One
The rain lashed against the windows of Malfoy Manor, its rhythmic sound muffled by the thick glass. Inside, the drawing room exuded an air of quiet nostalgia, with its ornate furniture and dim lighting that seemed to carry the weight of years gone by. The soft crackle of the fireplace cast flickering shadows, though the remnants of the Dark Lord’s reign left an eerie chill in the room, as if the manor itself could remember the horrors it had witnessed. The war had left its scars on everyone, and nowhere was that more evident than in the faces of the Slytherins gathered in the manor’s drawing room.
Draco Malfoy stood near the fireplace, a glass of fine elf-made wine in hand. His platinum hair gleamed in the firelight, a stark contrast to the stormy expression in his pale blue-grey eyes. His once proud face was now marked with signs of fatigue and wear. The trials had ended, Azkaban had loomed over him, but now, he and his friends were free.
"So," he said with a wry smile, his voice carrying an edge, "this is what a reunion looks like. Fewer hexes than I expected."
Theodore Nott, lounging casually in an armchair, grinned. "Give it time. Blaise hasn’t made a snarky comment yet, which is usually the catalyst."
Blaise Zabini, sitting with his usual composed air, sipped his drink before responding, "I’m saving my wit for something worthwhile. Nott, though, your fashion sense might be a good start."
Pansy Parkinson rolled her jade-green eyes, arms crossed as she leaned against the back of a chair. "Good to see some things never change," she said with a sharp tone, though there was a weary edge to it. "Merlin knows, we need the familiarity."
Draco’s smirk faltered as he glanced at the rain-streaked windows. "Familiarity," he murmured, almost to himself. “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was softer than they remembered, no longer laced with arrogance.
“Not like we had much else to do,” Pansy muttered, earning a sharp glance from Daphne.
Theo sighed. "She’s right, though. We’re all just… floating, aren’t we? Released, but tethered. Free, but not really."
“You mean we’re all under a bloody microscope,” Blaise said bitterly. “Every move, every word, under scrutiny. Waiting for us to mess up.”
“And waiting to remind us of what we did—or didn’t do,” Adrian added grimly.
Astoria’s voice was soft but steady as she spoke. “But we survived.”
“Did we?” Daphne’s question lingered in the air like an approaching storm.
No one dared break the silence that followed, each of them lost in their thoughts.
It was Theo who broke the silence, raising his glass with a wry smile. “Well, cheers to survival,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a hint of bitterness.
Draco snorted. “Survival. Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”
Gregory Goyle shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat, his large frame seeming out of place among the elegant furniture. "You’re not the only one, Malfoy," he said gruffly. "We’ve all got our ghosts."
Pansy’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and sardonic. "Come on, Greg. You make it sound like we’re here to mourn." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. "Though, I suppose, in a way, we are."
They fell into silence again, the weight of their shared past pressing heavily on them. Draco finally sat down, his hands clenched on the table. “I don’t know how to move forward,” he admitted. “I don’t even know what forward looks like.”
“Seventh year,” Daphne said, her voice brittle. “Hogwarts, again. Can you imagine the stares? The whispers?”
“They’ll hate us,” Astoria said flatly. “And why wouldn’t they?”
"Hogwarts isn’t going to welcome us with open arms," Draco said. "We’ll be scrutinized, vilified, blamed. But we’ve faced worse."
"Speak for yourself," Pansy muttered. "The glares will be unbearable." She leaned closer to Daphne, her voice low and bitter. "Do you think they’ll ever see us as anything other than Death Eaters’ lackeys? We’re walking scars to them."
Daphne’s eyes, the color of the sea, were calm as she replied, "We don’t owe them anything, Pansy. Our redemption isn’t for them—it’s for us."
Astoria, ever the optimist, added gently, "But we can show them we’ve changed. That we’re more than our families or the choices we made during the war. Whatever comes, we still have each other."
“Do we?” Blaise’s voice was barely above a whisper. He stared at the ceiling, dark eyes filled with something unreadable. “We’re all running from something. The past, the future, ourselves. Whatever we had back then… it’s gone.”
Theo grinned. “He’s not wrong. We’re a right mess, aren’t we?”
Draco’s expression hardened. “We’re not a mess. We’re… adapting. That’s what Slytherins do, isn’t it? We survive. We adapt. We move forward. We face whatever comes next.”
Astoria spoke gently but firmly. “We can. And we will. The past doesn’t define us. It shapes us, but it doesn’t own us.”
Blaise tilted his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Well said, Greengrass. Maybe you should’ve been the one making speeches during the trials.”
Draco smirked. “Would’ve been a sight. Little Astoria standing up to the Wizengamot.”
Astoria blushed but smiled, the warmth in her expression brightening the room. “Someone had to speak for us. And if it weren’t for Harry Potter and the others…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping.
Gregory’s lips tightened into a thin line. “The Golden Trio,” he said neutrally. “They… surprised me. Didn’t expect them to speak up for us.”
“None of us did,” Daphne agreed. “But they did. And here we are.”
“They didn’t do it out of kindness,” Blaise snapped. “They did it because they’re Gryffindors. Hero complex.”
“Maybe,” Draco said quietly, “but they didn’t have to. They could’ve let us rot.”
Adrian Pucey, who had been standing by the drinks table, raised his glass. "To what comes next, then," he said. "Whatever that is."
The group exchanged uncertain but willing glances. One by one, they lifted their glasses, the soft clink of crystal cutting through the tension. For a moment, the firelight seemed to soften their hardened expressions, offering a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty.
The evening wore on, and the conversations broke into smaller clusters.
Theo leaned toward Draco, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "How’s the Manor treating you these days? Still haunted by the past, or have the ghosts moved out?"
Draco’s lips twitched in a faint smile. "They’re not the moving type," he replied dryly. "But I’ve made peace with them. Mostly."
Theo grinned. "You’ve gone soft. Azkaban really did a number on you."
Draco shot him a sharp look, though amusement flickered in his eyes. "And you’re still insufferable. Glad to see prison didn’t ruin your charm."
The conversation shifted as they spoke of better times—before the war, before the darkness. They reminisced about Quidditch matches, late-night escapades in the common room, pranks, and parties. For a brief moment, laughter broke through the gloom.
“Remember when Pansy hexed the Gryffindor banners to sing off-key?” Blaise grinned.
“I was brilliant,” Pansy replied, a trace of her old self shining through.
Laughter, tentative but genuine, echoed in the room. For the first time in months, they felt a spark of their former camaraderie.
Then, it happened.
A loud crack echoed from another room, shattering their fragile moment of joy. They froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks.
“What the hell was that?” Theo whispered.
Draco was the first to stand, instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn’t there—another condition of their release.
“Stay here,” he ordered, though he knew they wouldn’t listen. Together, they moved toward the source of the noise, hearts pounding in unison.
When they entered the room, their jaws dropped.
“What the hell…” Blaise’s voice trailed off.
And with that, their fragile peace shattered into something new.