Chapter 2
As the night grew deeper, Professor McGonagall entered the tower. Before we could retire for the evening, she made one final announcement: "Your dormitory assignments have been made, and they will be different from those you had in your previous years. You will share spaces with students from other houses to foster unity in these trying times."
My stomach clenched as she read out the names. "Potter, Harry, and Malfoy, Draco, will be rooming together in dorm 1." The whispers grew louder, the shock and disbelief palpable. I turned to look at Draco, his expression a mirror of mine—surprise tinged with a hint of dread. The Hat had spoken of unity, but this was a stretch even for Hogwarts.
Neville's name was called next, paired with Blaise Zabini. The Gryffindors around us exchanged surprised looks, while Neville looked as though he'd been handed a dragon egg instead of a room assignment. And there was Ron, who'd be bunking with Seamus and Dean. It wasn't the usual trio of laughter and pranks, but it was clear McGonagall had tried to keep some semblance of familiarity in our lives. Hermione with Susan Bones a girl I remember from Hufflepuff which was better than the Slytherins Nevlle and I were with
Draco's gaze met mine, and for a second, the years of hostility between us were laid bare. McGonagall's decision was bold, a clear attempt to bridge the gap between the light and the dark. But could we share a space, after all we'd been through? The whispers grew into a murmur, the room buzzing with the implications of our new living arrangements.
With a heavy sigh, I gathered my things and followed the crowd out of the common room. The stairs creaked as we climbed, each step echoing in the quiet of the night. We reached the top floor, where the walls were lined with paintings of past heroes and heroines, their eyes following us as we passed. When we stopped at the door to dorm 1, Draco's hand hovered over the handle. I could feel the tension between us, the years of rivalry and hatred thick as the fog outside. Without a word, we entered, our footsteps echoing in the silence. The room was large, with two four-poster beds and a desk for each of us. A single, flickering candle cast dancing shadows on the walls, giving the space an eerie feel.
We stood there, awkwardly, the weight of the situation pressing down on us. "Look, Potter," Malfoy finally said, his voice was cold but not unkind. "We don't have to be friends, but we do have to survive this year. Let's agree to ignore each other as much as possible."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. We had to find a way to coexist if we were going to get through this year. "Fine," I said curtly, throwing my bag onto one of the beds. "We'll just stay out of each other's way."
The room felt smaller with him in it, his presence a constant reminder of the battles we'd waged, both literal and figurative. I thought back to the early days, the sneers and the name-calling. The way he'd looked at me with such contempt, his eyes filled with a hatred I didn't understand. And yet, as the years had gone on, the lines had blurred. We'd both lost so much, both suffered in ways no one should ever have to. I remembered the moment we'd faced each other in the Room of Requirement, our wands at the ready. The air had been thick with the scent of fear and determination. The war had forced us to see each other as more than just enemies. We'd been pawns in a much larger game, manipulated by forces beyond our control. Our eyes had met, and for the first time, I'd seen something in Malfoy's gaze that wasn't cold malice. It was fear, fear for himself, for his family, and for what he had been forced to become. The realization had hit me like a physical blow. We weren't so different, after all. We were both just trying to survive in a world that had gone mad. The years of rivalry seemed stupid now compared to everything we'd been through. The Quidditch matches, the duels, the taunts that had become almost routine. As we both lay in our beds, the silence between us was deafening. The candle on the nightstand between us had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. The flickering light played tricks with Draco's features, making him look almost... vulnerable. It was a side of him I'd never seen before. The war had changed us all, stripping away the masks we'd worn so proudly in our youth. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me—the endless taunts, the battles of wills, and the moments of surprising camaraderie. Like when he had saved me from the Death Eaters in Malfoy Manor, the look of horror in his eyes when he realised what his life had become. The war had forced us to face our demons and reevaluate our loyalties.
Sleep came slowly, the anticipation of the year to come too great to be easily banished. But eventually, the rhythmic pattern of Draco's breathing lulled me into a fitful slumber.
I don't know how long I'd been asleep when the scream jolted me awake. It was Malfoy's voice, filled with terror and pain. I sat up, my heart racing, the candle now a tiny flicker, barely casting any light.
"What's happening?" I called out into the darkness, fumbling for my wand.
"It's nothing," Malfoy said his voice strained, with an edge of embarrassment. "It's just a bad dream."
I didn't move, the air in the room thick with something unspoken. His scream had pierced through the armor we'd built around ourselves, leaving us exposed and vulnerable. "Are you sure?" I asked, my voice low.
" I said it's nothing," Malfoy snapped, his voice harsh in the darkness. But I could hear the tremor in his words, the lie he was telling himself as much as he was telling me.
I climbed out of bed, my feet cold on the stone floor. The candle had almost burned out, leaving us in a gloom that felt thick enough to slice through with a knife. I approached him cautiously, the shadows playing tricks with my eyes. "Draco, it's okay," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but didn't pull away. "We all get nightmares don't worry nothing can hurt you." I tried to be comforting but honestly, I have no idea if it worked.
His eyes searched my face in the dim light, and for a moment, it was as if the years of hostility between us had never existed. "Thanks, Potter," he murmured, his voice raw. The vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the sneer that had become his trademark.
I nodded and took a step back, giving him space. "If you need anything, just say so," I offered, retreating to my bed. As I lay down, I couldn't help but wonder what haunted Malfoy's dreams. Was it the same shadow that stalked my slumbers? The faces of all those people who lost their lives. Maybe he blames himself like I do. The silence returned, but it was heavier now, laden with the weight of shared fears. I lay there, listening to his ragged breaths slowly even out. Eventually, the quiet was broken by the distant hoot of an owl, a mournful sound that seemed to drift through the very stones of the castle.
