Chapter 2
— 6 months later —
“D’you think Malfoy’s lookin’ kinda… off?” Harry broke the silence, aiming for nonchalant as he stretched his legs out along the Hogwarts Express seat.
Hermione looked up from her stack of syllabi for their 8th year classes, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She said nothing. Harry fidgeted in his seat, overly warm in his new, too-tight robes. …..It was just a question…
“Mate, could you at least wait until we get there to start again with all this?” Ron complained, diffusing the awkward gap that Harry’s question had left, with a dramatic draping of himself across Hermione’s shoulders. “This is the third time you’ve asked, and Hermione and I haven’t even seen the ferret!”
In Harry’s defense, Malfoy had been right in front of them on the platform, clear as day. At least before catching sight of the familiar trio, and ducking behind an overflowing luggage cart steered by a harrowed-looking woman. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Hermione and Ron had been too otherwise occupied to notice.
And even from a distance, it wasn’t difficult to see that Malfoy looked different… even more different than when he had appeared at his court hearing hunched and meek or given his stuttered apologies and thanks to Harry for his testimony, an deep flush unfurling throughout his face.
“...Right, yea…” Harry decided to change gears, “Who do you think is gonna be the new Head of Gryffindor this year, since McGonagall’s busy and all…”
Hermione launched into a tirade about abhorrent lack of faculty in active mentoring positions and its harmful effects, particularly in the aftermath of a values-driven war.
Harry looked out the window and watched the familiar Scottish countryside slip by.
After some time (and the ingestion of huge quantities of Chocolate Frogs), the Hogwarts Express creaked to a stop at the train terminal. They had arrived.
Stepping out, Harry arched his back trying to relieve some muscle tension and swung his arms back and forth. On a turn, his elbow slammed into someone with a nasty crunch.
“Hell, sorry ma-” Harry hurriedly retracted his torso and turned, before realizing he had just given Draco sodden Malfoy a bloody nose. A heavy pause passed.
Harry waited expectantly, anticipating jeers about his graceless, mannerless, Scarhead self. His fingers twitched with impatience.
He didn’t expect that Malfoy, blood dripping into his mouth even whilst he tried to staunch the flow with his sleeve, would keep his eyes downcast, the picture of deference – and wasn’t that just wrong in so many ways – and scurry towards the waiting fleet of boats.
“Welcome, students, back to Hogwarts. For our incoming first years, we are overjoyed to have you,” McGonagall greeted the Great Hall, her voice achingly familiar. She looked more exhausted than Harry had ever seen before.
“We are living during a time that will go down in history. We have all suffered, all triumphed, and now we must come together to rebuild what was lost. It must be stronger–we must be stronger than ever before. I know it is not fair to ask this. For some of you, violence was your first introduction to the magical world and for that I am deeply sorrowful. But we must leverage that, use it to find the heart in ourselves and in each other.
Heed the lessons of the past. Free yourself of your prejudices and hatred, though it may ache at times. In doing so, you will heal. Search within. We are here for each other. To learn, grow… and love.” Her voice remained steady as she announced the start of the meal, eyes brighter than usual. Harry could acknowledge her perspective, though he disagreed.
The opening banquet felt more like a lucid dream than anything. The clamoring of hungry students, the air buzzing with pleasantries as friends caught up with each other.
Ron piled his plate high with turkey legs and meatloaf while Hermione looked on with vague disgust.
Even Neville had a small, fond smile as he listened to one of Luna’s stories, his eyes roving her face while she gestured emphatically. Only Ginny, silently picking at her food, seemed to share his reticence.
Before he had even realized, muscle memory pulled his gaze towards the Slytherin table. Malfoy was seated at a distance from the other students staring at the untouched plate in front of him. Blaise and Pansy chatted, their tense shoulders the only marker belying discomfort. Harry idly wondered where Goyle was, if he had returned to Hogwarts.
Malfoy, as if sensing he was being watched, jerked his head up meeting Harry’s gaze. Harry realized what he’d registered as being “off” at the station– his eyes are a different shade of grey… Now Harry was in no way artistically inclined, but it was apparent how Malfoy’s once liquid silver irises were a shade darker and bluer than before. It looked wrong. Something was wrong.
