasn't Callahan going to beat him up? That's hardly a prank.

"Spare me the threats, Potty." She leans in close—far too close. The proximity makes Harry sweat even more than he already is. Harry's throat bobs. "Ever since I got back to this godforsaken castle, everything's been driving me mental. My temper isn't what it used to be, so do forgive me for being short with you. But I've word two humdrum housemates of mine are planning to make their feelings about our resident Death Eater well known tonight."

"That idiot," Harry curses. Why did he have to part with Zabini and Parkinson, the only two students on his side, who would protect him if he asked for it?

"Oi, Harry!" Michael appears out of nowhere, grinning and clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Been looking all over for you. Mate, you gotta see this."

"See what?" Harry says irritably, shoving his hand off, but Michael is too excited to be offended.

"In ten seconds, we're about to get the best show of all our years in Hogwarts. Figured you’d want front seats, after all he's done to you."

"I..."

"You're running out of time." Sue drifts away into a throng of students with this last, ominous warning. Harry makes to follow her when he catches a glimpse of platinum blond, and only one person he knows is that pale. He's alone, brow furrowed, the other students keeping a relatively wide distance from him. His leg twitches, like he's trying to move but can't.

"Malfoy!" Harry calls, shoving his way through the crowd, but it's too late. Blood—or what Harry thinks is blood—drops down as a crimson sheet on top of Malfoy, splattering flecks of red on the nearest bystanders and drenching Malfoy in its unpleasant, viscous entirety. Harry's heart beats between his ears as a deafening silence follows the shouts of surprise at its heels. Malfoy is rooted on the spot, shock etched in the hard lines of his figure. Behind him, on the walls, red writing forms in grotesque fashion that brings him right back to second year:

DEATH EATERS MUST DIE

The tone is offset by a crude drawing of an effigy being hung that appears next to the words.

Someone snickers.

The sound is contagious. Harry feels as if he's underwater as the jovial noise spreads across the Great Hall and crescendos into raucous guffaws. Laughter is not an uncommon sound in the Great Hall, but the childish wickedness he knows that lurks under their cathartic bliss is Malfoy's punishment.

Harry waits for vindication to come like it has for the rest of them, but it never does.