“Suppose the Professors trusted us not to stir up trouble,” Ron remarked, thumping down into the seat next to Harry at the Eighth-Year table. Despite the fact that term had started two weeks ago, the Eighth Years had yet to be allotted a specific dorm or table, instead sleeping in their former dormitories and eating at their former tables. The new Eighth-Year table was situated at the very back of the Great Hall, directly before the massive doors, and furthest from the staff.
“Well, of course they do,” Hermione said, folding her robes neatly as she sat, “We’re adults. We can compose ourselves.”
“D’you think so?” Ron asked, watching Michael Corner and Ginny Weasley across the table. Ginny was sat practically on Michael’s lap, eating some of his shepherd’s pie. Harry gave her a little wave. She smiled back at him, but her gaze darkened when she met Ron’s eye, and she looked away.
“She shouldn’t be sitting here, anyway,” Ron complained. “She’s a seventh year. He should know better than— He’s flagrantly disregarding the rules, is what it is.”
“Yes, because you care so very deeply about the rules, Ronald,” Hermione said, tucking into her mash. Harry focused very intently on his shepherd’s pie. It was sort of blurring together. His eyelids drooped. He heard the doors behind them open and looked up, pleased for a distraction.
“I wonder where they’re going to sit,” Ron said.
“Who?” Hermione said, looking up. “Oh.”
The Slytherin Eighth-Years, of which nearly all were in attendance, entered in a large cluster. Malfoy and Parkinson were at the lead, King and Queen of snakes. Tracey Davis immediately tore off from the group and went to sit by Mandy Brocklehurst and Megan Jones. Millicent Bulstrode followed her. The rest of the group sat at the far end, Malfoy at the head of the table holding court. Some things had not changed.
“That answers that,” Hermione said. “Does Goyle look different to you?”
Gregory Goyle, once a hulking figure, looked small without Crabbe sitting next to him at the table. Some things had changed irrevocably.
Coming back to Hogwarts was everything and nothing like Harry expected. The castle was largely repaired, but undeniably different, with scorch marks on portraits, missing staircases and closed wings. A larger amount of his classmates than he’d thought he’d ever see again returned, though of course some were absent. Lavender Brown was still in St. Mungo’s. Justin Finch-Fletchley, according to Ernie MacMillan, had transferred to Eton. Lisa Turpin, Wayne Hopkins, and Morag MacDougal did not return, nor did Susan Bones, since so many of her family members had died. Vincent Crabbe, of course, had died in the battle.
The train ride back to Hogwarts was unusually subdued. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in their compartment in silence and watched the landscape roll by, green and wet with summer rain.
One step off of the train brought all of the memories Harry had spent all summer holed up in Grimmuald Place trying to forget: the battle, curses flying green and red around the halls. Fred Weasley’s pale face. Remus and Tonks’ bodies laid out in the hall. Colin Creevey’s grinning face behind a camera. Hagrid’s beard, wet with tears, giant arms holding Harry gently. Malfoy’s bony hands gripping Harry’s ribs as they flew from the Room of Requirement. Snape’s pensieve memory, Dumbledore’s fall. Dropping the Resurrection Stone somewhere in the Forbidden Forest.
It seemed as though every student could see the Thestrals attached to their carriages. More than a few began crying as they entered the Great Hall. A permanent lump formed in Harry’s throat, and a pit in his stomach. The names of the dead were everywhere, though no one seemed to speak them. Harry heard them, though. In the gaps in conversations. In the quiet looks shared between Ron and Ginny. In the watery eyes of Professor McGonagall during the Welcome Feast. Now, two weeks later, everyone seemed to have adopted a false sense of cheer.
“Going to finish that biscuit?” Ron asked, tearing Harry from his reverie. He realized he was drifting off again. Since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry had been nothing short of exhausted. He’d been having strange dreams, which he was sure was true for most of the traumatized returning students, at least the ones who had fought in the battle. When he woke, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. Making it to classes on time was becoming difficult. Sleeping in his old dormitory didn’t help. Harry would be glad to move to the new Eighth-Year dorms, if only for the chance that his sleep might improve.
Harry was disappointed. His sleep did not improve, despite the relative quiet atmosphere with his new dormmates, one of which was Goyle. Harry was surprised that so many of the Slytherins in his year had come back, surprised to see Malfoy’s nearly white hair covering his face, Parkinson’s pug nose buried in her pudding at meals. He expected they’d bear the brunt of the remaining student body’s anger.
He was right. The Eighth Year Slytherins came in and out of classes covered in boils and shaking off bats. A few weeks into term, McGonagall gave a small speech over dinner. Harry fell asleep halfway through, but knowing McGonagall, the gist of it was, “The next hex I see fly will earn its caster a ticket straight back to King’s Cross Station. Do not fuck with me.”
The speech worked, at least on the younger students.
Harry, knowing that Ginny had been behind at least a few of the bat bogey hexes, consoled her by telling her where the Eighth Year common room was as soon as they learned (in a tower guarded by a particularly gruff suit of armor), and the password (a verse from a Weird Sisters song, which had to be sung in the correct key), to set dung bombs underneath the Slytherins’ beds. This was a mistake, as Ginny used her knowledge of the password to visit her new-old boyfriend, Michael Corner, at odd hours.
Hogwarts was not everything that had happened to it. With each class and each corridor, other memories came to Harry’s mind. Sneaking around with Ron and Hermione under the invisibility cloak. Riding Buckbeak. Teaching the Patronus charm to the D.A. members. Sometimes, though, Harry was at a loss for happy memories. He doubted he could perform a successful Patronus now if he tried. He was exhausted.
...
When Harry woke, he thought at first that he was still dreaming. His dreams were usually the same, though. He was back in Kings Cross station, where the train was coming to take him to his parents. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, peering through the gap in his violet bed hangings. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow throughout the room, though it seemed rather early for that. He’d gone to bed just before dinner, and hadn’t intended to sleep through it again.
