ii.
_
~2 Years Later~
Harry Potter leant against one of the many bricked-over archways on Platform 9¾, arms crossed and eyes focused and sharp. Hidden by the casted shadows, he was able to observe the goings-on around him in relative peace.
Students shouted enthusiastic greetings to each other, and cats wound around their legs to get attention, and to annoy the owls by scenting their cages. Harry basked in the swirling colours, loud noises, and various smells that he remembered so well from his younger days, smiling fondly. The energy of new beginnings and excitement at returning to a beloved place hung heavy in the air and was a delight to breathe in. Gulp after gulp of this radiant energy had something tight inside Harry, a knot of sadness left over from the war, ease slightly. Seeing the peace and normality of the post-war Wizarding World always did Harry well.
Of course, that wasn't the point of lingering in a shady alcove in Platform 9¾, not this time anyway—but it was a nice bonus. He was people-watching, but his gaze was discerning and purposeful, scanning over every bobbing head in search of one particular colour, one he could recognise anywhere.
Hermione had given him a look that was at once exasperated and resigned after he had passed off his floating trunk to her and told her why he wanted to linger. "Oh, Harry," she had sighed. "Please tell me you're not rekindling that old obsession …?"
Harry'd just given her a flat look. "It's not an obsession. I just … it's been two years, and I think a bit of closure would do us both some good."
"Nothing that involves the pair of you could ever be considered good," she'd muttered, sounding remarkably like Professor McGonagall. "How can you be sure he's even coming, anyway?"
Harry could only shrug at that, conceding the point. "I can't. I just have a hunch, is all."
Hermione had looked at him searchingly for a moment more and then turned to board the train with their trunks floating obediently behind her. "Don't get so distracted that you miss the train," she'd called to him flippantly before disappearing.
Harry sighed, shifting against the wall. Though he was a bit annoyed at Hermione, he could only be (temporarily) glad that Ron wasn't here. Hermione might've been tactful enough to leave him to it, but Ron would've hexed him the moment he'd declared his intentions. 'It was for your own good, mate,' he'd have said after Harry woke up on the train covered in boils or something.
Hell, if someone had told Harry two years ago that he'd be here, skulking in the back waiting for Draco bloody Malfoy of all people to show up, he'd probably have hexed himself.
Two years ago, however, Draco Malfoy hadn't been a werewolf to him, and Harry's world had still made sense. Oh well, it was no use thinking too hard about it now, because Malfoy was, and this world didn't, and Harry would like to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible, thank you very much.
He waited in that alcove for about eight more minutes, until the scarlet Hogwarts Express engine whistled its final warning and he had to board, lest he wanted to be left behind. His mood soured and his lip corners drew down into a pout as he stepped up onto the train. He looked down the line of compartments, feeling angry and muddled. He must have missed him. Malfoy was already on board; he must have slipped by Harry in a moment of inattentiveness—that had to be it because the only alternative explanation was that Malfoy wasn't coming, and that just … sounded wrong.
He ended up searching every single compartment of the train, twice, before he was finally found by an exasperated yet fond Hermione and pulled into their friends' compartment. With great apparent effort, she refrained from teasing him, if only because Harry could feel the crestfallen look on his face.
Draco Malfoy wasn't on the train, and Harry could only feel intensely disappointed about it. An entire summer of brooding, of planning and practising his "We Should Talk About How I Know You're A Werewolf" speech over and over again, gone. Wasted. He'd imagined so many potential interactions and conversations with Draco in his head that he'd effectively fooled himself into thinking the blond's presence would be a certainty.
It was so stupid, he thought, staring vacantly out of the train window with his chin in his hand and barely listening to the chatter around him. Why had he worked himself up to the point of vibrating excitement last night in anticipation of meeting the blond werewolf today? Why did the thought of no Malfoy this year make him feel unbalanced and dismayed? How could he have let his feelings about the glib Slytherin get so twisted up in his head?
"Harry?" Ginny interrupted his moody thoughts, reaching over to touch his knee in a concerned gesture. "Are you alright? You've been quiet."
