Chapter 4
Harry had thought life would be easy after the war. For years, Voldemort hung over him like a shadow, infecting his mind. He hadn’t had any recourse, even in sleep, as nightmares plagued him constantly. At least, originally he had thought that they were nightmares. He saw visions of tense pureblood meetings in dark rooms, of Nagini regurgitating the bones of a muggle in the Malfoy cellars, of Malfoy himself being tortured, raw screamings echoing off the empty halls. He’d wake up with a start, drenched in sweat, his scar emanating a searing pain. Eventually, he came to understand that the dreams weren’t figments of his imagination but rather scenes from Voldemort’s own mind, connected to his own since birth. Bile had risen in his throat when he learned that the scenes in his mind were real, that the people in them were truly dead, and if not dead, on the brink of death.
He had thought that the anger inside him was another way Voldemort was influencing his emotions, another trick, another manipulation. He was wrong. Ironically enough, it seemed as though there was even more to do after the war. And hadn’t he already done enough? He played the role that he never asked for, that was forced onto him as a child in his crib. The boy who lived. He was paraded at charity events hosted by the ministry, sent to hospitals to visit war victims, and chased relentlessly by the press. He spent the month of June in Grimmauld Place and incinerated all incoming newspapers. Fatigue set in, deep in his bones. But there was still more to be done. Hermione said that he ought to take a break for a while. When was the last time you did something out of desire rather than obligation? She had asked him. He hadn’t responded. And when the call came to start on the Reconstruction, he answered.
Hermione and Ron hadn’t been there to rebuild Hogwarts. Hermione spent the summer in Australia, trying to piece together fragments of her parents' memories. Ron went for emotional support. Harry felt guilty not being there to help her. Every mess he had been in, Hermione was right there, sludging through it with him. But she had insisted that he stay. Hogwarts is your home, Harry. I know that you need to be there right now. She promised to write and when the time came, they said their tearful goodbyes. Ron, Harry suspected, was just excited to spend some alone time with his girlfriend. Honestly, Harry was happy for him. Since Fred’s death, Harry often found Ron up early in the morning at the Burrow, with red rimmed eyes and deep set lines.
Back at Hogwarts, Harry found a fragile peace in the methodical nature of rebuilding. Working with his hands day by day got him out of his head, which was frankly a scary place to be. At night, he closed his eyes and saw corpses strewn across the staircases, all the people that he couldn’t save. They were counting on you. A voice in his head said. Sod off, he replied. And if some days his hands trembled with such force that he wasn’t able to hold his wand properly, well, that was no one’s business. A few people tried to approach him about it regardless. McGonagall subtly let him know that the Hogwarts faculty had expanded to include a Mind Healer for students affected by the war. Harry told her in no uncertain terms that he had no desire to share his mind with anyone else ever again, thankyouverymuch. Besides, he couldn’t even understand himself. He had magical outbursts, which he hadn’t had in years, since he was a child. When he became irate, glass around him would shatter, a small flame would grow into a roaring fire, and his magic would flare wildly. And he became irate often.
When the school year began, Harry was swept up into the quotidian routine. He played chess with Ron next to the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room. He sat in the library with Hermione. And when he became too agitated, when his body needed to release all his pent up emotions, he’d go for a fly. From above the Hogwarts grounds, everything appeared more manageable. In the air, there was no one to hold him to an impossibly high expectation. He loved the chill wind on his face and the feeling in his stomach when he plunged towards the ground, pulling up at the last moment. In the air, he wasn’t the Savior. He was just Harry. From his broom, he had a birds eye view of the student population. It was nice to be a spectator rather than a participant every so often. And so, perched on top of his Firebolt, Harry noticed things that escaped the notice of others.
The first change that he noticed was Malfoy. If it was even possible, Malfoy looked even worse than he did when Harry last saw him at the trial, and that was saying something. There, he had been a shadow of his former self. Where the Malfoy Harry knew was haughty, pompous, and conceited, this Malfoy was silent, uncertain, and passive. He had changed physically as well. The boy that Harry remembered was obsessed with self grooming. How many times had Malfoy mocked Harry’s poor excuse for a hair style? Don’t fret Potter, he would say. I can donate a hair potion to your cause. Malfoy’s own hair, of course, was a constant topic of discussion, especially amongst the female students. Not that Harry was paying attention, but it was difficult to ignore. Platinum blonde that glowed in the sunlight, giving the little demon a sort of makeshift halo. He couldn’t stand the git, but even he could see that. Of course, Malfoy knew the attention that his precious locs attracted him and he tended to them constantly. Harry had even overheard from Pansy Parkinson that Malfoy used two different kinds of shampoo potions (cleansing and then moisturizing, both green apple scented). Then, he slicked his hair back, not a strand out of place.
