Chapter Text
Harry felt very little as the train rumbled into Hogsmeade station. He was devoid of the awe and anticipation that had accompanied the journey to Hogwarts in his younger years, nor did he feel the shadow of trepidation and unease that had followed him everywhere for the last three years. He supposed he should be grateful for that, at least, but he simply hadn’t the mental energy to muster up the emotion.
It was —as he had told the mind healer Sirius and Remus had insisted upon him seeing over the summer— as if this great weight had been lifted from his chest, but instead of feeling like a malignant tumor had finally been removed, it felt like the most identifiable parts of himself had been scraped out with a dull knife. The crushing burden of obligation, duty, prophecy, had been cut away, but —Harry had found— it had been there for so long, taken up so much of him, that when it was gone, there was not much left behind.
He didn’t know who he was anymore, now that the path before him was no longer paved and marked with distinct signage. Eighteen seemed a bit young for a mid-life crisis, but he supposed seventeen was a bit young to die, too.
“Time to go, mate.” Ron nudged him gently to pull him from his musing, while Hermione looked at him with barely-concealed concern.
The two of them had been nothing short of saintly with him this summer, if a tad overbearing. He felt mildly guilty about how closed off he’d become in the last few months, always responding to their gentle attempts to get him to open up with as few words as possible, telling them he was working through it with his mind healer. He refused to burden them with the mess in his head after everything they had already gone through on his account. He knew they meant well, and he would never begrudge them their concern, it was just difficult to struggle as he was now under the pitying gaze of the two people who had always stood by him and trusted in him with everything they had, for as long as they’d known each other.
As they made their way to the carriages, Harry finally took in the crowd of other students around him. Many kept glancing in his direction, some more discreetly than others, and a few brave souls flashed him smiles or simply gawped at him without remorse. He returned the bright, toothy smiles of the younger ones with a nod and hesitant half-smile of his own, but then the carriages and thestrals came into view, and many directed their attention to the tragic, ethereal beauty of the creatures. Harry was hit with a deep pang of sorrow when he saw how many more could see them this year, even some of the wide-eyed firsties gazing in wonder.
* * *
He tried valiantly to enjoy the Welcome feast, greeting his friends good-naturedly and catching up with the ones he hadn’t seen much of, or at all, over the summer. The Great Hall had been restored to its former glory, though memories of the battle still tainted the periphery of what had once been an unambiguously welcoming and safe atmosphere in Harry’s head. He suspected this was only one of many places in the castle that would never feel quite as whole and happy as it used to.
The House tables still sat in their neat row of four, their worn, sturdy wood a testament to the resilience of the castle and what it meant to those inside it. However —McGonagall explained in her speech— students would be free to sit wherever they liked, mingling with other houses, “bridging divides and mending wounds that have been left to fester for far too long.”
Ron had snorted derisively at that, whispering “fat chance,” under his breath, causing Hermione to glance at him disapprovingly; she seemed keen on the Headmistress’ emphasis on “Inter-house unity,” and “building back better, together,” nodding along and shaking her head in all the right places as she hung on McGonagall’s every word.
In the end, it seemed most shared Ron’s mentality, when her speech ended with an encouragement for students to enjoy the feast with a friend from a different house, everyone seemed to eye each other warily, and only one person got up to move.
Luna walked to the Gryffindor table with the same unbothered grace that she approached everything with, seemingly ignorant to the fact that the entire hall had watched her move. Not that anyone cared much, the whole school knew she was closer with them than many in her own house and took no issue with it.
She sat down between Seamus and Ginny, who had hastily slid down the bench to make room for the blonde girl.
“Thank you, dearest,” Luna said, her typically airy voice sounding even softer around the edges as she addressed the ginger next to her.
Ginny kissed her cheek and replied “‘course, love,” with a dopey smile on her face.
Ron coughed loudly into his fist, grumbling something about wishing Ginny would stop dating within the friend group. Ginny raised an eyebrow at him, as if to say ‘you really wanna start this now?’.
Harry patted his best friend’s shoulder reassuringly, “at least there’s no chance of Gin getting pregnant, this time,” he said cheekily, which was met with affronted noises from both Weaselys.
“I wouldn’t be the one getting pregnant anyway, if you know what I mean.” Ginny shot back without hesitation, or subtlety.
“I absolutely did not need to know that, thank you.” Ron replied, sounding far more aghast than the situation really called for.
The conversation flowed easily for the rest of the feast, and Harry made an effort to contribute even as his awareness slipped in and out of the present moment. His sessions with the mind healer had actually proven quite helpful in this regard, she provided him with small strategies —coping skills, she called them— to remain grounded in the reality around him, instead of losing himself inside the greyscale tv-static that seemed to fill his mind these days, or worse, becoming trapped in one of the many painful memories that always lurked at the edges of his consciousness, feeling, in his body and mind, as though he were living it again.