What the fuck? Harry cut that thought off, uncomfortable. It must be as Hermione had said during those early days after the war, when he had paced restlessly at all hours of the day and once punched a wizard on the street for looking at him in what he had been sure was a suspicious manner.
He had spent so long having to find danger that now his brain was trained to see it everywhere.
He pointedly turned his focus to Ron, now on a third plate of pumpkin pie, and attempted a grin while serving himself some treacle tart. It tasted like parchment.
When the feast had ended, and the food remnants magicked away, McGonagall stood again, “Students are dismissed. Prefects please direct 1st years to their respective dormitories. 8th years are to remain in the hall. Goodnight.”
A murmur wound through the crowd with her last sentence. Susan Bones nudged Hannah Abbott. Seamus looked curious.
“What d’you think she’s gonna say?” he asked.
Hermione sniffed. “It’s almost certainly a message about Inter-House unity. As the senior students, many of whom had… central roles in the war,” she eyed Harry and Ron, "it’s important that we set a clear example.”
“I hope we’re gonna get Quidditch privileges,” Dean interjected. Harry silently agreed.
“Eighth years,” McGonagall started. “Please let me be the first to express my gratitude to each and every one of you,” Her gaze lingered on the Slytherin table, where the remaining students seemed to have shrunk in on themselves. Harry wondered when Bulstrode and Goyle had arrived.
“Each of you has returned bearing greater burdens than should ever be expected. I will not patronize you with rehashings of battles we all experienced, but I would hope that you will all keep in mind that the perpetrators of our sufferings have faced the Wizengamot.”
“There is no place for blind justice in this castle. In the interest of assured cooperation and respect for Hogwarts tradition, you will be relocated to a separate tower. Though I do not expect you to erase any loyalty you may have to your prior Houses, there will be no such division within your year. Roommate assignments have been posted in the common room.”
She inspected the crowd with piercing eyes. “Though I may be serving as Headmaster this year, I will never be too busy to speak with you… Any of you.”
With that, she dismissed the 8th years to find their new dorm.
“What a pain in the arse,” Ron groaned. “Is it really too much to ask for one normal year. What if I end up with one of the snakes- ow, Hermione!” He mock-rubbed his arm, and looked dolefully at his much-smaller girlfriend.
Harry ignored the couple, turning his head to watch the former Slytherins who were hanging back. It didn’t… sound so bad if he was to room with them. Well… one of them, but Harry wasn’t comfortable with unpacking that thought .
Their new common room was nice, despite lacking the Gryffindor-typical hominess Harry associated with the castle. The walls and carpeting were colored a rich purple with silver accents, which Harry assumed to be their new colors.
There were no well-loved beanbags or overly stuffed sofas, but the velvet loveseats looked welcoming enough and the tastefully placed candlesticks created a near-sensual ambiance. It had the overall effect of someplace a rich noble might have lived in.
Near the entrance, guarded by a statue of a young girl amidst a flock of doves, her arms raised in a twirl, a bulletin board announced the new room assignments. He flinched when a hand touched his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Luna apologized, peering up through purple square-framed glasses that caused her eyes to appear bulbous. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your new room assignment,”
“Er… what?”
“With Draco. You two are beautifully matched,” Luna continued mildly. Her hand was still on his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s discomfort.
Harry’s head spun. He briefly wondered if he had entered an alternate universe, one in which Luna had not been tortured and held prisoner in his childhood arch-nemesis’s basement for months.
“I hope you have a wonderful and Splinkle-filled night, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Luna glided away, unaware or uncaring of the utter chaos Harry’s mind had just been thrown into. Hannah Abbott followed not far behind.
Splinkles? She called him… Draco?... The syllables felt unfamiliar and awkward even to think.
“Rough luck, mate,” Ron’s arm clapped around Harry’s back, pretending not to notice his startle. “Paired with the ferret and all. I got Smith. Could’ve been worse, I s’pose,”
“Mm,” Harry could only muster a noncommittal response, heart still in his throat.
Hermione walked up, flanking Harry’s other side.
“Harry?” she asked cautiously, eyes carefully assessing his face. She was no doubt worried about his current emotional state, specifically whether or not his magic was going to accidentally catch something (or someone, but they had all agreed not to talk about that ) on fire.
“I’m fine, ‘Mione,” he wondered if his smile looked as much like a grimace as it felt.