He made himself smile. He was so lucky that he still had Ginny in his life. After the war, their relationship had felt awkward and barely a tiptoe past amicable. They were both unsure of their futures, and not in the right headspace for romance. "We all need some time to heal, I think," she'd said, and they'd had a respectful and mutual breakup. She'd made it so easy after that, falling right back into the place of one of his dearest friends. She really ought to be Sainted.
"Yeah, Gin, I'm fine. Sorry. Keep talking about that case of Bill's; I'd like to hear how it ended."
Harry forced himself to turn away from the window and pay attention. Hermione was right—he'd been all keyed up, ready to rekindle an obsession between him and Draco—had already rekindled it. But that stopped now. So what if Malfoy wasn't going to be at school this year? It was a good thing. Harry's school year was going to be normal for the first time, filled with nothing more sinister than Double-Potions homework and N.E.W.T exams.
He viciously crushed the little voice inside him that whispered, 'Boring.'
•–•–•
Harry spent the rest of the train ride chatting and catching up with Ginny, Luna, and Neville. With Hermione telling embarrassing anecdotes about Ron beside him, and Ginny and Neville giggling heartily across the way, it was easy enough to put thoughts of blond werewolves aside. They were still talking and laughing as they clambered off the train and piled into one of the Thestral carriages, which immediately took them up to the castle.
As soon as they entered Hogwarts through the double doors, Harry turned to go into the Great Hall—but was unexpectedly halted by a magically-amplified Professor McGonagall, who called for all Eighth years to join her in a room off to the side. Exchanging bemused looks with Hermione and Neville, they turned around and crammed into the small room with their year mates, feeling like they were eleven-years-old all over again.
"Attention, please. I have gathered you here to give you some relevant information. As you all know, you have been given special dispensation to attend Hogwarts as so-called 'Eighth Years' to complete the last year of your education that the war stole from you. However, as you are all considered to be of age in the eyes of the Wizarding World, I'm sorry to say things cannot be as they were." She looked around at all of them, and the room held its breath, concerned and tense. "First: as of this moment, all ties to your previous Houses will be severed."
There was an explosion of protest in the room, as many Eighth Years shouted in shock and upset. Harry himself felt a painful tug at his heart. Sever ties to Gryffindor, to the legacy and the people and the dormitory that had defined Harry as a person? How could McGonagall possibly expect him just to forget about it?
McGonagall's eyes narrowed, and she raised a hand for silence. They gave it to her immediately, because she was McGonagall and they didn't dare do anything else. "It can't be helped. You're adults; you cannot live with children. It would be inappropriate." She raised her wand high above their heads and muttered a difficult spell that Harry didn't recognise. To his and the other Eighth Years' amazement, the colour began to bleed out of all their scarves and ties, turning them from the four House colours into a uniform striped black-and-grey. The House Crests on their vests and outer robes similarly melded into the general Hogwarts Coat-of-Arms, erasing the evidence of their House loyalties for good.
McGonagall looked at her work with a critical eye and then nodded in satisfaction. "Good. From now on, consider yourself as members of the same House—you will live together, eat together, attend the same classes and share the same experiences. I will tolerate no grudges, no old House rivalries, and no bullying from any of you." She eyed Theodore Nott, standing in the back row with a handful of other ex-Slytherins, particularly sternly. "You are adults now, and you will act like it. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Headmistress," came the flat, uniform response. She didn't look particularly inspired but continued nonetheless. "As for your living arrangements, there is an unused corridor of empty classrooms by the Hospital Wing that has been temporarily Transfigured into housing for all Eighth Years. Men and women have separate dormitories, and you all share a Common Room.
"Madam Pomfrey has made herself available as your House Advisor. If you have any questions or concerns, you are to take it up with her. She has assured me that her doors will remain open at any time of day or night, should any of you have any … immediate needs." Her tone had become quite solemn, and everyone understood what she was talking about. The war had taken its toll on everyone, but some had suffered more than others, and there were many students here with mental traumas and finicky war wounds which would need special care. Harry looked down at his feet, not wanting to see anyone looking at him. Hermione put her hand in his and squeezed gently. He swallowed and squeezed back.