Classes were not mandatory for Eighth-Years. This mandate was meant to foster an independent drive for learning, according to McGonagall. Harry wasn’t sure it was working. Sometimes he didn’t wake for morning classes. When he did, he returned to the dormitory at lunch, and often dozed through the afternoon. The first few weeks they were back, Ron had tried to wake him in the mornings, first by gently nudging him awake, then by sending Howlers from across the room. Their dormmates, Stephen Cornfoot and Ernie MacMillan, had complained. Their other dormmate, Gregory Goyle, said nothing, as was usual.
Harry was in bed more often than not. September and October passed in a purple blur of sleep.
He missed meals, Eighth Year Quidditch scrimmages, the Ravenclaws’ study groups, nights out to Hogsmeade, visits to Hagrid’s cottage. Eventually, Ron stopped asking him to play chess after dinner, and Hermione took to collecting notes from the classes he’d missed and leaving them on his nightstand.
His sleeping was turning into what Hermione called a bad habit, if she was being generous, or an “unhealthy, avoidant coping mechanism,” if she wasn’t.
Harry didn’t think he was avoiding anything. He was just so bloody tired. He’d fought the Dark Lord on and off for the past seven years. If anyone deserved some rest, he’d argued with Hermione, it was him. She’d gone quiet, which left Harry feeling guilty, rather than triumphant.
It was well into November, now, and his friends missed him, Harry could tell. On the rare occasions when he was awake, he watched them grow concerned, frustrated, and finally accepting of Harry’s absences. He assumed they grew closer to the other Eighth Years, ones they hadn’t gotten a chance to know better when they were in different houses, but who now shared their dormitories. Hermione was sitting next to Mandy Brocklehurst in Potions, now. Ron and Stephen Cornfoot seemed to get on well, despite Ron’s dislike of Stephen’s friend Michael Corner.
Harry hadn’t expected the remaining Eighth Year students to get on so well, especially not with the Slytherins. Each Slytherin took the first few weeks of term to apologize to practically everyone, students and teachers alike. They’d even been gracious when their apologies were met with curses.
Harry thought they’d proved to be almost noble, in their own way, by refusing to tell on their attackers. “It’s what I deserve,” Parkinson said when Hannah Abbot tried to lend her salve for a stinging hex one night in the common room.
“No, it’s not,” Hannah had said, and Harry, who had woken from an armchair by the fireplace, found that he might agree with her.
Even Malfoy was uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the attacks, and he spent half his time in the hospital wing the first few weeks. Goyle never spoke, but he also never tried to wake Harry from a much-needed nap.
Somehow, whether it was their close quarters, the lack of house boundaries, or pure desperation to forget the war, the Eighth Years grew to tolerate each other, from what Harry could tell between dreams.
Harry had just pulled his glasses from his nightstand and began rubbing them with his sleeve when his bed hangings were torn open.
“Good morning,” Ron said cheerfully, looming above Harry in a torrent of orange light.
“Hardly,” Hermione snorted from behind Ron before Harry could reply. “It’s just past eleven.”
Harry squinted. “How did you get up here?”
He directed the question at Hermione, but it was Ron who answered, turning slightly red about the ears. “I, er. Needed help adjusting my costume. Bit of trouble with my stockings.”
“Stockings?” Harry asked, finally shoving his glasses on. He blinked at his friends twice. “Why are you dressed all funny?”
Hermione adjusted her lime green bowler hat, under which she’d spelled most of her hair. A few corkscrew curls popped out of the back. “I’m Fudge. Ex-Minister for Magic.”
She pointed to her robes, which she’d spelled stripes onto, and her red Gryffindor tie, which she’d spelled the stripes off of.
“Oh,” Harry said. “Right. And, er, who's Ron?”
Ron gave a spin in his blue evening gown, the sunlight from the window catching the glitter on his eyelids. “Celestina Warbucks, mate. Clearly.”
“Clearly,” Harry repeated, watching him twirl. “Very nice drag, by the way. Who did the makeup?”
“Parkinson,” Ron said. Hermione made a face.
“Oh, leave it, ‘Mione," Ron said, and Hermione dropped the face.
Harry had never felt quite so out of the loop. He hadn’t even known Parkinson and Ron had spoken since her apology. It seemed unlikely. He revisited the idea that this could still be a dream. Harry was asleep most of the time, anyway. It was statistically probable.
“Well, what’s the occasion?” he asked.
Hermione frowned. “It’s Friday, Harry,” she said, shooting an odd look at Ron. “Mandy’s birthday? The Ravenclaws put on a costume party.”
“Don’t know how you slept through MacMillan talking about it, all last night,” Ron said. “He’s sweet on Brocklehurst, you know, wouldn’t shut up about her massive— er, personality,” he amended, catching Hermione’s raised brow.
“Surely you got an invitation,” Hermione said, “they passed them out last week.”
“They sent them out at dinner,” Ron said. “So, no, he didn’t.”
Harry was aware he usually slept through dinner. He was also aware that it was affecting what little social life he had left.
“Should be a romp,” Ron said, “you should wake up for a bit and come.” He’d put some kind of potion in his hair to make it grow, Harry realized, and looked a bit like Bill.
Harry yawned. A party sounded awful. Loud, full of classmates. Tiring.
“You’ll need a costume,” Hermione said, pursing her lips. She looked around the room. “Ah. What if…” she held out her wand, and Harry’s old glasses flew over from his trunk, along with his school robes. “There we are.”
Harry stared at her. “You want me to wear my school robes to a costume party? Can't I just go in my pajamas?"
Ron snorted. “Is that what you call pajamas?”
Harry looked down at his crumpled button up and slacks.
“No, I want you to go as Harry Potter,” Hermione said, grinning. “Isn’t that funny?”
“A tad egotistical,” Ron said. “Oh, no, wait I get it. Harry Potter Harry Potter. That’s brilliant, Hermione.”
“Am I not Harry Potter right now?” Harry asked. Ron and Hermione looked at him with the same strange expression on both of their faces.