“I’m sure you could try to talk to McGonagall if you wanted,” Hermione continued to murmur into his ear, her voice intentionally pitched to be low and soothing.
Harry wasn’t sure how to explain that he wasn’t upset, at least not the way that Hermione was thinking. In fact, he was almost taken aback at the curling sensation in his lower abdomen at the thought of sleeping in the same room as Malfoy.
“I’m really okay, Hermione,” he gritted out. “Just tired. Gonna head to bed. G’night,” with a gentle touch to her forearm, and a slightly rougher pat to Ron’s shoulder, Harry turned towards his new room… and his new roommate.
He paused in front of the door, debating whether he should knock. It seemed intrusive to just walk in, but… he had never knocked with any of his mates in Gryffindor.
It would be weirder to start now, he decided. Plus there might not even be anybody within. He opened the door.
Malfoy was standing close to his bed, dressed in satin blue pajamas. The top was halfway unbuttoned, Malfoy’s hands frozen mid-twist. The bottoms were slightly long, strangely untailored, and made him appear overall younger and softer than Harry had ever seen before.
Malfoy’s eyes were wide and startled, looking apprehensive like Harry might start flinging Unforgivables.
Harry flushed, without being sure why, averting focus towards his own trunk. Hesitant to disrupt the strange silence that had settled over the two of them, he rummaged for his own sleep clothes – a worn red, long-sleeve shirt and black sweatpants. He paused, resisting the compulsive urge to retreat to the bathroom to change.
He wasn’t sure if it was typical of arch-rivals turned tentative “not-enemies” turned roommates to feel uncomfortable being half-naked around each other, but Harry had that feeling in spades. For his part, Malfoy seemed intent on keeping his back to Harry whilst he did up the remaining buttons and fiddled with his collar. Ponce.
Steeling himself, Harry started stripping, both extremely aware and highly regretful that he hadn’t been keeping up with Quidditch workouts.
Hearing rustling from across the room, Harry peered out of the corner of his eyes in a definitely subtle, good job Harry way. Malfoy had crawled into bed, his back remained resolutely turned towards Harry. Only the very top of his white blonde hair was visible over the thick royal purple blankets.
He finished changing quickly, before retreating to his own inviting comforters. The lights extinguished with a wave of his hand, he began to settle in.
Harry paused.
“G’night, Malfoy,” he whispered, before setting his usual Silencing charms and downing a prescription Dreamless Sleep potion that only occasionally worked.
Harry stared upwards, the darkness obstructing any real view of the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come for a long time.
◇◇◇◇◇◇◇
They lapsed into a wary, but agreeable routine that continued without issue for exactly 9 days, during which they had precisely one spoken exchange. It had been on a particularly homework-laden weeknight, and had gone as such:
“Malfoy, when’s our Unity reflection essay due again?” Harry had asked at 2am, not keen to attempt waking anyone else and not positive the answer wouldn’t be “in 6 hours, idiot”. He told himself it was definitely not because he was slowly being driven mad by Malfoy’s purposeful and continued Not-Looking at him.
There was a long silence. Harry began to think that Malfoy was either ignoring him or hadn’t heard.
“Next Friday,” An answer almost too soft to be heard, but an answer nonetheless.
Harry hummed in recognition. “Thanks,”
“Mm.” No other sound was made except for the rustling pages of Malfoy’s textbook.
Their days were already merging into a blurry, repetitive existence of classes, homework, and looming deadlines. The new purple and gray-striped robes clashed horribly with Ron’s hair, though Harry couldn’t help notice that the colors perfectly suited Malfoy’s pale complexion.
But, the most memorable parts of his days (and nights) were the array of soft-looking pajamas that Malfoy had. In addition to dark blue, he had heather gray, taupe, and Slytherin green pairs. One night, he had even come out in a knee length white nightgown with an open neckline and cuffed sleeves.
It had taken all the willpower that Harry had used when he’d pretended to be dead all those months ago in the Forbidden Forest (Dramatic? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.) to keep a straight face and give his cursory nod. And if the next morning in the shower, Harry’s faceless fantasy donned a soft white slip of a thing that rode higher and higher, well that was pure coincidence.
