Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.
Draco had never been jealous of cobblestone in his life, but there he stood, stricken with it.
The castle stood unaffected by the war. The arches were mended, the debris was cleared and the last vestige of the damage had been focused down to a single broken statue. It had been piled onto one spot, frozen in place with a small plaque.
Granger, who'd been herding Second years like the good girl she is, stopped her route. She waved them over to the Hufflepuff girl with a Head Girl pin, her face squashed and her hair bright yellow. Not blonde, not white, yellow, as if she had no idea how to care for it. He grimaced as the crowd jostled, left and right, and as they passed the monument. Granger had her hand outstretched and looked as pathetic up close as she had from a distance. His lip curled as she pressed a hand to the curve of the armor.
For those who died defending the future, May 2nd, 1998.
He didn't linger to see the names, but dozens were listed. Some familiar in passing, none he cared to mourn right this second. It seemed a little morbid to memorialize their deaths in such a central part of the school, but they'd also decided to cram their daft old headmaster in a great white tomb, so what did Draco know of aesthetics.
"Seems like Granger's out to summon a boyfriend," he said without thinking.
She looked at him, torn eyes and red cheeks. Not upset, not as much as he'd expected. She looked furious, framed in thick brown curls.
Fuck.
Oh well.
It was a joke; he could have said worse.
Blaise and Theo whooped with laughter as they paced past. Pansy and Daphne were in deep discussion with several Seventh year girls, none of which Draco took the time to know. They were familiar but he never really bothered with names. If he had to, he could get away with pet names. Sweetheart, love, whatever name meant that they'd think he liked them. It was easier than names. One smiled and waved at him and he grimaced with teeth. She seemed pleased and he couldn't place why.
He can't help but glance backward, at the bossy Head Girl who's slammed herself onto the spot, stuck in front of a memorial.
His focus is on her because how can it not be?
She's making a spectacle of herself as she stood beside a broken statue. She looked as if she were in front of a gravestone, which in a way he supposed it was. He didn't hesitate to look back at her, not as the crowd moved. Ginny had moved over to her, as had Longbottom and Lovegood, her happy little replacements for Potter and Weasley. He rolled his eyes and focused ahead, his hands dug deep into his pockets.
He couldn't swallow the words back, not even if he wanted to.
He would have gone back for her —
Because she's the other Head of their year, obviously. He can't be seen to have left her, as then he'd be blamed for not keeping an eye on the Golden Girl of Gryffindor.
It took a painful amount of time for people to seat themselves and to settle. Draco spent the time idle, his attention fixed ahead of him. The Slytherin table was focused on earned loyalty. They didn't embed people to their circles without careful consideration and due diligence. If you were going to be a shit head, you weren't included. It was rather straight-forward, even when he had been a First year. He had brought wealth, prestige and knowledge; he was an easy fit.
He didn't care for those who sat on the outskirts, shy or withdrawn. It wasn't his place to slot them into the group or to help them form their own groups. The very idea made his skin crawl, of coddling younger students into play dates like he was a condescending parent.
So when the First years were sorted, he didn't offer more than a nod if they happened to look at him. Even then, when one girl slumped over in tears, he glared.
As if being a Slytherin was something to sob over.
Pathetic, honestly.
"Head Boys and Head Girls," McGonagall said from the teacher's table. "I'll need you to come with me for a moment."
Draco felt his eyes strain into the back of his head as Pansy pinched his bicep as hard as possible. He hadn't eaten dinner as he'd lost his appetite from the rock of the train and the shape of the halls. He could sneak into the kitchen later or ask an elf. They loved to serve him as if he might want to sneak them to the Malfoy Manor.
At least six of them had come across from Hogwarts to the Malfoy Manor to make up for the losses they'd sustained through Voldemort.
These were the petty thoughts that flitted between his ears as Granger walked up to McGonagall, up to him, her head high as if she had any reason to be proud. The two others, the Ravenclaw boy and the Hufflepuff girl, they were chatting from their tables to the front of the hall.
McGonagall looked between the four of them with mixed pride and pain.