“Right,” Harry said, feeling the pit in his stomach grow. He supposed he wasn’t himself these days. “You lot get out and I’ll dress, then.”
“Prude,” Ron said, and spun away in a whirl of glitter. Hermione placed the robes and glasses on Harry’s pillow. “Do come, Harry.”
“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said, and watched her stomp out of the room in purple boots.
He was tempted to go back to sleep. His pillow looked so lonely, without his head on it, and having a party in the depths of the ruined castle seemed wrong, Mandy Brocklehurst’s birthday or not.
Still. His friends missed him.
Harry figured he knew what Hermione meant for him to do. He put on his school robes and his old glasses and pushed up his hair, so his scar showed. In the mirror, though, he still looked different. He’d admittedly gotten quite buff over the summer, with nothing to do at Grimmuald Place but push-ups, but that muscle was diminishing with every hour he spent in bed and each meal he skipped. There were purplish shadows under his eyes.
Harry yawned and straightened up, glaring at the mirror on his nightstand. “It’s me, Harry Potter,” he said to his reflection. It sounded like a lie. “Bag of fucking bollocks,” he said.
It would have to do. Harry took a look around the dormitory, the five empty lilac beds including his own. With a longing sigh, he closed the door and descended the stairs, feeling incredibly groggy.
The party was already in full swing, and had been for a while, it seemed. The Eighth-Year tower reeked of alcohol. A few pixies whizzed around the ceiling, and a beautifully painted banner spelled out, “Happy Birthday Mandy”. The Weird Sisters blared from a charmed record player in the corner. Mandy Brocklehurst danced on a coffee table, massive pixie wings sprouting from her shoulders.
On the last step, Padma Patil reached up and tapped Harry’s shoulder. “Nice costume, Harry Potter,” she said.
“You too,” Harry said, doing a double take at her pink cardigan and brooch shaped like a cat. “You make Umbridge look fit.”
Padma laughed and offered him the glass of Firewhiskey she’d been holding. “Enjoy the party,” she said, and conjured another glass to pour herself more. Harry gave her a salute, took a swig from the glass, and looked out over the common room.
It was strange to see how his classmates intermingled, and even stranger to see them costumed.
Zabini, Terry Boot, and Stephen Cornfoot were dancing with Millicent Bulstrode, Megan Jones, and Tracey Davis, respectively. Parvati poured some kind of glowing liquor down Michael Corner’s throat. He struggled to swallow it around his mask, a magazine cut-out of the Holyhead Harpies’ seeker, which must have been Ginny's influence.
“Alright lads,” Parvati shouted above the music. “Put your game face on.” She’d spiked her hair up like Madam Hooch and was hovering a little off the ground on a broom. Harry stepped onto the landing and bumped into Sue Li and Anthony Goldstein, who didn’t notice him, too busy snogging. Both were dressed like Weird Sisters. Hannah Abbot (a cat), Ernie MacMillan (a hinkypunk) and Goyle stood to the side by a small dessert table. Goyle’s costume might have been a centaur, but the horse bit was all wrong.
Harry spotted Ron out of the corner of his eye, on the large violet sofa near the fireplace. He felt relieved until he noticed who was next to him. Pansy Parkinson sat perched on the arm of the sofa. She was dressed as a sexy McGonagall, all tartan and fishnets.
Harry reluctantly made his way over to them, taking sips of Padma’s Firewhiskey as he went. The music seemed to grow louder, and Harry’s head throbbed.
Ron finally caught Harry’s eye and waved him over with his long, silver fingernails. “Arry! Ha oo ee ayo aloy?” Ron yelled.
“What?” Harry asked at a normal volume. He tripped over an ottoman.
Parkinson suddenly grabbed Harry’s glass. He reached for his wand, but all too quickly, she took a swig and handed it back with red lipstick all over the rim.
“Ten points to Gryffindor,” she said in a horrible imitation of McGonagall’s brogue, and Ron guffawed and slapped her on the shoulder. Harry felt as though he’d entered another universe.
“What’d you just say, Ron?” he asked again, sitting next to Ron and as far away from Parkinson as he could manage.
“Have you seen Draco Malfoy,” Ron repeated. “Think you’ll get a kick out of his costume. Oh, never mind. Here he is.”
Harry turned abruptly and thought at first that he was looking in a mirror. Draco Malfoy stood behind him, donned in Gryffindor robes and carrying a rather large bottle of Ogden’s. His hair was spelled short, black and wavy, and he was wearing circular glasses on the bridge of his pointy nose. He’d drawn, probably in Parkinson’s lipstick, a rather accurate lightning scar on his forehead. Aside from his height and general paleness, their costumes were identical. It was maybe the first time he’d seen Malfoy up close all year.
“Potter,” Harry said, surprising himself by finding Malfoy’s costume funny rather than insulting.
“Potter,” Malfoy said, though it was more of a statement than an address. “It seems I’ve been upstaged.”
Malfoy stepped gracefully over the ottoman to sit next to Parkinson. “Darling, you have lipstick on your chin,” he whispered to her loudly.
“Fuck off,” Parkinson said in her usual shrill voice, “you have lipstick on your head.”
Ron chuckled. “Malfoy, I reckon this is the first time you’ve ever not looked like a total ponce.”
Malfoy looked down at himself and furrowed his brow. “Do I not?”
“Hey,” Harry protested, hiding a yawn behind a large swig of Firewhiskey. It wasn’t fair, he thought. Malfoy made a better Harry Potter than he did. At least in looks. His eyes were spelled green, Harry noticed, almost the exact same shade as his own, only brighter, more alert. As soon as the other boy opened his mouth, however, it was unmistakably Malfoy.
“I must say, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled. “You make a dashing Celestina. What a heavenly dress.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Ron said, and flexed his broad shoulders.
Parkinson reached up and ran her hand across Ron’s bicep. “My, my, Mrs. Warbucks,” she purred.
This made everyone but Harry laugh. He wondered where Hermione had gone off to. He was sure she wouldn’t like Parkinson touching Ron like that. Would she? How much had changed day to day while he’d slept? He’d never imagined Malfoy and Ron talking to each other without throwing curses.
