ii
Malfoy and Zabini were missing from the shared dorm when Harry got back from his classes for the day, exhausted of every ounce of energy he had left to muster, and he noticed (not that he was paying attention) that their things were still sprawled across their beds. It came with the assumption that, however much it would heighten the tension, that they were here to stay.
Seemingly, everyone else was already at the pitch, waiting to begin the slightly impromptu game of Quidditch that he and Ron had hastily asked about (and received hesitant permission for) just a few hours before. He stumbled out of the room, gripping the handle of his broom and feeling the familiar bristles brush against his leg; the adrenaline was readily coursing through his veins now, chanting the bass beat of his heart whenever he was soaring loops through the skies.
He was caught in his tracks by the sound of soft laughter flowing from the deep corner of the commons, rippling with mirth as a fireplace crackled scarlet embers into the air. Hushed voices, and the scent of delicious, freshly brewed hot chocolate – it was enough to absentmindedly draw him in. He turned his head.
Slytherins , he realized with a pang, seeing the source of the noise and that they were the only other people in the otherwise empty room. Then he was hit with an overwhelming sense of confusion. Slytherins?
The sight didn’t look too much like typical Slytherin behavior. Malfoy had his head resting on Parkinson’s shoulder. Zabini and Nott were hunched over a game of Gobstones. Goyle looked like he was a hair widths’ away from falling asleep, but Bulstrode had beaten him to it, supine on her back as her breathing ebbed and flowed. The look was enough to make something tighten in Harry’s heart, the sheer… vulnerability of it all. It was a moment he halfheartedly wished he was a part of, softening the edges of a harsh world and just taking the time to bask in each others’ company.
Malfoy looked up, all of a sudden, averting his eyes from Parkinson to Harry. He cocked his head, something blazing in his eyes for a quick second – and then, like nothing had happened, returned to indifference without a further trace of distraction.
Harry pursed his lips and forced his eyes away from the scene. It would only make him more confused, this oddly wholesome quality time between a group of six known for exactly the opposite. Who had they now become, the trademarks of infamous green and silver?
No, he decided, trying to reassure himself this time. Draco Malfoy did hate him. He was going to be playing Quidditch. He would have his mind back on track in no time.
────
“Harry!” Dean was yelling. “Harry!” Seamus was also yelling. Actually, everyone seemed to be yelling at him.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. A group clad in varying house colors was waiting impatiently, and apparently had been doing so, for twenty minutes. “I couldn’t find my… broom.”
“Your broom?” Ron asked in disbelief. “I would’ve thought, after all these years, you would’ve at least have gotten a little better at lying–”
“Don’t heckle him too much,” Ginny shook him off. “Hey.”
“Gin,” Harry acknowledged, smiling. She gave him a fist bump. They had broken it off, on good terms, of course, but it was convenient that they were in different years and didn’t have to cross paths much. With the lack of interaction, he didn’t mind having her around for a game of Quidditch every once in a while – she was a brilliant flyer, anyway.
“Let’s kick off, then, now that Harry’s here to be our Seeker,” Parvati Patil grinned. She hadn’t been a frequent presence on the pitch, but she was participating now with the same excuse as many inexperienced others: to let out the built-up stress, to enjoy, to live, the way they always expected they would be able to.
The air was crisp with the cool petrichor of yesterday’s rain. There was the thrill of it all, and the maneuvering of the broom, coming back naturally to him like he was performing Expelliarmus. One turn, one plummet to the ground, then a smooth ascent, fiercely struggling Snitch in the palm of his gloved hand. Victory.
In the horizon, the sun had begun its almost-imperceptible descent, flooding the surroundings with a dazzling pink, final stretches of sun filtering through the stands and the goalposts. The energy was near electric, coursing with the adrenaline of his beloved Wizarding sport. And he felt just a little more vital again.
It was easy to slip back into the gameplay even after so long, he thought happily, hunting through the chaos for a sign of anything golden. Ron was missing the majority of his blocks from across the pitch, but really, did it even matter in the end?
They were knackered to the brink of collapse by the end of it and Neville was the one to suggest returning back to the Great Hall for dinner first. Met with a collective round of applause for everyone’s effort, they inched back to the castle, sweat trailing beads down their foreheads but energized all the same. Ron exchanged a glance with him, as if to say you good, mate?
Nodding, Harry clapped him on his shoulder, making him buckle, and grin even wider.
The moment they made it back into the Great Hall, he cast his eyes across the throng, looking for Hermione, wanting to assure her that he was now, in fact, completely fine and her worries were now unwarranted. It took him less than five seconds to spot her bushy brown hair at the very side of the Eighth Year table, but barely even one to then recognize the person sitting next to her.