Draco just wanted to sleep.
"I want to thank you for your patience in these times," she waved a hand for them to follow her.
"Professor," Granger said, the fucking swot. She couldn't just stay quiet for two seconds, could she? "Aren't we meant to escort our younger students to their dorms?"
"The dorms have been shuffled around," McGonagall waved a hand. "They're split based on ages rather than houses."
"What's the point of common rooms then," Draco said, no hesitation. "Or houses at all for the matter."
"Each house retains their common room and their areas, so to say, but we're going to integrate the dorms. It's something Dumbledore considered for years, but it'd have involved a lot of restructuring. Given the school was…" McGonagall trailed off. "It was the best time to enact such a change."
"So, what, everyone has to run all over the castle to get to their rooms?" Draco kept step with her, though she was determined to escape his presence.
"Rooms are split, four to a space, with a mix of the houses." McGonagall smiled as they ascended through the main stairways. "When a student goes through their doorway, they're transported to their room."
"What if they want to visit one another?" That was the Hufflepuff girl with the awful blond hair. It was like sulfur, he wanted to yank her into a bathroom and treat her hair — but that was petty, wasn't it.
"Whoever opens the door decides the room," McGonagall waved a hand. "But they can only open the door to their own room; so if they want to visit one another, they can. They just need permission."
Granger looked ready to faint.
"As the four Heads of the school, your dorm will have a door that has access to all other dorms; as you can imagine, that is a very special privilege."
"What do you mean, 'your' dorm?" Draco spat, sick of the lack of details. "Why not send a letter about this, why spring it — "
"She did send a letter," Granger said, her voice thin. "But I hadn't realized we would be sectioned off as part of it."
They stopped on the fourth floor, the least used floor in the school. Except, of course, for the study hall and the Library that sprawled through most of it. The tumorous nature of the Library necessitated that the floor remain unused, as it needed to expand to include more shelves and study spaces. It had been a small alcove when the school had been established and had since grown through donations, purchases and time.
Not that Draco really gave a shit, but he had a habit of knowing more than he needed. He thrived in that, to spare himself the sensation of being outdone.
(He glared at the back of Granger's head. The letter comment hadn't been necessary, had it.)
"Your dorm is a visitors' quarters, we had it arranged during the Triwizard tournament," McGonagall gave a faint smile. "Though part of the wall has been converted to a Library door, so you may go through there without having to loop all the way around."
Granger let out a sob.
How much did this girl cry, honestly?
McGonagall said a few things further but it was lost to Draco. He paid her no mind, not as she gestured down the hall, to the windows, words, words, so many insufferable words. He instead focused on the small plaque of minted bronze, impressed into the stone by the door.
Student Head of Houses
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.
Avery Flint and Rodger Corner.
Draco stared at the names as if they'd shift. Perhaps Blaise was meant to be the Head Boy or Theo. Anyone except for him.
"Exciting, isn't it?" That's Avery, if Draco had to guess. Her, with her yellow hair, yellow robes, yellow teeth — as if yellow is a point of pride to her core.
"Sod off," Draco said, his head tilted towards their dorm.
He pushed into the dorm with his head high and his throat tight. He was used to the dungeons, he was used to the shadows and the deep, rich darks of the space below. But instead, he was lofted halfway to the North tower, vaulted up into the sky like a pyre on a mountainside. The entrance space was a small lounge with several couches in front of a dead fireplace. To the right was a kitchen area. An exposed pantry laid against the wall alongside an icebox. A four-person table sat nearby as if they'd ever had a reason to eat in here.
The doors; great.
Straight ahead was a tall black door with a vault-style dial set in the middle. It had room numbers and years carved along with finely carved student names. No matter how far he spun, the names continued to change beyond reason.
"It's the students," Granger said behind him, her voice weak. She had her gaze fixed on the small stone archway to the right.
"I know," he paused on Blaise's name, which was aligned with Neville Longbottom and Michael Corner. He swung the door open and stuck his head through, to which he heard the boys scream.