“So, Potter, what are you supposed to be?” Pansy asked Harry.
“Why, I’m the savior of the Wizarding World, of course,” Malfoy said, winking in Harry’s direction from behind his glasses. Harry coughed a little on his Firewhiskey.
“Righto,” Ron said enthusiastically. For the first time, Harry realized Ron might be a bit drunk.
“Other Potter, you dimwit,” Pansy said, and ruffled Malfoy’s hair, which, as Malfoy was meant to be Harry, looked incredibly strange. “Are there even lenses in those glasses?”
“No,” Malfoy said, at the same time as Harry said, “I’m supposed to be Harry Potter.”
All three heads turned to him.
“And that requires a costume?” Pansy asked, stealing a sip from Malfoy’s bottle and grimacing.
“What do you mean by that?” Harry asked, glaring at her.
Pansy opened her mouth to answer but Ron beat her to it. “She didn’t mean anything by it, Harry. Oh look, here’s Seamus.”
Seamus appeared holding two tall glasses of a shining, bubbly liquid, one of which he shoved into Harry’s hand.
“Drink up, Malfoy! Wait, you’re not Malfoy.” He took a step back. “Hi, Harry! Welcome to the world of the waking.”
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he downed the drink. It fizzled in his throat and made him cough. Ron patted him roughly on the back.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Seamus said. “It’s Popping Champagne.” He had clearly helped himself to a few glasses. There were a few wet patches on his football jersey. Harry wondered what he was meant to be dressed as.
“What are you, Finnegan?” Malfoy asked, reading Harry’s mind, because they were the same person now.
“Piss drunk,” Ron supplied.
“Dean,” Seamus said, pointing across the room to where Dean, wrapped in an Irish flag, was laughing with an enormously tall Neville. “I’m getting drunk, though, as Boot’s given me the boot. Sure, I can’t believe I let him take me to Madam Puddifoot’s. Damn emasculating.”
This came as a surprise to no one but Harry. Parkinson stole Seamus’s glass of Popping Champagne.
“You’re bent?” Harry asked. “Boot’s bent?”
Nobody heard him, he’d spoken too softly. Harry suddenly felt very lost, as if he knew no one around him. He turned his head about the room. Harry could hardly make out anything of the shambling throng of costumed classmates. The song had changed from something soft to something very fast. It was too loud to see properly. He turned back around.
“Boot’s a tosser, Finnegan,” Parkinson was saying. “Don’t worry about him. There’s plenty of merfolk in the lake, etcetera.”
“No merfolk I want to catch,” Seamus grumbled. “No offense, Malfoy.”
“It’s Potter to you,” Malfoy said, “and none taken.”
Harry must still be dreaming.
“Is that confirmation, then?” Ron asked, grinning. “You are actually bent, Malfoy?”
“Is everyone?” Harry asked.
Malfoy raised an abnormally dark eyebrow at Ron. “Am I bent? Are you actually a Cannons supporter? Remind me, Weasley, have they ever won a cup?”
Parkinson laughed into Harry’s Firewhiskey, which she’d somehow grabbed without Harry noticing. Harry realized he was goggling at Malfoy but couldn’t stop.
“You’re bent?” Harry asked again.
Malfoy frowned a little behind his circular glasses. “And if I am? Is that a problem, Potter?”
“Yeah, is it?” Seamus said. “You’ve never said nothing to me.”
“It’s not,” Harry said hastily, though he hadn’t even known about Seamus. “I’m just surprised.”
“About Draco?” Really? Parkinson asked, earning an elbow to the ribs from Malfoy. She shrieked and cowered under Ron’s arm. Malfoy and Parkinson engaged in a bizarre tussle.
Harry, disturbed, turned to Seamus. “Seamus, have you seen Hermione?”
“Sure, I’ve seen her before,” Seamus said. “We’re in the same class.”
Harry felt a snort from behind him. He turned, and there Hermione was, holding an empty bottle of wine. Was everyone he asked after going to pop up behind him tonight?
“Oh, Hermione! You know, Harry’s looking for you,” Seamus said.
“Yeah, I think I’ve found her, mate, thanks,” Harry said. “Where’d you get off to?”
Hermione blushed a little. “Ginny cornered me in the bathroom and made me drink half her bottle.” She held it up as evidence.
“Do I need to find her and give her a talking to?” Ron asked, standing from the sofa to put his arm around Hermione’s pinstriped waist. Hermione grinned widely. “No need. Hello, Ronald.”
“Hullo,” Ron said, and then they were snogging. Harry looked away, uncomfortable. Most of his classmates had paired off, it seemed. Mandy Brocklehurst was now dancing with Ernie MacMillan on the coffee table. Goldstein and Li were still snogging by the stair. Neville towered over Hannah Abbot by the desserts. Daphne Greengrass and Theo Nott sat cozily in the same violently purple armchair across the room. Tracey Davis was dancing with Megan Jones, now, and Zabini, Boot, and Stephen Cornfoot were watching, enraptured. The song changed again, and the dancing grew wilder.
“Come on, Finnegan,” Parkinson said, escaping Malfoy’s grasp. “Dance. We’ll make Boot jealous.”
She dragged Seamus towards the middle of the room, where they began an awkward sort of shuffle.
Suddenly, Harry noticed that he and Malfoy were more or less alone on the sofa. Malfoy was flushed from his tussle with Parkinson. His Gryffindor robes were falling off his shoulder, and Harry saw that he wore a simple white t-shirt underneath.
“Goyle’s a centaur, right?” he found himself asking, for lack of anything better to say.
Malfoy made a huffing sound that was almost a laugh, rubbing red lipstick off the rim of his bottle of Ogden’s.
“You’d think so. Greg’s half of a horse, actually.”
“Who’s the other half?” Harry asked.
Malfoy’s lips tightened. “Vince. It’s an old costume.”