Well, that was before. Now Malfoy’s hair was dull and lackluster. It was as if all of the vitality had been siphoned from his being. He wandered the halls like a ghost, eyes trained on the floor. Harry didn’t see him speak with anyone, not even the other Slytherins. He hardly showed up in the Great Hall for meals, which explained his dramatic weight loss. Malfoy had always been thin, but this was new, even for him. He looked–fragile. The extra fabric in his robes pooled around him. His collarbones jutted out from underneath his button down. It was concerning. So if Harry happened to keep an eye on Malfoy, just to make sure that he didn’t throw himself off of the Astronomy Tower, then that was perfectly alright. And good thing that Harry was keeping an eye on him, because it seemed like he wasn’t the only student who couldn’t let go of the past.
When he found Malfoy moaning in pain on the floor, with two Gryffindors lording over him, he saw red. Did these morons think that they were the only people who lost anyone during the war? Did they think that they had the right to extoll justice, to act as judge, jury and executioner on any poor sap that was weak enough? Harry had vouched for Malfoy himself because he wanted people to see that the war wasn’t black and white. That both himself and Malfoy had been coerced to different ends. And now, students who didn’t even fight in the war thought that they had the right to attack an unarmed student? He’d be damned if he let that happen.
But it was alright. He took care of it. After carrying a sleeping Malfoy into his dorm room and getting several curious stares from the other Syltherins (Harry was in a right state and dared them to say something), Harry dealt with the two Gryffindors. Suffice to say, after a firm dressing down from McGonagall, detention for the rest of the term, and some not so subtle threats from Harry, there wouldn’t be a repeat incident. And Harry was going to make sure of it. He had a plan. No one would dare to bother Malfoy while Harry was around. Instead of getting out of bed at the last minute and taking the seat Hermione saved him in Potions, he was going to get there early and sit next to Malfoy. That would send a message. Unfortunately, the next day, he fell asleep in the shower.
“Mate, you in there?” Ron shouted from the room. “I can’t be late for potions again, Slughorn has it out for me.”
Harry snapped out of his daze. Late? For Potions?! His plan was already failing and he’d hardly started to implement it. He rushed out of the shower, dripping wet. He ran into the bedroom, vigorously toweling himself dry.
“Alright, you don’t have to hurt yourself…” Ron said, wide eyed. Harry flew to his closet, jumping around the room like a madman trying to pull his trousers up. “Slughorn favors you.”
“It’s not Slughorn I’m worried about.” Harry responded, becoming frustrated with the buttons on his shirt. He tugged his robes over his head and grabbed his schoolbag, running out of the dormitories. When he arrived in the classroom, he breathed a sigh of relief. As expected, there Malfoy was, sitting in a corner of the room, looking out the window. He seemed to be deep in thought as he worried his bottom lip. Harry marched up to the empty seat next to him.
“This seat taken?” As soon as he spoke, Malfoy’s entire body tensed up like a spring. Had he scared him?
Malfoy turned his head towards Harry. His eyes were as round as saucers, his lips slightly parted in surprise. Harry almost lost his resolve, but he was a Gryffindor goddamnit! He didn’t get nervous, he had nerve. Without waiting for a response, he sat down and started pulling out his textbooks. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He said, avoiding the eyes of all of the students staring at them. He gave Malfoy what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Malfoy looked away. That was the other big change with Malfoy–he didn’t talk anymore. In more ways than one, his behavior resembled that of a frightened animal. Harry looked straight ahead, willing Slughorn to arrive. His hair dripped with water, cold and damp on his shoulders. Suddenly, he felt a blanket of warmth cover him, magic tingling his scalp and drying him off. He turned towards Malfoy, who still wasn’t looking at him. But his wand was in his hand, had he–did Malfoy perform a drying spell on Harry? Harry’s face broke into a smile. Finally, Slughorn walked into the class, ending any further discussion. Harry got out a piece of scrap paper and a quill. He passed the note to Malfoy, whose eyes widened. Harry suppressed a laugh. He didn’t think Malfoy would appreciate that. And if there was a bit more color to Malfoy’s face, Harry didn’t notice.