Draco cackled through the curse words before Granger rushed over to slam the door, her hands rough against his chest. "Don't abuse it!"
"Abuse it?" Draco echoed, confusion stretched across his face. "I wanted to say hello to my dear friend Blaise."
Granger squared her door and kept her back pressed to the wide black door, her hands clasped over the dial.
"I'm surprised you didn't launch yourself straight for the Library," Draco said, his voice idle. "Figured you'd at least have to change your knickers — "
Through sheer determination, he didn't flinch. Not as he saw her face contort or her hand sail for him. She slapped him, hard and decisive, and he sneered through it. She looked more surprised than him as she remained against the door, as if she were afraid of him.
As if she hadn't been the one to strike first.
"What do you think I'm going to do?" Draco said, his hand pressed against his cheek. His jaw tensed against the pain, a flicker of muscles as he watched.
"Invade privacy," Granger flexed her brow upward, her teeth grit. "Abuse the privilege."
"Merlin," Draco exhaled between his teeth. He rocked back and away from the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "So much for having a reason to be here."
He didn't stop, not as she blubbered through something like an apology. He didn't want or need it, he hadn't asked for it. She had ruined his fun. He had no reason to peek into peoples rooms and he wasn't about to dedicate himself to patrols. They'd have to reassign the role or move him or something.
The urge to explore the other four doors was lost on him.
He made a beeline out of the room and down the hall to the exposed balcony.
The one upside of this room reassignment.
He used to come to this balcony during his Sixth year quite a lot. He came here in his Fourth and Fifth years too, but he'd come here to sneak a few kisses with Pansy or whichever girl he'd scooped up to piss off Pansy. He'd come here to smoke with Blaise and Theo between classes, sometimes with Flint or Montague. He hid here once from Goyle and Crabbe who he'd tricked into kissing one another in a game of truth or dare.
Sixth year — he had come here, for reasons he didn't linger in.
He never did it.
Jumped, that is.
But he considered it. It's worthwhile to consider the shape of things, even if you don't ever think you'll do it. But he couldn't have done it Sixth year, not if he wanted to protect his parents or continue their legacy. Neither seemed to be in mortal peril anymore, given that his parents were safe and his legacy was ruined for him.
But it was dark and cold up here, and he enjoyed that more than anything else.
The warm, small space he'd been crammed into, elbow to elbow with Granger and two insufferable swots. He didn't speak with Rodger, but he must be insufferable to have been settled with the Head Boy pin.
Draco took a drag of his cigarette, hands shaking and his shoulders hunched.
He wasn't going to do anything drastic.
He just needed to be out of that space.
He needed the cigarette.
"I'm sorry."
He should have jumped.
Draco angled himself to glare at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. His hand hovered by the cigarette as he took a deep drag, his eyes narrowed through the chilly evening air.
"Are you smoking?"
"No," he exhaled smoke into her face. She had enough sense to bat it away with a small gust. He watched her as if he expected her to yell or to shout or to snatch the cigarette away from him to stomp it out. But she didn't do any of that. She just stood, back-lit by the corridor of warm orange candlelight.
"I didn't know you smoked," she said, her expression dubious.
"Are you going to tattle on me?" Draco loosed a half-there snicker.
Hermione considered him and the question in equal measure, her weight shifted to one leg. "I've never smoked," she said, her tone idle. "What's it like?"
"Tastes like shit," Draco narrowed his eyes at her.
"Why do it?"
His lips twitched as he almost continued his answer, but he caught the tail of it with his tongue. He clamped his teeth tight and sucked another breath, though he took the care to exhale it upward rather than at her. She didn't take his silence as an insult. Rather, she stepped closer, her gaze intent up at him through the moonlight.
He didn't expect her hand to extend out to him like she wanted to shake his hand.
"May I try it?"
"No," Draco spat, a cruel laugh spiked out of him.
"Why not?" Granger didn't falter back, her hand stuck out at him, her jaw set.