His insides twisted.
────
“Parkinson?” Ron looked downright appalled. “But– but even after– we told her how difficult it was to room with Malfoy and Zabini, and now she’s– oh, Hermione–”
Harry glanced over. Parkinson was laughing, pointing at something in a book laid across the table. He scrutinized Hermione’s reaction carefully for any sign of hesitance, but she simply just rolled her eyes playfully, reaching out to motion to another bit of the book’s contents. Zabini said something to the both of them, drawing out a giggle from both girls, and then Harry felt like he was very nearly about to pass out right there.
“Did something happen when we were out?” Ron asked, shock still contorting his face. “I mean, ‘Mione doesn’t really play, so she didn’t come this time, I guess… and speak of the devil…”
“Hey,” Hermione muttered, taking a seat across from the pair, cheeks flushed. “How was Quidditch?”
“How was Parkinson?” Ron raised an eyebrow. Harry looked at her, a miserable attempt at copying Ron’s suspicious expression.
Hermione turned pink. “Oh!” she squeaked, running a hand nervously through her hair. “Merlin, look, she apologized to me when you guys were out, her and Malfoy, Zabini and Nott. I was by myself in the library and seemingly Goyle and Bullstrode were asleep, and I wasn’t expecting anything, but they came, and they gave me some… insight, and it seemed genuine. So I just–”
“Genuine?” Ron said, aghast, looking at Harry for support. “Is she Imperiused?”
“Ron!” Hermione wailed. “Look, I don’t trust them completely, and I certainly will not let my guard down, but simply just being civil classmates can not hurt. The War is over, and you were all out, and they kept me company and it truly was not that bad. She looked nearly in tears.” Then, when no one looked convinced, “I have to be her roommate. Don’t be daft.”
“Not that bad?” Ron dragged his cheeks down with his hands. “Bloody hell, she is Imperiused.”
"Hermione, we may not be throwing punches in the hallways with them anymore, but we're not gonna talk to them like nothing happened. You can't forget everything they've done to you," Harry said quietly. His mind drifted to the scene in the commons, so serene, peaceful. He shook it away. "To all of us."
"They were just kids," Hermione pleaded, looking like she didn't want to continue this conversation any longer. "It was hard for them too. Give them a chance."
"How are you so sure Parkinson's not just manipulating you into doing what she wants you to do?" Ron frowned defensively, narrowing his eyes.
"The War is over!" Hermione shrieked all of a sudden, and the two boys stumbled, taken aback. "They all regret doing a lot of things, alright — they all do, and they're trying to fix that. Harry, did you know that Malfoy and Neville are rather friendly now? Malfoy paid him a visit, you know, and they got along rather well– the boys took sessions of fundraising in Muggle London too–”
"What?" Harry murmured, going a shade paler than he was before.
"Look, what Parkinson tells me is that, of course, it’s only implied, but Malfoy might have been jealous instead of just meaninglessly discriminative," Hermione interrupted, cutting off Ron with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You had a large, accepting family, Ron. Harry, the entire world admired you. He was always complaining about my top marks. He might’ve been jealous.”
“And he acted on it,” Ron seethed. “In such a way to make our lives miserable.”
Hermione flung her hands in the air. “I don’t want to argue.” And she stalked off, muttering about how there was no point in keeping decade-old grudges.
“You snooze, you lose, Dean!” Seamus was guffawing when Harry snapped out of his daze, triumphantly holding a large slice of treacle tart in his hand. Ron had settled for leaving the matter further undisputed, and was now wrestling for said slice across the table.
Harry frowned, shoving his fork violently into a side of roast beef. So much for Quidditch. His thoughts were a tangle again.
────
He didn’t see Hermione for the rest of the night. Ron spent his evening nearly hurling his dinner out over a game of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans with a small huddle of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Moonlight had begun spilling across the commons now, luminescent streaks of silver sneaking through window sills as the moon climbed the horizon.
Frustration twined around him like ribbons as he made a lazy ascent up to his room. He flung open the door, to see Zabini sitting on his bed, engrossed in a book. He raised his head. Harry steeled himself.
Zabini looked back down. “Tired?” he asked, quietly.
Harry coughed. “Are you reading muggle?”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“N–no,” he faltered. “Is it any good?”
“It’s great,” Zabini shrugged. “I picked it up in London.” Muggle London, Harry recalled abruptly, the words of a harangue by his best friend. “Fun,” he blurted, dragging his feet into the shower, hoping that the searing hot water would wash away his dilemmas.