"If there are no further concerns or questions …" she hesitated, giving room for said interjections. When none were forthcoming, she continued. "There's a fifth table on the far side of the Great Hall reserved for Eighth Years, next to Gryffindor. Go ahead and make your way there; the Sorting Ceremony should begin shortly. Enjoy the Feast."
•–•–•
The Start-of-Term Feast was as familiar as it was surreal to the Eighth Years who'd returned to finish out their magical education. McGonagall didn't announce them, and nobody stared at them unduly (besides the First Years), which is what Harry had been worried about. He'd somehow forgotten—all the students of Hogwarts were war veterans of a sort, no less tragic and brave and brilliant than Harry or his friends.
But Harry couldn't help but feel just the tiniest bit lonely, watching Ginny (they'd had to split up in the Entrance Hall, as she was a Seventh Year and still a regular Hogwarts student) and the other Gryffindor students sitting together, without him. It helped, of course, that Hermione and Neville were sat beside him—Luna too, and Dean and Seamus, and Terry Boot, and so many other familiar faces from other Houses. But there was also an awareness of the absences, a reminder the holes that were left behind by the war. Most notable was the lack of Ron, who'd chosen not to return to Hogwarts with him and Hermione this year. There were Cho Chang and the Patil twins, who'd fled the country and never come back. The Creevey brothers would also never come back, and Harry couldn't think about them without feeling a deep pain in his heart. There was Lavender Brown, missing for the past two years and presumed dead, and Susan Bones, slaughtered with her family one year ago. Less felt but still noticeable was the absence of over half the Slytherins of their year, either dead or imprisoned or disgraced, and among them …
Draco Malfoy, who should be here but wasn't. Somehow, though it confused and ashamed Harry to admit it, Malfoy's absence was felt most of all.
McGonagall, now the Headmistress of Hogwarts, stood up at the end of the feast and said a few sensible words about 'never forgetting the bravery and tragedy of the war', but 'picking up the pieces and moving forward'. Madam Pomfrey was before them directly afterwards, ready to show them to their new home within Hogwarts.
The Eighth Year rooms, located down a dead-end hall that Harry vaguely remembered from his numerous trips to the Hospital Wing, were much plainer than the ancient House dormitories of Hogwarts. It was to be expected, as Professor McGonagall had done the impeccable Transfiguration work, and she was hardly a fanciful woman.
Two identical suits of armour barred the entrance to the new wing with crossed halberds; a simple password called them to attention and cleared the stone door for admittance. Directly inside, where one would expect to see a comfortable Common Room, was only the same old classroom corridor that had previously existed, nearly untouched from its original. It stretched back about sixty feet or so, and was lined with neat black doors.
"Girls are on the right, boys on the left," Madam Pomfrey called over her shoulder as she led the group of Eighth Years down to the centre of the corridor, stopping in front of a somewhat grander, doorless archway on the right-hand side. She turned to address her audience full-on. "This is your Common Room. Please keep it tidy, as some of the older house elves are likely to forget that it exists, and subsequently forget to clean it. New passwords are posted on the notice board. Down at the end of the hall are the lavatories. Ladies, don't fret about having to walk by the boys' rooms in your dressing gowns—you can all access the toilets from within your dormitories."
Harry, who was close to Madam Pomfrey at the head of the group, poked his head curiously into the Common Room. He had a few moments to take in a simple yet elegant interior, highlighted by ebony wood floors, a simple fireplace in carved in white stone, and many squashy black-buttoned armchairs and sofas scattered 'round. A large Hogwarts crest drew the eye over the fireplace mantle. Piles of throw pillows and cushions in various shades of black and grey were littered around low worktables, and black hanging lanterns lit the area with soft candlelight.