Draco exhaled through his nose and stared down at the half-finished roll. If she were to stamp it out or to throw it, he wouldn't care, really. It wasn't as if he was hurting on money, he could afford a new pack. But it was more the concept of sharing a cigarette with Hermione Fucking Granger, Head Girl and Golden Girl, bushy-haired and the definition of a swot. Morbid curiosity won over pride as he angled it towards her.
And she took it, as she tried to hold it between her index finger and thumb like a dirty tissue.
The comedy widened as she brought it to her lips, which he'd never considered for more than a few seconds. He'd glare at her as she spoke too loud or mouthed her stupid spells with theatrical enunciation, but never like this. Not wrapped around the paper butt, a confused little 'o' shape as she looked to him for advice. Not as she hollowed her cheeks and drew a breath, her eyes watered and her lashes fluttered.
And she spat.
The moment shattered as she broke into a hacking cough, tears down her cheeks and her face bright red.
"That is foul!"
He laughed, ugly and beside himself. He gritted his teeth as he tried to catch his breath, her tongue ticked against her teeth, around her lips, anxious energy bounced from her feet to her hair. She didn't stop the theatrics until she summoned a glass of water to spit over the balcony.
"It's not that bad," Draco said, his voice idle. He drew a new cigarette from the pack as his old one had been stamped onto the stonework.
She hung over the low stone wall, her hands grasped to the edge. Her fingers dug into the stone and her hair folded around her head. He wondered if he could flip her, to watch her plummet to the darkness below. But she pushed back to stare at him, red face, red eyes, spit-covered lips, and wet cheeks.
"Merlin Granger — "
"Foul," she repeated, her voice croaky.
"Yeah, it's a cigarette, what did you expect?" He squinted at her as he took a drag. He mock-coughed before he laughed again, his hip rested against the stonework wall.
"Look," Granger said, her voice dry. "I came out to apologize for the door, I — you were chosen for a reason, I don't mean to question your position."
"What position is that?" Draco asked between drags, not sure if she realized how she'd come apart from one mouthful of smoke.
"Head Boy," she said, her voice heavy with intent.
"Ah yes," Draco swirled his cigarette as if he had a fine glass of fire whiskey. "Head Boy, role model to the school, protector of the youth." Another long drag and exhale for effect. "I hope to lead them to a — uh, brighter future," he trailed off to lick his lips apart.
"You want to get in trouble," Granger said, her voice suspicious.
"Why would I want to get in trouble?" Draco dropped his head a fraction so they were closer to eye level. She was tiny, something he often forgot. She often had a massive bag, or she was seated. He rarely stood near her for more than a few seconds at a time, but she was still tiny. Bird-like, he'd noticed, thin wrists, thin neck, just thin all over.
"Because," Granger said, with the same realization she'd use in a class discussion. "You don't know how else to be."
Draco felt his throat tense and he wanted to punch himself for it.
"But I won't help you get in trouble, I'm not going to babysit you or make sure you do as you're supposed to. I have better things to be doing." And she turned as if she'd solved him like a puzzle box.
Draco remained on the balcony beneath the stars as midnight closed in. The hallways remained lit but they dimmed enough for shadows to emerge. He watched the Great Lake from his vantage point, towards the Forbidden Forest. The sprawl of water and woods gave the illusion of isolation but he didn't need any of that to feel alone. It was simply how it was to be him, shadowed between his passing moments with others.
This was easier; the depths of the shadows.
By one o'clock he'd returned to the shared dormitory. He checked the doors in their common area, the shabby one that led into the Library, then one for brooms and cauldrons. The last two doors were inset to the wall around a curved corridor. He took a chance and landed in the boys' room, to which he thanked his luck. The last thing he wanted to do was to slide into Granger's dormitory after hours and have her make up some elaborate five-point reason about why he'd found her.
At least he'd not see her outside of classes; she'd be in the Library. He would stay by the Quidditch pitch or sneak off to Hogsmeade. Seventh years were allowed to go whenever they pleased, so he imagined the same courtesy was extended to Eighth years. The room he had with Rodger was plain, with four beds total. Rodger had erected a screen around his side like the most passive-aggressive roommate that Draco had ever seen, but — whatever.