They sat for a moment, watching their classmates dance. Harry saw Ginny, dressed in shabby robes, laughing with Michael Corner. He remembered her wan face at Fred’s funeral and felt a pang in his heart.
“I tried to talk him out of wearing it. It’s bloody sad,” Malfoy offered, then shook his black hair out of his face. “Salazar, I don’t know how you deal with this.”
“I don’t,” Harry said honestly, which made Malfoy laugh, then look at Harry through his identical glasses.
“Potter,” Malfoy began, then stopped.
“Potter,” Harry said back, and felt his face flush. He yawned, despite himself, and Malfoy mirrored his yawn, scowling.
Harry laughed at their twin movements.
“I don’t see you in class much,” Malfoy said, then looked as if he’d rather take it back.
“I don’t go to class much,” Harry admitted.
Malfoy leaned towards him on the sofa. His eyes were very piercing, Harry noticed, and his nose seemed— not less pointy, but perhaps more suited to his face now than before. Malfoy was an attractive bloke, Harry thought, in fact, rather fit. He wondered whether all of the sleep he was getting was making him go a bit barmy. He also wondered if Malfoy was wearing eyeliner under his glasses, but it was too dim in the common room to tell.
“What do you do?” Malfoy breathed, so that Harry had to lean in to hear him over the music. “When you’re not in class. You’re up to something, I know it.”
Harry felt a bizarre sense of deja-vu. “Er,” he said, “not really. I mostly just sleep.”
Malfoy sat back, looking as though he didn’t believe Harry at all. Harry took the moment to appraise Malfoy’s jawline.
“If you’re asleep all the time, what do you dream about?”
“I don’t,” Harry lied.
“Dreamless sleep?” Malfoy asked.
“Are you asking if I’m a potions addict?” Harry asked.
Malfoy shrugged.
“I’m not,” Harry said. “Are you really bent?”
“My nose is,” Malfoy said. “Had to get Pans to break it. You know, for the costume.”
Harry felt the distinct memory of the shape of Malfoy’s foot on his face. “Ha-ha,” he said, feeling mean all of a sudden. “So you are bent. Bet Daddy wasn’t thrilled to find out his son takes it up the arse.”
He wasn’t sure where that had come from, or if there was any accuracy in the statement, but Malfoy didn’t punch him or correct him, he just smiled serenely. “You seem to know a lot about how this stuff works,” he said. “Learnt a lot from old Albus, hmm?”
Harry stood abruptly. “Don’t talk about Dumbledore like that.”
Malfoy’s face had gone pale. “I was joking, Potter,” he said. “Salazar— sit back down. Don’t ruin Mandy’s party.”
Harry sat back down, feeling as though he'd been dramatic. "Sorry," he said. He finished his fire whiskey and reached for the glass of popping champagne Seamus had left behind.
“What do you dream about?” Malfoy asked again, after a beat. Harry felt compelled to tell Malfoy to fuck off.
Instead, he said, “I dream I’m back in Kings Cross Station. And the train’s coming.”
Harry wasn’t sure why he’d told Malfoy the truth. Maybe because the other boy was dressed as him, so it almost felt like talking to himself. A more attractive version of himself.
“Profound,” Malfoy said, taking a rather large swig of his drink.
“You wouldn’t understand, you berk,” Harry said, feeling stupid.
Malfoy’s lips quirked up. “Hit a nerve again, Potter?” He asked, and, inexplicably, moved closer on the sofa. “Want to know what I dream about?” He whispered half in Harry’s ear.
Harry did, despite himself, and he was about to say so, when something fast and orange-ish flew at Harry from above. It was Ginny. Harry realized her costume looked familiar— she was dressed as the Weasley's attic ghoul. “Come dance!” She yelled, and pulled Harry up by the elbows. Harry cast a longing look at the sofa, where Malfoy was laughing.
Harry danced with Ginny, stepping on her feet several times, before Michael Corner stepped in, and then with Parvati, both of them trying and failing to replicate the dance at the Yule Ball. He danced with Hermione, swaying with his head on her shoulder, and with Seamus, at Pansy’s prompting, but stopped when Seamus got a little too handsy. Twirling around with Ron, who kept dipping Harry and nearly dropping him, Harry tried to remember a time this year he’d had so much fun and couldn’t. He caught Malfoy’s eyes a few times from across the room and was pleased to see the other boy watching him.
Finally, the dancing died down. The conjured pixies had long since disappeared, and people were beginning to yawn and trail back up to the dormitories. Harry looked around for Malfoy. He wanted to talk to him, to get to know him, really, more than he wanted to sleep. This felt important.
Most of the Slytherins had remained—Parkinson, Nott, Zabini, Malfoy and Tracey Davis sat around the fireplace, Megan Jones sprawled across Tracey Davis’s lap. Neville Longbottom, now normal height, remained, sat next to Terry Boot. Parvati, her hair a little less spiky now, sat by Millicent Bulstrode and Hermione. Malfoy, Ron and Dean sat next to Mandy Brocklehurst. All in all, his classmates sitting so thoroughly intermingled was such an odd sight that Harry blinked and pinched what he thought was his arm. Seamus batted his hand away. “Quit pinching me, mate,” he said.
“Sorry,” Harry said, drinking some more of the popping champagne Seamus offered and feeling the roof of his mouth pelted with tiny exploding bubbles.
“Sit! Everyone sit!” Parkinson was beckoning them forwards. “Finnegan, next to me, and Potter— next to the birthday girl.”
Harry plopped down next to Mandy, and Seamus hastily took his seat next to Parkinson and Malfoy, as far from Boot as he could manage.
“What are we playing?” Megan Jones asked from across Tracey Davis’s lap. Harry had never considered how a Hufflepuff and Slytherin would be together, and he found himself watching the two girls with some curiosity, though a different type of curiosity than he imagined some of the other boys were watching them with.
Parkinson opened her mouth, but Malfoy cut in. “No Bog Witch.”
Parkinson and Zabini both groaned. “Yes, Bog Witch,” mumbled Nott.