The feast drew to a close and prefects lead their houses back to their common rooms, the chatter of excited students growing distant until a hollow sort of quiet filled the hall. McGonagall had asked all those returning for their ‘eighth’ year to stay behind, although no one seemed to know why. Once everyone else had emptied out, she ushered them all into the entrance hall to address the small group more comfortably.
It wasn’t until they were all getting up to follow her out that Harry spotted the head of distinct platinum hair vacating the Slytherin table. Malfoy’s hair was longer than Harry’d ever seen it, falling in soft waves that brushed his collarbone, with shorter pieces in the front that reached just below his narrow jaw. Harry thought, for a second, that he looked like his father, was perhaps trying to emulate the man now rotting in an Azkaban cell for life. Then Harry realized he had never seen Lucius without the austere ponytail he favored, and could hardly imagine the man with his hair loose and seemingly unstyled like Draco wore it now. The thought settled something within Harry, and he supposed it didn’t mean much, but given how fond Malfoy had always been of using copious amounts of hair gel to achieve the same severe look as his father, he figured it was some quiet symbol of defiance. A bit late for that, Harry thought bitterly.
Truth be told, Harry no longer knew how he felt about Malfoy. He had been so consumed by his own ennui that he had hardly remembered the git would be returning as well. He supposed that was for the best, as he had no intention of rekindling their rivalry. Had he given it much thought he might have reached a different conclusion, per his historical… obsession, and done something regrettable like glare at him throughout dinner. Though, Harry realized belatedly, he was staring at him rather intensely now. Before Harry could look away, the blond looked up and caught his eye momentarily, before quickly dropping his gaze back to the ground. Odd. In all the years they had known each other, Malfoy had never avoided Harry’s gaze; meeting it with a challenging glint in his stormcloud eyes and a nasty sneer to match.
Harry brushed off the interaction, if it could even be called that, and turned to listen to Mcgonagall as she began to explain the ways this year would be different for their cohort. During repairs over the summer, the castle had generously provided a small new wing to house them in, what with their Houses being at capacity due to the repeat year. Some rules had been adjusted for them in an effort to respect that they were adults now; they had no curfew, were free to leave the grounds whenever they pleased as long as it wasn’t during classes, and they would no longer be allowed to play for their house teams or contribute to house points.
The Headmistress had been walking them to their new accommodations as she spoke, and stopped suddenly in front of a large tapestry depicting the four founders around a cluttered table, conversing animatedly amongst themselves. “Unitas” she directed towards the woven figures, who halted their conversation to acknowledge her, before the tapestry shimmered and morphed, a large wooden door appearing in its place. The door opened itself for her, and she led them inside.
The common room was beautiful, high stone walls and vaulted ceilings supported by dark wooden beams. The far wall curved outwards and was lined with huge windows that looked out over the lake, the last vestiges of daylight dancing on its surface. Circular study tables were placed in the space near the windows, and in the center of the room there were plush suede couches and armchairs arranged around a large wood stove sitting on a platform against the left wall, a stack of firewood already next to it. Along the opposite wall, behind the couches, there was a large kitchen island with a kettle and an espresso machine atop it, next to it a small china cabinet that boasted an eclectic mix of drinkware. The wall behind them had bookcases on either side of the entrance door that housed both magical and muggle texts, a radio, a vintage-looking turntable, and a large collection of records that looked well-loved. Where the circular wall ended on either side, there were staircases leading up to the girls' dorms on the left and boys’ on the right. The whole room was outfitted in warm neutral tones, with muted accents in pleasant shades like moss green and ochre.
Having given them enough time to be appropriately dazzled by the space, McGonagall cleared her throat and pulled a folded piece of parchment from her robes. Adjusting her reading glasses, she announced that because there were so few of them, they would be sharing a dorm with only one other person, and in the name of inter-house unity, she had assigned them roommates from another house.
A displeased murmur spread throughout the small group, everyone had been looking forward to returning, if not to their old dorms, at least to the familiarity of their friends and housemates. Harry glanced around, finally taking stock of the rag-tag group that had returned. Most were Gryffindors, in fact, Harry and his housemates seemed to account for half the total number. There were a handful of Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs, and only three Slytherins.
Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini stood awkwardly off to the side, looking nervous and wary. Harry noticed they all seemed to be touching in some way, Parkinson’s arm linked with Zabini’s, whose other hand rested on Malfoy’s shoulder blade in front of him, who had one hand entwined in Parkinson’s free one, the other one hanging by his side, twisting his signet ring around and around.