Fuck him.
Draco didn't spare the boy a second glance, not as he augmented his own separator from a spare trunk. He tore it apart and erected a black latticed frame and strung the spare curtains up over the spaces. While Rodger had slammed up some ugly slats of wood, Draco took the time to make it look nice.
He heard the mutter about the sound and sent a stunning spell at the boy. He didn't even think about it, didn't give a fuck. He was tired and the boy had started it. Draco didn't have the time or patience for passive-aggression, not when he could fulfill the role of aggressive-aggression. Once he was pleased with his separator he lifted the spell. Rodger laid still, whether he'd not even woken up in the first place or he'd thought better than to speak up.
Draco was so embedded in his rage that he forgot about his insomnia.
And so he laid there, trapped between awake and asleep.
Wednesday — September 2nd, 1998.
But he was still until it was five o'clock, when he climbed out of bed and made his way to the attached bathroom. There was no bathroom in the common area, not that he knew of, but each dorm had it's own bathroom so it wasn't some great loss. He brushed his teeth and showered, doing his best impression of being functional. By six o'clock, he'd dragged on the skeleton of his personal Quidditch gear. Not the Slytherin colors with the cream slacks and the green shirt; black top, black bottoms with dark grey for any accent.
His broom had been propped in the closet, the twigs all out of shape from transit.
"Good morning," Hermione said from the small table. The three empty seats beside her made her look pathetic and lonely.
He didn't linger, not as she repeated his name. He cleared the twigs and reshaped them. It was an aesthetic thing as much a precision thing. He didn't want to go out onto the field with them out of shape, as it'd get worse with each lap. He took pride in what he owned and that which he was responsible for.
It was why he kept both his belongings and his responsibilities limited.
He was all or nothing; life or death.
Something struck the back of his head. A small was of parchment with nothing written on it except 'turn around'.
He tossed the ball into the air as it burst into flames then into nothing. He scrubbed his face with his hand as he stood, not to look at her nor to pay her any mind. He hoisted his broom onto his shoulder. He could fly from the balcony if he really wanted to, but the school had anti-flight barriers. He didn't want to have his broom confiscated, or worse, leap off the tower and plummet.
By the second-floor staircase, he saw her, books in her arms and her face red.
"I need to go see Hagrid," she spluttered between breaths. "I thought we could walk together."
"Did you," Draco said, his voice idle.
"You aren't wearing your Head Boy pin."
"I'm not."
"Why not?"
Draco shrugged, his bottom lip pushed out as they landed on the ground floor. He had hoped in an early trip to the Quidditch pitch he'd be able to avoid her. She had summoned him to the Prefect carriage, she had stalked him to the balcony. He didn't want to know how far she'd follow him as if he were her latest cause to champion. He could see it in how her jaw was set and how she'd stare at him, her eyes wide and her mouth furrowed.
She followed in step with him, her arms laden with books. She could have put them into her bag, enchanted them to be light, but she didn't. She was so stubborn about the stupidest things. He didn't turn to watch her walk to Hagrid's hut but he noticed her absence. The heavy breathing, the stern attention, the way she'd rush a little more just to catch the corner of his eye.
The pieces clicked together in his mind.
She didn't trust him.
Which made sense. He didn't blame her distrust. He had been a close ally to the Dark Lord if all you knew was his family name. He hadn't done anything of note during the war except cry and suffer on the floor to innumerable torture techniques, but he'd tortured others. She was just curious about him, about whether he'd snap and begin to torture the new children at Hogwarts.
As if her presence might save them if that was his intent.
So there was a reason he was Head Boy; kindling for sadistic tendencies, or a method of cataloging his movements. Patrols, the separate dorm…
Draco arrived at the Quidditch pitch, his broom strained against his palm. He hadn't been here since his Fifth year, back when he still had a shred of hope about his future as a Quidditch star. He didn't care what position he played, though he was a rubbish Beater. He was lean and slim with more interest in maneuvering his broom than beating others with Bludgers. He took his stance and shot into the air, a genuine smile on his lips for the first time in months.