“What’s Bog Witch?” Neville and Parvati asked in unison.
“None of your concern,” Malfoy snapped. “Secret Keeper.”
Harry assumed this was another game he had no knowledge of, though he felt a little better at the fact that only the Slytherins seemed to know how to play whatever Bog Witch was.
“Fine,” Parkinson said. “Secret Keeper. Who has a marker?”
Ron looked in his pockets. “Some lint,” he said.
“Bottlecap,” Dean said.
“Lipstick,” cried Megan Jones.
Parkinson snatched it out of her hand. “Perfect,” she said. “Alright. For you muggleborns— er, sorry, that didn’t come out right— for anyone who doesn’t know the rules already, Secret Keeper is easy. Each turn around the circle, someone asks whoever they want a question. They must answer honestly or the marker will mark them. Then they ask someone else a question, and so on.”
She held up the lipstick for everyone to see.
“Er, mark how?” Boot asked. “I don’t quite fancy Megan’s lipstick all over me.”
“You’d be so lucky,” Tracey Davis said. Everyone laughed.
Zabini and Nott charmed the silvery tube of lipstick. It shook a little and seemed to glimmer more in the low firelight, but it made no movements.
“Since there’s sixteen of us,” Pansy said. “We’ll take one turn each, so everyone, think of a worthwhile question. You can’t ask someone if they’ve already been asked. Mandy will go first, happy birthday, darling.”
Mandy giggled. “Er,” she said. “Let me think.”
The circle was quiet. Harry yawned. Mandy giggled again, then said, “Ron Weasley.”
Ron looked surprised to have been chosen.
“Has Ernie Macmillan ever said anything about me to you? And if so, what?”
Ron opened and closed his mouth slowly. Harry caught Hermione’s eye and hid a laugh in his sleeve.
“Yes,” Ron said finally. “He said you’ve got– er, a fantastic singing voice.”
“Coming from Celestina herself,” Parkinson said. The lipstick, in the middle of the circle, began to roll towards Ron.
“Oh no,” Ron said mournfully. The lipstick tube shot up in the air, directly towards Ron’s forehead, where it drew a rather crude pair of tits.
The laughter from everyone in the circle, including Mandy, was uproarious.
“Thank you, dear Weasley, for demonstrating what happens to liars,” Parkinson said, wiping a tear from her eye.
“What do you reckon that means?” Seamus asked drunkenly, gesturing towards Ron’s new forehead appendages.
“You wouldn’t know,” Millicent Bulstrode said from across the circle. Parvati, next to her, pointed to Mandy’s chest.
Hermione, in between Mandy and Millicent, had turned an interesting shade of magenta.
Zabini snapped his fingers. “Alright, alright. Weasley, your turn. Question.”
Ron looked sheepishly towards Mandy, then shifted his gaze to Hermione. “Mione,” He began, then flushed.
“Ooooooh!” the girls in Hermione’s corner chorused.
“In the Chamber of Secrets—” Ron started, fiddling with the lipstick tube. “Well. And after that—”
“Get to the point, Weasley,” Zabini said.
“How long before then?” Ron finished in a rush.
The circle was quiet again.
“How are any of us meant to know what that means?” Terry Boot complained.
Hermione was playing with a bit of carpet. “Fourth year,” she mumbled.
“Hmm?” Ron said. “I could barely hear you.” He leaned into the circle, staring at Hermione over Dean, Harry and Mandy.
“Fourth year,” Hermione said loudly. Everyone turned and looked at the lipstick in Ron’s hand, but it didn’t so much as twitch.
“Well,” Ron said. “In that case. I think Hermione and I have other things to do, right now.”
With another chorus of giggles from the girls next to Harry, Ron got up, dropped the lipstick and, taking Hermione’s hand, led her to the staircase towards the boy’s dorms.
“Wait!” Parkinson shrieked. “Granger has to ask someone a question!”
“Oh, goodness,” Hermione said impatiently. “Neville!”
Neville’s head shot up. “Yes?”
“Are you and Hannah Abbott officially an item?”
“These questions are quite tame,” Theodore Nott said dryly.
“Yes,” Neville said, and blushed. Hermione gave him a smile and followed Ron up the stairs.
Parvati elbowed him rather hard in the chest. “Well done, Neville!”
“Yes, well done, Neville” Megan Jones said. Everyone laughed but Harry. He felt a bit out of the loop, and he was beginning to feel sleepy.
Then Malfoy spoke, his voice closer than expected now that Ron had gone up, with only Dean between them. “Your question, Longbottom. Don’t let it be boring.”
“Er,” Neville said, looking nervously to his right. “Megan.”
Megan raised her head from Tracey’s lap.
“Did you ever— you know, with Hannah?”
Megan smiled. “No,” she said.
With unprecedented speed, the lipstick shot from Ron’s empty spot and towards Megan’s forehead, where it drew an even cruder shape than on Ron’s head.
Parkinson and Parvati both shrieked. Neville went very pink. “I think I’m going to also go to bed,” he said, and got up amid peals of laughter. Megan Jones waved him a very cheeky goodbye.
Tracey made a show of smudging the lipstick on Megan's forehead. Megan laughed.
“My turn!” Megan said. “Tracey, love. We all know how you fancy older witches.”
Parkinson, Mandy Brocklehurst and Millicent Bulstrode tittered.
“Oh, don’t,” Tracey said.
“Whose mum did you say the other day you’d like to bed?”
Tracey looked sheepishly next to her at Blaise Zabini, who groaned.
“Blaise,” she said, and the lipstick didn’t move. “Sorry. Your mum’s quite fit.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Zabini said. “Ask your question, you uncouth wench.”
Megan and Tracey laughed. “Alright, Zabini,” Tracey continued, “Whose mum do you find the most fit?”
Zabini made a show of looking around the circle. “Ah, where did Weasley go?”
Harry nearly spat out his popping champagne.
“You have to admit, her killing Lestrange was pretty badass,” Dean agreed. Malfoy visibly tensed next to him.