Harry had known that Malfoy was academically-inclined and dedicated to his studies, so he had nearly accepted Malfoy’s long hours spent in the library at face value as a simple expression of studiousness.
He could even write off Malfoy’s reluctance to perform even the slightest amount of magic could be attributable to war trauma, or Ministry-placed restraints Harry wasn’t privy to.
Harry supposed that it wasn’t all that strange how Malfoy hardly ate anymore, given how he’d grown skeletally thin during their 6th year, or that he never looked up, even at his friends.
A couple of times Zabini had knocked on their room, calling Malfoy out (“Draco,” Zabini would mutter through the door. Harry was not jealous of Zabini’s ability to use Malfoy’s given name.) for homework or whatever else it was they did together. Malfoy never responded, would simply stand up and quietly slip out without a single glance in Harry’s direction.
“Harry, I am staging an intervention!”
“What?” Harry looked up halfway through a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
Ron continued, “You can’t keep going like this, mate. I know this year has been… all kinds of weird and everything… but it’s just not healthy! I really do get it you know with…Mum and…” Ron still couldn’t say Fred’s name most days.
Harry tried to look at Hermione, to implore for some kind of answer or help. He’d just wanted to eat his lunch. Maybe spice up his day with a new pudding flavor.
“Harry…” Hermione glared at Ron before turning softer eyes onto him. “Ron and I are just concerned… you’ve said all of two words to us these past couple weeks and we don’t want to push you but…” she trailed off.
“You’re rooming with Malfoy… and we just want to make sure you’re doing… okay,” she finished.
“Oh,” Harry felt cornered, unsure what to do with this unexpected and genuine show of concern. “Uhm… thanks guys… really. But I’m fine. We don’t talk, just kinda go about our own thing. It’s fine. I’m doing fine, promise,”
“We trust you, Harry,” Hermione reached for his forearm from her seat next to Ron. “We just want you to know you can talk to either of us if you ever want to,”
“Right, thanks…You guys too,” Harry returned, awkwardly. They all knew full well that Harry was barely able to work through his own emotions, let alone bear someone else’s.
He still appreciated the warm smiles his friends gave him in response. They were more understanding than he had known they could be.
“Speaking of…” Ron’s threshold for public displays of emotional vulnerability had evidently been reached “Smith’s a right nightmare to room with. You would think he’d at least have the decency to pick his boxers up off the floor, especially when they’re stained with ji-”
“Ron!!” Hermione shrieked.
“Er… sorry ‘Mione… But really, and he snores something awful and never puts up Silencing charms even though I already mentioned it before. It’s even worse than Harry at ni-” Ron suddenly stopped glancing nervously at Harry’s face.
“-- than anyone else I’ve ever roomed with!” It was a valiant attempt, Harry thought.
It was no secret that Harry had nightmares. Sometimes at the Burrow, before he’d relocated to Grimmauld Place, even the layers of Silencing charms and Muffliatos hadn’t been robust enough to prevent him being shaken awake by a wild-eyed Ron, a tearful Hermione in tow.
Mrs. Weasley who, bless her heart, loved him just the same even though he and Ginny hadn’t worked out, would make a cup of tea with honey for his throat on the worst nights.
She’d even sent him with a small sachet of the blend, a family-recipe. Harry hadn’t had the heart to tell her he hadn’t the first idea how to make tea. Besides, sometimes he would bring the pouch up and inhale deeply and it would take him back to warmer days at the Burrow, full of brilliant laughs and sunshine.
◇◇◇◇◇◇◇
It had been 9 days since the term had started, and Draco was quickly becoming desperate. He could feel the final remnants of magical energy his Mother had gifted him starting to fade.
The complicated charms and spells they were learning in their classes only hastened the magical drain, and these days Draco walked around feeling more dead than alive.
He knew the empty ache that had settled beneath his sternum wouldn’t kill him, that it was physically uncomfortable at most. And a constant reminder that he was no longer a wizard, not really. He supposed it would be very different for an earlier Changed vampire, but Draco hated the hollow feeling where his magic had coiled and swirled prior.
He wondered if he was too old to hope for miracles.
And Potter . Merlin. Of course, he’d been saddled with The Boy Wonder from the very first day. He wasn’t entirely sure what Potter suspected him of being up to, but he wasn’t oblivious.
