Draco Malfoy never thought he would return to Hogwarts.
The castle had been both a sanctuary and a prison for him—his childhood home, then the stage for the worst decisions of his life. After the war, he had been certain he would never walk through its doors again. But after much debate (and his mother’s insistence that he at least finish his education), he had reluctantly returned for the "Eighth Year Program."
This year was supposed to be a time of healing for everyone, a chance for those who had missed their final year due to the war to return and complete their studies. But healing was a complicated thing, and for Draco, it felt like a near impossibility.
His last name was a burden he couldn’t escape. The moment he stepped onto the train, he felt the weight of it pressing down on him. People whispered when he walked past, their voices like tiny knives against his skin.
"Death Eater."
"How is he allowed back?"
"Hasn’t he done enough damage?"
The worst part was that he agreed with them.
So, he kept his head down and stayed silent as the train carried him toward the place where all of his worst memories lived.
By the time he reached Hogwarts, it was clear that his presence wasn’t welcome.
No one sat next to him during the Sorting Ceremony for the first years. His old housemates—Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, even Pansy Parkinson—kept their distance. Some were angry that he had "betrayed" Voldemort; others simply didn’t want to be associated with him anymore.
The Slytherin table was no longer a place of comfort.
And the other houses? They treated him like a dangerous creature, something to be wary of but not worth engaging with.
Draco understood. He didn’t expect forgiveness.
But the silence was suffocating.
Even in class, no one partnered with him willingly. He worked alone, sat alone, ate alone. The only exception was the professors, who seemed determined to remain neutral. McGonagall, who had always been fair but firm, treated him as just another student. Slughorn, ever opportunistic, still seemed vaguely interested in him.
But everyone else?
They ignored him.
Except for one person.
Draco first noticed it during breakfast, two weeks into the school year.
He had been sitting at the farthest end of the Slytherin table, absently picking at his toast, when he felt the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze on him. It was a sensation he had become familiar with—paranoia, the ever-present fear that someone was watching, waiting for him to make a mistake.
But when he lifted his eyes, he didn’t see one of his usual skeptics.
He saw Potter.
Sitting at the Gryffindor table, across the hall, staring at him with an unreadable expression.
Draco quickly looked away. But from that moment on, he felt it constantly—Potter’s gaze on him during meals, in the corridors, in classes they shared. It was relentless.
And Draco had no idea why.
Was Potter waiting for him to slip up? To confirm that he hadn’t changed? Did he think Draco was still a threat?
Whatever the reason, it unsettled him.
So he did what he had always done when confronted by Potter’s attention—he ignored it.
But Potter didn’t stop watching.
Weeks passed, and Draco remained an outcast.
He spent most of his time in the library, tucked away in the darkest corner he could find. The only people who occasionally acknowledged him were the house-elves in the kitchens, who never judged and always gave him tea when he showed up late at night.
He avoided the common areas, never lingered in the halls, and kept his head down.
But some things were unavoidable.
One day, as he left the library, he bumped into none other than Granger.
Books tumbled from her hands, scattering across the floor. Draco flinched, bracing himself for the inevitable hostility, but when he looked up, she wasn’t sneering. She simply frowned, as if debating something internally.
Then, to his surprise, she said, "Help me pick them up, Malfoy."
Draco blinked. "What?"
"You knocked them over," she said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the books at their feet.
Draco hesitated. Was this a trap? Some kind of test?
But after a moment, he crouched down and began gathering the books. They worked in silence, neither speaking, until the last book was safely back in her arms.
Granger gave him a small nod. "Thanks."
Draco just stood there, too stunned to respond as she walked away.
It wasn’t much. But it was the first time someone had spoken to him without malice since he returned.
After that, things became stranger.
Granger didn’t avoid him anymore. She didn’t go out of her way to talk to him, but she also didn’t pretend he didn’t exist. In Potions, where they had been reluctantly paired together, she spoke to him like she would any other student.
Even Weasley seemed… not outright hostile.
One evening, as Draco was leaving the Great Hall, he overheard Weasley grumbling about an upcoming Quidditch match. Without thinking, Draco muttered, "You’ll never win if you let Finnigan play Keeper—his reflexes are atrocious."
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Weasley turned, eyes narrowing. "What?"
Draco tensed, waiting for an insult, a hex—anything. But to his shock, Weasley just huffed and said, "Yeah, well, tell that to McGonagall."
And then he walked off.
Draco stood frozen for several seconds, confused beyond reason.
Since when did Ron Weasley not immediately insult him?
Harry noticed.
At first, he had only been watching Malfoy out of curiosity.
But then he started noticing things that bothered him.
How Malfoy no longer sneered at Hermione in class. How he didn’t fight with Ron when their paths crossed.
And worse—how Hermione and Ron didn’t seem to mind Malfoy’s presence anymore.
That was his friends being… friendly with Malfoy.
It made no sense.
So, one evening, Harry cornered Malfoy outside the library.
"Why are you suddenly so chummy with Hermione and Ron?" Harry demanded.
Malfoy blinked, looking utterly unimpressed. "Didn’t realize I needed your permission to exist, Potter."
Harry clenched his fists. "You avoided them for weeks. Now, suddenly, you’re talking to them?"
Malfoy smirked, tilting his head. "Are you jealous, Potter?"
Harry flushed. "Of course not."
Malfoy stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Then why do you care so much?"
Harry didn’t have an answer.
And that terrified him.