It was strange to see that Malfoy had a nervous habit, Harry supposed it was because he was accustomed to seeing the performance of Draco Malfoy, and not the living, breathing boy of flesh and blood beneath the facade of unbothered arrogance and cruelty. And Harry knew it was a facade, had ripped it apart himself in the bathroom in sixth year. Had ripped apart the boy behind it, too. Harry quickly pushed the memory aside, it would do him no good to dwell on it now.
He was brought back into the present by Ron’s hand clasping his shoulder and mumbling “Good luck, mate. Don’t let him get to you.”
“Huh?” was Harry’s intelligent response.
“McGonagall roomed you with Malfoy, Harry. If need be, I’m sure if you can ask her to switch.” added Hermione, who must’ve noticed Harry’s previous lack of awareness.
“Oh. Well, um, I’ll just see how it goes, I guess?” He phrased it like a question, still processing the information.
Once he got past his initial reaction of horror and betrayal, he wondered how on earth McGonagall had thought this could be a good idea. He realized it was likely because McGonagall trusted Harry to not curse Malfoy in his sleep, he had saved the git’s life, after all. Harry also knew that Malfoy was on probation, had restrictions on his wand and the threat of Azkaban over his head. He was unlikely to try anything serious, and Harry assumed from the way he had avoided his gaze earlier that he also had no interest in resuming their rivalry of schoolyard taunts and verbal aggression. He figured the worst part would be how horrifically awkward the whole ordeal was bound to be.
* * *
As it turned out, Harry needn’t have worried about the awkwardness, as it had been three weeks and he had not seen Malfoy once in their shared room. He didn’t know if this was intentional on Malfoy’s part, or if they simply kept such different routines that they never crossed paths in the dorm. He’d seen Malfoy in classes of course, sitting alone behind Parkinson and Zabini in the last row of every classroom, eyes glued to his work. Harry’d seen him in the halls, speaking in quiet tones with the other two Slytherins, who seemed to be the only people whose eyes he would meet —not that many others were trying.
Something about all of this felt supremely wrong to Harry. Sure, Malfoy’d always been an unrepentant arsehole who’d done nothing but make Harry’s already difficult life even harder, but somehow the absence of a Draco Malfoy-shaped thorn in his side made him uneasy. He really hadn’t expected them to pick up where they left off, but it was becoming clear that they were nothing to each other now, and Harry found that he couldn’t stomach that reality. They had always orbited each other, and Harry was realizing that the rituals of their enmity were part of what made Hogwarts feel like home. If nothing else, Harry had always felt alive around Malfoy, a feeling he was desperately lacking most of the time now.
His musings were interrupted by Hermione asking him gently if he was alright, and what was on his mind.
“‘M fine, ‘Mione, just remembered I left my notes for transfig in my room, I’m just gonna grab them and meet you guys in the Hall.” He lied, having made the split-second decision to find Malfoy and confront him.
He veered off from the path they had been taking to lunch from charms, walking in the direction of the eighth year dorms until he was out of sight. He slid into a shadowed alcove and pulled out the map, locating Malfoy’s name embarrassingly quickly.
Harry approached the table where Malfoy sat alone in the library, steps faltering when he realized he had no idea what he actually intended to say. The decision to corner him had been rash and instinctual, but he was already here now, so he summoned what remained of his patented brand of reckless courage and took the last few steps towards the table.
“Malfoy.” Harry said sharply.
Malfoy stilled momentarily before continuing to write in his elegant, looping script.
“Potter.” He replied without looking up, voice infuriatingly neutral.
“Have you been avoiding me?”
“No,” Malfoy said, still not looking up.
Harry huffed and tried again, “I haven’t seen you in our room. Not once! And you won’t even look at me! It’s just… weird,” he finished lamely.
Malfoy put his quill down slowly, and finally raised his head to meet Harry’s eyes. He looked tired, sunken eyes and dull skin. “Leave me alone, Potter.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, to insist that Malfoy say something more, sneer at him or make some derisive comment, but he’d already resumed his notetaking, and Harry wasn’t quite sure what he wanted out of this conversation anyway. He sighed and turned to leave.
He glanced back as he walked away, hoping to catch Malfoy glaring at his back, or flipping him off, or anything else that proved he still cared. He was only flipping calmly through a textbook, pushing a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his face behind his ear before picking his quill back up.
Harry wasn’t sure why Malfoy’s obvious disinterest bothered him so badly, but as he lay in bed that night, looking out over a room that appeared only half-inhabited, he concluded that this wasn’t over. He didn’t know exactly what that meant yet, but he was determined to make Malfoy crack, whatever that might look like.