Chapter 2
Standing on the platform, waiting for all the mincing kids to get on the train was aggravating. If he had a choice, this was the last place Draco would choose to be, but it was a condition of his father's release that he return to Hogwarts for his last year. It was a sacrifice, but in the last few years, he'd gotten good at sacrificing. In fact, there had been an endless string of it.
Pushed, prodded, shoved around, and that had been after Voldemort's death. It had been worse before. And then the mortifying public statement where he'd had to recount every slight, base request and mortification for all and sundry. Throughout, he'd shown no emotion, had simply recounted events as he remembered. He was getting good at that too—showing no emotion. In fact, he had gotten pretty good at not having any emotions.
For all that, waiting as bumbling and useless kids trying to organise themselves onto a train was almost beyond his tolerance.
No one spoke to him, even the Slytherins. They were too scared, probably too disgusted. The public recount of his tale had shown just how debasing, how humiliating it had been to have been in Voldemort's inner circle. The mark on his arm was one of shame, and they weren't wrong in thinking so.
Potter and his cronies were down the other side of the platform. Draco had seen them, but his attention hadn't lingered. Potter did have a habit of gloating, as if he had singlehandedly destroyed Voldemort and his rule.
The steps up to the train car were finally clear and Draco stepped on. The train was wild, children running, screaming, laughing. It grated on his nerves. Malfoy Manor was silent as the grave. Lucius was off emptying their vault and ingratiating himself, doing what he had to, he said. Attempts to get Draco to participate had failed. It proved impossible for him to smile and make polite conversation. It wasn't a skill he'd had even before Voldemort.
Taking the handle of a compartment, he shoved the door open. "Out," he barked to the kids in there and they scrambled to escape, leaving the compartment empty in their wake. He was the villain in this tale, the cautionary warning of what happened when one went bad. They were too scared to even abuse him. Adults were not, however. Some felt safe to use him as a target for their dismay and revulsion for everything they'd experienced during the war. Not a child, and not quite a man in their eyes. Perfect for venting on.
It didn't take long for the whistle to blow and the slow, heavy chugs of the engine to start. They were moving out of the station and then out of London. He'd done this journey so many times, but never quite like this. Last time he'd ridden this train, it had felt like an escape from the madness at home. Today, it felt like the other way around.
People walked past, but no one entered his compartment. He was left in peace and that was how he preferred it. Was probably incapable of talking about such things that children did. Who was into whom and how embarrassed they were because some insult had been thrown their way. No one wanted to hear how half the Hogwart's staff had been murdered above his dining room table.
His eyes grew heavy. He hadn't slept much—rarely did, these days. Dreams were uncomfortable. His subconscious was still occupied by the past, it was fair to say, or so the psychologist his mother had engaged had told him. The man had wanted to pry, had wanted to know how he felt. Wanted sorrow and grief—they all did. Draco just couldn't provide the show they were looking for.
The rhythm of the train soothed him, the repeating patterns that required nothing from him. His mother wanted forgiveness, strived for it with everything she did. She'd buy him a pony if he'd ask for it. But he didn't want anything. His father was intent on 'setting this right.' He was on campaign, damage control. They were both consumed with their objectives.
At no point would he allow himself to lie down, even as he had the whole cart to himself, so he sat with his back straight and his eyes closed. Partially he slept, other times, he just listened to the noise and chaos outside his still and quiet compartment.
That noise grew as they got closer. The children changing from their civilian clothes into their robes. It was black outside the windows, pressing on the pane with its hallow hunger. The chaos grew as everyone jostled to get off and into the cool air of the Hogwarts platform.
"First years, this way," Hagrid the oaf cried, just like he did every year. Tiny little bodies drew to the giant man. Well, some things never changed. It was one of the things Draco dreaded, to see how things had changed, those empty spaces and absences where people used to be. Who headed Slytherin house now? He didn't know. Probably Percy Weasley, Draco thought with a slow grin. Gryffindor had probably disowned him after all the slyly evil shit he'd done.
The ugly thestrals were waiting and Draco got his own carriage on the slow ride up to the castle. The forest was full of bugs, the remnants of summer. They would all die off soon as the cold hit.
Repairs to the castle were just about complete. One of the towers stood in ruin, it's jagged edges piercing the sky. As for the rest, the damage had been cleared away and covered—like it had never happened.
"Seventh years," Professor McGonagall said loudly, "this way."
"Which seventh years, the old or the new?" someone called.
"Both," she replied with that tart look that perpetually suggested it was a stupid question. Turning, she led them away from the great hall, to another where they had one had ballroom dancing lessons.
Quietly, everyone stood around and waited, unsure why they were being led away from everyone else.
McGonagall turned and surveyed the half crescent of students standing around her. "By degree, we are doing things differently this year. This exclusively pertains to the seventh years."
"So the Ministry is interfering in Hogwarts business again?" It was Granger with that thin, tight-arsed tone she did.
"In light of how things have been and the distinctions that houses have created, the notion of houses has been abolished for this class.
There was stunned silence. "We've been in our houses for years, abolishing them is hardly going to change those loyalties," someone said. "We are what we are."
"Yes, well, you will not be living in your houses this year. There will be communal dorms, for now. Obviously with double the class size for seventh years, the houses are not capable of fitting everyone, so a decision has been made to for more… communal living. There is more that the Ministry has degreed, but we will discuss that in the days to come."
"So where are we supposed to be living?"
"There are temporary dorms while we are working to build the new rooms required. Girls and boys will be separated. Our head boy and head girl," McGonagall said with a smile to two students, who walked up and presented themselves and their new shiny badges. Two non-descript students from the younger group of seventh years. Not Potter then, Draco thought. "They will take you to the dormitories after supper. Now return to the Great Hall all of you."
A quiet scuffle as everyone left, chatting confusedly and angrily about this change. It did make sense that there wasn't room for two lots of seventh years within the house dorms, but they had both been chucked out. Perhaps the ministry had its reasons. Still, this declaration that house loyalties were to be ignored didn't mean a thing when every single person went to their house's table in the Great Hall.
Draco sat at the very end of his, a good border of clear space around him. He was hungry and the food was good, bowls of it just to himself. Speeches Draco didn't bother listening to, and then the loud murmur as every single person in the hall started talking. There were the odd stragglers like himself that didn't engage. There was bound to be, he supposed. Not everyone came out of this war intact.
Once finished, he wanted to leave and would have if he'd had some notion of where he was sleeping that night, but he had to wait around to be led by the head boy, just like a first year. This had to be some kind of punishment. It didn't make sense otherwise. Why not just extend their house dorms? There weren't that many of them, after all. A squeeze and they could all fit well enough.
An age later, they were finally ready to leave and the boys walked left and the girls walked right. They were off to a part of the castle that was near the greenhouse, well away from their old common rooms.
Pushing heavy wooden doors open the head boy led them into a large room filled with bunk beds.
"What the fuck?" the guy next to Draco said, mirroring his own thoughts. It was Seamus, the Gryffindor. They were all being squeezed into this one hall, like sardines, with no privacy, not space.
"This is what punishment looks like," Draco said quietly and Seamus looked over at him. Punishment took a lot of forms, but this was a new one.