Harry did not want to hear this about his adopted mother. He also felt somehow that the conversation was making Malfoy uncomfortable, which he wanted to know more about. He made a mental note to himself to ask Malfoy about it tomorrow, if he woke up for classes.
Luckily, the lipstick shot towards Zabini’s head, where it drew a little arrow pointing next to him towards Theo.
Theo gasped. “Not Mrs. Nott!”
“Mrs. Nott,” Zabini sighed dreamily. “My turn for a question.” He turned about the circle dramatically before his gaze landed on Seamus, who was next to Malfoy. The two were whispering to each other, Harry noticed, and felt a funny feeling pierce his chest. “Finnegan,” Zabini said, “Who among us would you most like to smog?”
Seamus frowned and looked at Malfoy. “Malfoy,” he said. The lipstick rolled towards him and he picked it up, sighing. “Do your worst,” he said to it, and it drew a boot on his head.
Terry Boot looked very awkward next to Parvati.
“Finnegan’s turn,” Malfoy said quickly, drawing the attention back towards him and his quickly lightening hair. “Ask someone a question.”
“Boot,” Finnegan nearly shouted. Boot jumped. “Why’d you dump me?”
Boot sighed loudly. “Must we do this here?”
Seamus nodded emphatically.
Boot spoke. “You’re too in love with your best friend to pay any other bloke any attention.”
Everyone in the circle stared at the lipstick. It didn’t so much as twitch.
“What?” Seamus asked, shooting an uncomfortable look at Dean, still wrapped in an Irish flag. “I’m not in love with Dean. For feck’s sake, even the lipstick said I wanted to snog you, you daft bugger.”
“Well, you’re more interested in spending time with him than with me,” Boot snapped.
“Probably because you’re a right wanker,” Dean said. “Who dumps someone outside Madam Puddifoot’s?”
Harry was beginning to feel distinctly awkward. Luckily, Mandy Brocklehurst spoke. “Boys, why don’t we take this elsewhere?”
Dean stood first, and Seamus followed. Boot seemed reluctant to leave with them. “I have to ask my question,” he said.
“Fine,” Seamus said, though his tone suggested it was certainly not fine. Harry could almost imagine steam pouring out from his ears.
“Thomas,” Boot said. “Are you in love with Seamus?”
Dean grinned. “No.pe I like girls.”
The lipstick stayed firmly in place.
“This is far more interesting than before,” Nott said casually.
“I still think the questions could be more creative,” Parkinson said. "Dean's turn."
Dean seemed to muse on this for a moment. “Parkinson,” he said. “Which two in the circle would you most like to see shag?”
“Oh, much better,” Parkinson said, and peered around the circle. Harry felt her leer pass over him. Parkinson made a show of thinking. “Well,” she said, “I do think the two Potters would make a lovely scene.”
Harry felt his heart drop into his pants. His heart was beating extremely fast. He snuck a look at Malfoy, who was now blonde with dark eyebrows. It wasn’t a bad look.
Malfoy was staring at Pansy with an inscrutable expression. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for the duration of the game, Harry realized.
“But,” Parkinson said, “To be truly honest, I would have to pick myself and Miss Patil here.” She gestured across the circle towards Parvati.
“Ooooh!” Megan and Tracey chorused.
Parvati was blushing deeply. “Well,” she said. “Well.”
Harry had had no idea there were so many girls in his grade with this particular leaning.
Parkinson turned smugly towards Nott. “Nott, we all know your heart belongs to Miss Daphne Greengrass.”
“It surely does,” Nott agreed, which struck Harry as oddly sweet.
“Well, she’s not here,” Parkinson said. “Pick amongst the rest of us— who would you like to watch get themselves off?”
Nott groaned. “This is why I’d prefer Bog Witch,” he said. “Er…” He, too, looked around the circle.
Boot, Seamus and Dean were all getting up to leave, already arguing amongst themselves. Mandy, Millicent and Parvati were whispering in the corner and sneaking looks at Parkinson, who was doing a poor job of pretending to ignore them. Harry realized he was now next to Malfoy.
He scooted closer, feeling emboldened somehow by Parkinson’s earlier statement about the two Potters. “You know, I have been in a situation with multiple Potters before.”
Malfoy looked at him strangely.
“Not with my family,” Harry said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. They’re dead. Er, I meant people turned into me. With polyjuice potion.”
“Kinky,” Malfoy said. “What happened?”
“Oh,” Harry said, realizing this was not the fun story he had framed it to be. “We, er, flew across London on brooms. And my owl died.”
Malfoy blinked at him, his eyes no longer green but light grey, and his hair back to its usual shoulder-length blonde state. Only his dark eyebrows and his lipstick scar remained. “I don’t know if I ever realized how strange you are.”
“You’ve done nothing but call me strange for years,” Harry pointed out.
“And speccy. And brutish,” Malfoy agreed, but he was smiling, a soft look Harry had never seen on him before.
Finally, Nott seemed to decide on an answer. “Malfoy,” he said finally. “Because it’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”
There were a few shrieks of laughter and a guffaw from Zabini. Malfoy looked decidedly pink next to Harry. He covered his mouth with his hand.
“What?” Harry asked a little more loudly than he meant to. “What does that mean?”
Parkinson waved her hand. “What happens in the Slytherin common room stays there.”
Malfoy leaned over and whispered in Harry’s ear. “Was meant to be a private show.”
Harry was sure he turned scarlet. His heart pounded in his ribcage. Was this what he’d been missing while he slept through the first few months of eighth year? A gay sexual awakening, for Malfoy of all people?
“For who?” he stammered, but Malfoy didn’t get to respond, because Nott interrupted.
“Speaking of which,” Nott said, “Who are you always wanking over in the showers, Malfoy?”
Now it was Malfoy’s turn to stammer. “Nott– you know that’s not-”
Harry watched Parkinson and Zabini look at each other over Nott’s head with wide eyes.
“I should think that’s obvious,” Zabini said quickly, flexing his muscles. “Darling Draco has had a crush on me since fourth year. It’s all in the abs.”