Hermione blew out a breath beside him. "I mean, it looks comfortable, I suppose … but it also seems a bit intimidating, like the lobby of a snooty bank or law firm," she commented softly.
"I have an intense desire to charm some colour into the place—McGonagall really tried to snuff the Gryffindor out of us, didn't she?" Seamus said from Harry's other side. "And the other Houses too, of course."
Poppy Pomfrey pretended not to hear them, like the professional she was and continued blithely on. "The Hospital Wing and my quarters are right next door. Please don't hesitate to come to me if you have any pressing need. My door is open at any time of day or night. Now—to bed the lot of you!" With that dismissal, the Eighth Years were free to begin opening dormitory doors to find their beds.
Harry found his dormitory towards the back end of the corridor, near the boy's lavatory. It was a spacious room, similar to the old Gryffindor dorms in that it had five beds evenly spaced along the length of the room, but very different in all other aspects. Most noticeably, the beds were not the grand behemoth four-posters that existed in the four ancient Houses but were instead standard-sized beds with soft black duvets and shiny brass bed knobs. There weren't any hanging curtains at all. Harry didn't necessarily care about the lack of privacy, but he was sure the girls and some of the most modest boys would be throwing fits about it.
Another difference was seeing Terry Boot claim one of the beds on the opposite side of the room. It was another clear reminder that this was not Gryffindor Tower and that they were all expected to integrate and get along with each other.
Altogether, there was Terry, Dean, Neville, Harry, and a fifth bed that Harry assumed was Seamus's (though how the Irish boy had managed to set up his area before anyone else was a mystery.) Four Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw—that wouldn't be so bad.
"Deeeeeeaaaaann!" Speak of the devil, Seamus entered their dormitory with a loud whine, wearing a pout. "It's not fair, we've always had the same dormitory, we can't be separated now! That old witch can't do this to us!"
Dean Thomas rolled his eyes at his childish beau. "It's obvious, Shey—old McGoogles doesn't want us getting up to adult mischief if you know what I mean."
"Gross, mate," Terry chimed in from the end of the room. "I'm with McGonagall on that one."
Harry looked over at them confusedly. "Uh, Seamus? Isn't this your bed, over here?" He pointed to the empty one beside his.
"What? No, I'm a couple of doors down, stuck with Ernie Macmillan and Zacharias Smith. Sweet Merlin, someone save me from Zacharias Smith!" He whipped around and focused on Terry. "Oi, Birdfoot, trade beds with me."
Tuning the subsequent arguing out, Harry turned back to the empty bed. If it wasn't Seamus's, then who's was it? He walked over and took a closer look.
There was a clean, elegant black trunk at the foot of the bed, with silver hinges and fastenings. The duvet was tucked impeccably in, showing no signs of disturbance. Harry would think no one had been there, except there were an antique-looking hairbrush and a stack of books on the bedside table. Feeling no qualms about snooping, Harry picked up the books. Moste Potente Potions by Phineas Bourne, Chēmía du Selene by Damocles, and a slim black journal that was full of equations, rune circles, and pages of notes done in a sharp, elegant scrawl. Harry squinted at it. The handwriting seemed familiar somehow …
And then, it was like lightning struck Harry. Fiery tendrils shot down every nerve in his body, burning like adrenaline, excitement, and anticipation. Without a care, he threw the books down onto the neat bed and raced over to the window like Hell was on his heels. Astronomy taught the discerning wizard to be aware of the movement of celestial bodies, and he knew what he would see before he even looked out into the clear night sky.
A full moon, big and round and bright and beautiful. Harry grinned like a madman.
"Potter, er … you all right there?" Terry's voice sounded hesitant somewhere below him, and Harry only vaguely registered that he was standing on Terry's bed as to see better out the high window. He couldn't bring himself to care.
He could only grin because everything was all right. His heart was jumping in his chest, and the moon was full, and there was a claimed yet unoccupied bed beside his, and he was instantly and undoubtedly sure that he'd been wrong, on the train.
This year would not be routine and boring because Draco Malfoy was definitely at Hogwarts.