Not Today

The train ride to Hogwarts stretched on, and as the sky outside dimmed with the coming evening, Harry found himself staring absentmindedly out the window, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. The steady hum of the train beneath them, the occasional flicker of lanterns passing by, the murmurs of students beyond their compartment—it was all so painfully familiar, yet entirely foreign at the same time.
He wanted to feel excitement, that nervous anticipation he had once had when the castle loomed in the distance, but there was nothing but dread sitting heavy in his chest.
His thoughts kept circling back to his dream. Malfoy. Had it been him? The cries. The desperation. It lingered in his mind like a fog, refusing to clear. He had never given much thought to Malfoy after the war. They had come to an unspoken understanding, especially after the trials, when Malfoy had stood in court with his mother and father, answering for their past. He had walked away from Azkaban, but his reputation had been left in ruin. Harry had seen him once or twice in the papers—mostly speculation on how the Malfoys would reintegrate into a world they had once conspired to control—but he had never spared him much more than a passing thought.
So why now?
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples as if that would shake the thoughts loose.
“You alright, Harry?” Luna’s soft, airy voice pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up to see her watching him curiously, her large, silvery eyes filled with something that looked oddly like understanding.
Harry hesitated. “Yeah,” he said automatically. “Just tired.”
Luna tilted her head, clearly not convinced, but she didn’t press. “You should get some rest then,” she said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. She was still wearing that knowing smile, and for a moment, Harry had the strange feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.
“Yeah,” he muttered, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come.
The train continued forward, pushing them closer to Hogwarts, to whatever awaited them beyond the walls of the castle. And though he tried to ignore it, to push it aside, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something—something—was waiting for him.
Or maybe, someone.
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Hogwarts Station – 8:30 PM
By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, the air had turned crisp, the sky a deep, endless black scattered with stars. Students were already beginning to file out of the train, excitement buzzing through the crowd like static. First-years huddled together, wide-eyed and jittery, while older students moved with ease, eager to return to whatever semblance of normal Hogwarts still had to offer.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione lingered at the back, taking their time gathering their belongings. He wasn’t sure if they were all reluctant to step off the train, or if it was just him, but none of them seemed in a rush.
“Come on,” Hermione finally said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “We should get to the carriages before they fill up.”
They moved with the crowd, letting themselves be carried toward the familiar path leading to the waiting Thestral-drawn carriages. Harry barely noticed the creatures anymore, their skeletal forms as natural to him now as the sky above.
Ron, however, had noticed something else. “Blimey,” he muttered under his breath. “Look who decided to show up.”
Harry followed his gaze and immediately spotted the familiar platinum-blond head moving through the crowd.
Draco Malfoy.
It was the first time he had seen him in months. He was dressed in his usual crisp school robes, but he was thinner than Harry remembered. His face was pale, almost ghostly, and his sharp features looked even more angular in the moonlight. He wasn’t surrounded by his usual entourage. No Crabbe—of course, Harry thought grimly—but not even Goyle. Instead, he walked alone, his expression carefully guarded, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the throng of students.
Harry felt something twist in his stomach. The Malfoy in front of him was different. He moved differently, carried himself differently. He wasn’t the arrogant, sneering boy Harry had spent years despising.
He was something else now.
And when Malfoy’s gaze flicked up, meeting Harry’s for the briefest of moments, there was something in his expression that sent a chill down Harry’s spine.
Recognition.
But not the usual kind. Not the hostile, venom-laced glares they had always exchanged.
This was something else.
And then, as quickly as it had happened, Malfoy turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
That was not normal.
“Creepy git,” Ron muttered beside him, shoving his hands into his pockets as they continued forward. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he still thinks he’s better than all of us.”
But Harry wasn’t so sure.
There was something about the way Malfoy had looked at him. Something that made his skin prickle, made his dream replay in his mind like a warning.
Something was wrong.
And Harry had a feeling he was going to find out what.
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Hogwarts Castle – The Great Hall
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The Great Hall had changed.
It was still the same in many ways—the floating candles, the enchanted ceiling, the four long tables filled with students. But there was something missing.
Laughter didn’t echo as loudly. The space between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables seemed wider, a silent divide lingering between them. The air was thick with something unspoken, something that made even the warm candlelight seem dimmer.