As the night dragged on, I found myself unable to shake the feeling of unease. The walls felt too close, the darkness too thick. It was as if the very air in the room was whispering secrets I wasn't meant to hear. The candle had finally guttered out, leaving us in complete darkness.
I could tell Draco was still asleep by the steady rhythm of his breathing. His face, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the window, was a study in contrasts—the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw softened by sleep, the harsh lines of his brow relaxed. His hand, which had been clenched into a fist, now rested open on the blanket, fingers slightly curled.
The silence was thick with the unspoken, and I couldn't handle it. I sat up in bed, the cold seeping through my thin pajamas. I could feel the weight of the year ahead of us, the burden of our newfound unity pressing down on my shoulders. The war had taken so much from us, and yet, we were still here.
Draco's words echoed in my mind, a stark reminder that the scars of war ran deeper than any of us cared to admit. I slid out of bed, my feet finding the cold stone floor. The moon cast a silver glow through the windows, illuminating the room just enough to navigate to the washroom. I shut the door behind me, the quiet muffled the sounds of my shaking breaths.
The cold water stung my skin as I splashed it onto my face, trying to wash away the heaviness that had settled in my chest. The reflection in the mirror was not one of the hero the wizarding world hailed me as, but of a boy who had seen too much.
The razor glinted in the moonlight, a silent temptation. The thought had been lurking in the shadows of my mind for weeks, a whisper that grew louder with each sleepless night. I reached for it, feeling the weight of the metal in my hand, and the coolness of the blade against my skin. It was a strange comfort, a form of control in a world that seemed to have none.
With a sharp intake of air, I made the first cut. The pain was immediate and intense, a white-hot line that seared through my skin. A drop of blood welled up, shimmering in the moonlight. I watched it fall, the crimson stark against the cold porcelain of the sink. It was a strange relief, a silent scream that no one could hear.
My hand trembled as I made another cut, deeper this time. The pain grew, but so did the release. Each drop of blood was a symbol of the anger and fear I'd been holding inside, spilling out into the open where it couldn't torment me anymore. The world outside our dormitory faded away, leaving only the sound of my ragged breaths and the steady drip of blood.
But as I brought the blade to my skin again, I heard a rustle from the other side of the room. My heart skipped a beat. I froze, the razor hovering over my wrist. Malfoy's voice was a hoarse whisper in the darkness. "Potter, what are you doing?"
Panic flooded me. He wasn't supposed to see this. No one was supposed to see this. I turned to face him, my hand shaking, the razor slipping from my grasp to clatter on the floor. "It's nothing," I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "Just... just a bit of light reading."
Malfoy didn't move from the doorway, his eyes wide with shock and concern. "You're bleeding," he said, his voice tight.
"It's just a nick," I lied, turning back to the sink to hide my trembling hands. "I'm fine."
But Malfoy didn't move. "Let me see," he insisted, stepping closer. I hesitated, my heart racing. But there was something in his voice that didn't allow for argument—concern, perhaps even fear. I held out my arm, the blood already starting to clot.
He took it gently, his touch surprisingly warm. His eyes searched my face, looking for answers I wasn't prepared to give. "Why?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It's... complicated," I mumbled, trying to pull away, but he didn't release my arm.
"Let me help," he said, his voice firm but gentle. It was a side of Draco Malfoy I had never seen before. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my wrist, applying gentle pressure to stop the bleeding.
We stood there for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the muffled thud of my heart in my ears. I was acutely aware of his touch, the warmth of his hand against my cold skin. "You're not fine," he said finally, his voice barely above a murmur. "What happened?"
The question hung in the air, thick with accusation and concern. I didn't know how to answer, how to explain the chaos in my head. The war had left its marks on all of us, but none quite so visible as the ones on my wrist. "It's just... I deserve it I guess" I admitted, the words coming out in a rush. "It's not fair that I survived the war when it was my fault it even happened. So many good people died, Sirius, Remus, Fred... how can I live happily when they're gone" I regretted saying it the second I opened my mouth but it's too late to take it back now.
Malfoy's grip tightened on my arm, his eyes searching my reflection in the mirror. "It's not your fault," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "You didn't want any of this to happen and everyone knows it. Trust me, the only people who should blame themselves are death eaters."
The mention of what his family forced him to be brought a flicker of anger to his eyes. I looked down at my wrist, the towel now stained with my blood. The urge to hide, to push him away, was strong, but something in his gaze kept me rooted to the spot.
"How do you deal with it?" I asked, my voice cracking. "How do you live with the things you've done, the people you've lost?"
Malfoy paused for a moment, his expression unreadable in the moonlit washroom. Then, slowly, he spoke. "You don't, Potter. Not really. You just learn to carry the weight." His eyes met mine in the mirror, and for the first time, I saw a depth to him that I hadn't noticed before.
We stood in silence, the air thick with unspoken truths and shared pain. His hand, still wrapped around my wrist, began to tremble. "We're all just trying to survive, in our own ways," he murmured, his gaze never leaving mine.
For a moment, I considered telling him about the nightmares that haunted me, about the guilt that gnawed at me like a parasite. But the words remained lodged in my throat, a silent acknowledgment that even in this newfound camaraderie, there were some things too raw to share.
Instead, I focused on the warmth of his hand and the steady pressure of the towel around my wrist. It was a strange comfort, a human connection that I hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. "I'm okay," I lied again, my voice barely above a whisper. "Let's just go back to sleep."
But as we walked back to our beds, the weight of the conversation lingered in the air. The room felt even smaller, the darkness more oppressive. We climbed into our beds, the silence between us now a tangible thing.