Malfoy looked gratefully at Zabini. "Yes, naturally, Blaise, your body is irresistible. Don’t hold it against me— or, actually, please do.”
Harry felt the jealous monster in his chest roar with anger and had to stop himself from scowling.
Suddenly, the lipstick appeared from beside him. It crept towards Malfoy.
Malfoy was looking like he'd forgotten the lipstick could out him as a liar. "No, no, no,” he was saying under his breath. Harry had the urge to reach out and toss the lipstick away, but he desperately wanted to see what it would draw on Malfoy’s already-lipsticked forehead.
“Was this really necessary?” Parkinson hissed at Nott.
“What?” Nott asked.
Harry had to admit, the last time he’d seen Malfoy so colorless was when he was flying him out of the Room of Requirement. He was as white as the Bloody Baron. The lipstick shot into the air above Malfoy’s head and, quickly and decisively, drew a neat lightning bolt directly over the faded lipstick scar from earlier.
The circle, down a few players, was now quite quiet, besides some giggling from the girls in the corner, who weren't paying attention. Harry goggled at Malfoy.
“What does that mean?” Harry asked. "It just drew over your scar from earlier. What's it mean?
Malfoy rubbed the lightning bolt off with his sleeve. “Nothing, I’m sure,” he said, sounding like he might chunder at any moment.
“Shite, sorry,” Nott said. “I forgot about that, Malfoy.”
“Who did you think it would be?” Parkinson hissed.
Nott shrugged. “Blaise, honestly. Didn’t those two get up to something at Millie’s party over the summer?”
Harry’s gaze went from Malfoy to Zabini. “Did you?”
“What do you care, Potter?” Zabini asked snappishly.
Malfoy stood suddenly. “Going...toilets,” he said.
“What about your question?” Nott asked. Parkinson swatted him on the arm. "You don't have to, Draco," she said.
But Malfoy was already turning back around. He pointed at Millicent. “How’s your evening been?”
“Grand,” she said, and they all watched Malfoy nod and stumble up the stairs to the dormitories.
Harry gaped after him. He felt as though all of his limbs were frozen. He really was bent, he realized, for Malfoy. Probably, he had been for a long time. And if Malfoy’s second lipstick scar meant what he thought it did, then Malfoy returned his feelings. At least partially.
"Your question, Mills," Zabini said.
“Potter,” Millicent said, interrupting his decision-making. “Are you going to go after him or not?”
Harry stood quickly. “Er, Mandy,” he said, thinking quickly. “Have you got a spare barrette?” Mandy nodded and handed it over.
He found Malfoy in the boy’s loo, bent over one of the toilets and looking very pale. His eyebrows had finally gone back to their usual whitish hue. Harry found that despite Malfoy's peckish appearance, he still wanted to kiss him.
“How’re you feeling?” He asked, approaching with the barrette in hand. “I brought you– er, so that your hair-”
Malfoy blinked up at him tearily. “My savior,” he said, and coughed a little.
Harry could feel himself blushing. The firewhiskey in his stomach was giving him some amount of courage, though, so he knelt beside Malfoy and tucked a long piece of blond hair behind his ear. He'd never touched Malfoy's hair, he realized, and he never wanted to stop. “What did your lipstick mark mean?”
Malfoy sighed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “This is humiliating enough as it is, Potter. Ask me anything else.”
“Alright,” Harry agreed. “What do you dream about?” He asked Malfoy, fastening the barrette in his hair. He couldn’t seem to stop touching Malfoy, so he stroked the other boy’s shoulder.
“This,” Malfoy said, and colored slightly.
“You dream about crying in a bathroom?” Harry asked.
Malfoy sniffled. “How is it that every time, I’m crying in a bathroom?”
“I’m not trying to kill you this time,” Harry said helpfully. “Well. I wasn’t trying to the first time. I’m sorry–”
“You’re daft,” Malfoy said, and grimaced. “Toothpaste.”
Harry summoned Malfoy’s toothbrush and toothpaste from the dorm. It whizzed towards them and Harry caught both out of the air. He helped Malfoy up and to the sink.
“What are you trying to do this time?” Malfoy asked, spitting out a gob of toothpaste.
Harry couldn’t help himself anymore. “This,” he said, and kissed Malfoy square on the mouth.
“That’s disgusting, Potter,” Malfoy said, grinning.
Harry did it again. And again. His veins felt like they were buzzing with excitement. He’d never felt more awake.
“I’ve never felt more awake,” he told Malfoy.
Malfoy groaned. “Really? I think I’m having a nightmare.”
“Oh, shut up,” Harry said, and went to kiss him again, but Malfoy beat him to it. His mouth tasted like alcohol and toothpaste, and his hair was so soft in Harry’s hand. Malfoy wound his arms around Harry’s neck.
Suddenly, the door to the loo opened. To Harry’s surprise, it was Mandy Brocklehurst and Ernie MacMillan.
“Ah,” MacMillan said. “This one’s taken.”
“No,” Malfoy said quickly. “It’s not. We’re heading back downstairs.”
“We are?” Harry asked.
Malfoy tugged him towards the exit. “Don’t think I’m going to let you go back to sleep, now. Pans and the rest are still up.”
Harry hesitated. “Will you teach me how to play Bog Witch?” He asked.
Malfoy laughed. “No,” he said. “Happy Birthday, Mandy.”
“Happy Birthday, Mandy,” Harry echoed, and followed Malfoy out of the loo. The staircase window was alight, the sunrise over the forest turning Malfoy’s hair gold. Harry was awake to see it, to feel Malfoy’s hand around his. He was going to go back downstairs and play party games with the Slytherins well into the morning. He was going to snog Malfoy more, if he was lucky. He was going to stay awake.
“I am going to get you to teach me Bog Witch,” Harry said.
“You wish,” said Malfoy, and kissed him in front of the window. Harry felt the morning sun touch his skin— but no, it was Malfoy’s hand, warm against his cheek.