Harry sat with Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, but his mind wasn’t on the Sorting Ceremony or McGonagall’s speech. He was still thinking about Malfoy. About the way he had looked at him. About the dream. He glanced toward the Slytherin table. Malfoy was sitting at the far end, away from the other students, his head lowered slightly. He looked… tired. Harry had the strangest urge to go over there. To ask him if he was okay.
The thought startled him.
Since when did he care if Malfoy was okay?
But before he could dwell on it any longer, McGonagall’s voice echoed through the hall.
“…and finally, I want to acknowledge that this year marks a turning point for Hogwarts. We have all suffered. We have all lost. But we are here. And together, we will rebuild.” Her gaze swept over the hall, filled with something like quiet determination. “Hogwarts is not just a school. It is home. And we will make it so once more.”
The students clapped, but it was subdued.
Harry didn’t clap at all.
His eyes flicked back to Malfoy.
And that was when he saw it.
Malfoy’s hands were shaking.
Barely noticeable, just the faintest tremor. But Harry saw it.
And suddenly, he knew.
The dreams weren’t just dreams.
Something was wrong.
And Malfoy was at the center of it.
After McGonagall’s speech, the food appeared from thin air as it did the previous years. He looked down at the food on his plate and felt sick. Whatever appetite that had built up during the train ride had completely disappeared. However, he refused to let Draco take over his thoughts the way he had during 6th year, and shoved the roast beef into his mouth and ate all his food in five minutes. He felt sickly after, to say the least and Hermoine had scolded him for eating like he hadn’t in a week.
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual post-feast energy as students pushed back from their tables, stretching and murmuring about the upcoming school year. The warmth of the candlelight, the lingering scent of roast beef and pumpkin pasties—on the surface, everything felt normal.
But it wasn’t.
Harry had spent most of the evening watching Malfoy. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though they had ever been friends, or that Malfoy’s presence had ever been anything but a source of irritation. But something about the way he sat, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the table, had caught Harry’s attention.
He looked… off.
Not just quiet—plenty of people had changed after the war, carried the weight of it in different ways—but Malfoy’s change was physical. His skin was pale, even for him. But what stood out the most was the way his hands trembled as he picked at his food, his fingers twitching against the silverware.
Harry frowned.
“Earth to Harry,” Ron’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Harry said quickly, dragging his eyes away.
Ron followed his gaze and let out an unimpressed noise. “If you’re waiting for Malfoy to suddenly grow a personality worth talking to, don’t hold your breath.”
Harry forced a smirk, trying to shake off whatever strange feeling had settled in his stomach. “Right. Probably just tired.”
“Or sulking because no one cares about his family anymore,” Ron muttered.
Hermione shot him a look. “Honestly, Ron.”
But Harry barely registered their bickering. His attention drifted back to the Slytherin table, just in time to see Malfoy rise from his seat. He moved slower than usual, shoulders stiff, like he was exhausted down to his bones.
Harry’s fingers twitched against the edge of the table.
He could ask. Could approach Malfoy, make some sort of comment—you alright, Malfoy?—just to see his reaction.
But what was the point?
It wasn’t his problem.
With a quiet sigh, Harry stood and stretched. “We should head up.”
Hermione nodded, but Ron groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Bet McGonagall’s already got a stack of schedules ready to ruin my life.”
As they made their way out of the Great Hall, Harry caught one last glimpse of Malfoy disappearing down the corridor toward the dungeons.
He ignored the uneasy feeling that came with it.
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The castle was quieter at night, the distant echoes of students settling into their dormitories bouncing off the cold stone walls. The warm, flickering light of torches lined the corridors, casting elongated shadows as Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way toward Gryffindor Tower.
Ron let out a long yawn. “Can’t believe we have to start classes tomorrow. Feels like we just got here.”
“It’s literally been an hour,” Hermione said dryly.
Ron waved a hand. “Exactly. Not nearly enough time to mentally prepare.”
Harry smirked, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t sure why, but the image of Malfoy’s trembling hands still lingered in his head. He knew he was probably overthinking it. Malfoy had always been dramatic—maybe he was just tired or still bitter about his family losing influence after the war. Either way, it wasn’t his concern.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
They turned a corner, stepping into a quieter corridor where most of the foot traffic had died down. That’s when Harry saw them.
Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.
They were walking side by side, though Malfoy’s posture was stiff, his hands tucked into his robe pockets. Pansy was speaking quietly, her tone hushed but sharp, like she was scolding him about something. Malfoy wasn’t responding—just nodding occasionally, his gaze fixed ahead, as though he wasn’t entirely present in the conversation.
Hermione was the first to notice where Harry was looking. She frowned.
“That’s… unexpected,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, his brows furrowing. “Didn’t think Malfoy still had anyone left on his side.”
Pansy was one of the few Slytherins who had openly defended Malfoy during the trials, insisting that he had been forced into everything. It had earned her a fair amount of backlash, even from her own housemates. Harry vaguely recalled reading about how she had gone quiet in the months following the war, staying out of the public eye as much as possible.
It made sense that if Malfoy still had someone, it would be her.
As they passed, Harry noticed how Pansy’s hand briefly brushed against Malfoy’s arm, as if she was testing whether he’d flinch away. He didn’t, but he also didn’t acknowledge it.
“Are you even listening?” Pansy snapped suddenly, her voice still low but tinged with frustration.
Malfoy blinked, as if pulled out of a daze, and turned to her. His lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something, but after a moment, he just shook his head.
Pansy sighed, dragging a hand through her dark hair. “You’re impossible.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept walking, but the moment lingered in the air.
“Alright,” Ron said under his breath once they were out of earshot. “That was weird.”
Hermione nodded slowly. “Malfoy looked… distracted.”
Harry said nothing.
Distracted wasn’t the word he would use. Malfoy had looked absent, like he was barely registering anything around him.
But again, it wasn’t his problem.
So he ignored the way his stomach twisted uncomfortably and followed Ron and Hermione up to Gryffindor Tower.
When they entered they found that most of the common room had emptied, save for a few lingering students chatting by the fireplace. The familiar warmth of the space should have been comforting, but Harry still felt that lingering unease gnawing at him.
Malfoy’s vacant expression. Pansy’s sharp, worried tone. The way Malfoy had barely seemed there when she spoke to him.
Harry shook his head. Not my problem.
“I’m knackered,” Ron groaned as they climbed the stairs to their dormitory. “Swear the train ride gets longer every year.”
“I think you just get lazier every year,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. She stopped at the top of the staircase leading to the girls’ dorms. “Goodnight, you two. Try not to oversleep, okay?”
“Yeah, of course”, Ron said, he made Hermoine climb down a couple of steps to give her a kiss before pushing open the door to their dormitory.
The room was just as they had left it in their sixth year—rich red curtains surrounding the four-poster beds, their trunks at the foot of each one. Neville and Seamus had already gone to bed, their quiet breathing filling the space.
Ron flopped down onto his mattress with a sigh, rubbing his face. “Merlin, I forgot how good these beds are.”
Harry sat on his own bed, pulling off his shoes. He wasn’t as tired as he should have been. His mind was still too busy.
Ron cracked an eye open, glancing at him. “Alright, mate? You’ve been weird since dinner.”
Harry shrugged. “Just tired.”
Ron huffed. “That’s what you said earlier. You keep staring off like you’ve seen a bloody ghost.”
Harry hesitated, debating whether to say anything. Finally, he muttered, “It’s just… did Malfoy seem off to you?”
Ron let out a groan, rolling onto his side. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over Malfoy again.”
“I’m not,” Harry said quickly. “It’s just—did you see him? He barely said a word to Pansy. He looked like he wasn’t even there.”
Ron frowned but didn’t immediately dismiss it. “Yeah, I guess he looked a bit weird. But who cares? It’s Malfoy. Probably just sulking because no one worships his family anymore.”
Harry nodded, but it didn’t feel like sulking.
Ron yawned. “Honestly, mate, if he wants to mope around with Parkinson, let him. It’s not like it affects us.”
“It doesn’t affect me”, Harry repeated in his head.
And yet, as he climbed into bed and drew the curtains shut, Malfoy’s pale, unfocused expression lingered in his thoughts.
He turned onto his side, determined to push it away.
It wasn’t his problem.
Not at all.