Though even a complete dunce would be able to pick up on the way Potter’s eyes followed him throughout the day and after dinner into the evening, tracking Draco’s every movement even when he was emerging from the bathroom in his exceptionally not-evil, thank you very much pajamas for bed. If Draco didn’t know any better, he might have described the gaze as hungry .
Yeah, Draco surmised, probably hungry to catch me plotting some evil-Death-Eater schemes.
He wasn’t sure if the truth would be better or worse to Potter. Surely, given his friendships with all manner of mixed-species Creatures, and Lupin who had been fully-Changed, he wouldn’t find Draco too nefarious.
But then again, it was him and Potter . Draco’s existence in itself was probably damnable enough to Potter.
“Fucking hell?!” he suddenly shrieked, quill flying from his hand, more annoyed than anything when Pansy tugged hard at a strand of his hair.
“You weren’t listening,” she responded, as if that warranted physical assault . “I need your help with this spell. It’s meant to be advanced protection magic bestowed on infants suspected to be Squibs to prevent infanticide,”
“What would I care about protection magic for Squibs,” Draco drawled in return, only the smallest twinge in his conscience.
“Don’t be a twat, it’s just us,” Pansy didn’t even look up from her spread of detailed notes and charms. “It has important applications. Children are …blameless, Draco…” Her unspoken intentions weighed heavy in the air.
His throat was uncomfortably tight. “Sorry Pans, I still can’t help you. I really don’t know anything about it,”
He couldn’t afford the magical expenditure it would take to try and piecemeal it out, even as his curiosity wanted to leap at the challenge.
“I’m gonna turn in. Good luck.”
She inclined her head towards him, eyes still glued to a diagram of a star-shaped rune.
He wondered, very briefly, if he could confide in Pansy. Ask her if she would be willing to give him magical energy. It wouldn’t even be that much, just enough to perform in classes and then he could help her with anything she needed.
It only took a moment's brief consideration, before he rejected the notion. Even his own parents were torn on whether or not he needed to be, he felt very, very cold at the thought, exterminated .
It would be short-sighted at best and actively dangerous at worst to go about revealing his new constitution to other pure-blooded kin, even his closest friends.
However, he needed to find a way to replenish his magical energy, and quickly. The remainder he had would probably not last more than a few more days. His long hours in the library studying vampire folklore had turned up nothing.
The texts were all more than hundreds of years out of date, and likely filled with falsified liberties courtesy of their authors.
Soon, he wouldn’t be able to perform any magic. Not even his Glamour.
Merlin, he was fucked .
He couldn’t turn to Pomfrey, who would most certainly have to report to Mungo’s who would then report to the Ministry. Draco didn’t fancy being tortured under the guise of experimentation by Unspeakables for the rest of, what would certainly become, his very short life.
All of his friends were Purebloods who knew exactly what it meant to come into Creature inheritance, and may or may not think it a worthy or necessary sacrifice to have him killed.
Draco realized that he had not one soul, not one person in the world, who he could count on at this moment. He knew his Mother didn’t want him dead, but he also knew firsthand that values, particularly Pureblood values, weren’t something she had to agree with to carry out, coerced or not.
In a wild flash, he recalled McGonagall’s words - “...Any of you,”.... What about her? Could I trust her? Would she… protect me?
It was… absurd…fruitless…a turn of delusional thinking… But this entire situation was all those things and more… What could he possibly have to lose at this point?
He resolved to meet with her on Thursday evening, it wouldn’t be as hectic as Friday night and she would likely still be awake in her office grading the recent Transfiguration essays he’d heard younger students complaining about in the halls.
Despite his limited interaction, Draco had never held anything but admiration for her dedication to her work and students. She seemed a promising ally.
The timeline would be cutting it close. He would have to reduce his Glamour as much as possible, particularly at night when there was almost no one who would see him… which meant relying on Potter’s inherent obliviousness to carry this out.
The concentrically-ringed red circles in his eyes would probably be the most noticeable change in his appearance, so if he could minimize the Glamour to cover just that it might be okay. He could just wear his hair down and not talk. He was pretty much silent these days, anyway.
If it didn’t work, well, Draco resisted the urge to let out either a scream or a laugh, he couldn’t be sure which.
He was a dead Creature walking anyhow.