DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS
HashtagMC
I have to apologise: I've confused Crabbe and Goyle during the last chapter. Of course, it was Crabbe who got himself killed in the Room of Requirements, and not Goyle. Sorry for this.
I've never bothered to read anything beyond the novels – wiki, interviews, whatever – but since I wish this story to be canon-compatible aside from the epilogue, I would be highly grateful if you would point any mistakes out to me. At this point, I'd also like to thank all the people who have review, favourited, and followed my story so far, and assured me that it is great and not OOC – thank you!
I hope you like the song I wrote for the Sorting Hat. I know, it's way shorter than the one known from the books, but it was the best I could come up with.
Last but not least, I plan on including a few Dean/Seamus moments here and there later in the story. Therefore, I have added them as a Side Pairing, along with Ron/Hermione.
— Hashtag
CHAPTER 2 – SETTLING IN
Hogwarts had taken a lot of damage in the final battle, the Great Battle of Hogwarts (as dubbed by the Daily Prophet). Harry definitely didn't like this term. There was nothing great about the battle. There never was. War still remained war, no matter how great people thought it was. There were no heroes of war, just the never ending chain of kill or get killed situations. War was dirty, war was bloody, and war came with casualties. When Harry had first read what Rita Skeeter had written about an acceptable amount of victims, he had wondered whether or not the Ministry would let him get away with murder. There was no such thing as an acceptable amount of casualties. Each and every death was one death too much. Harry wondered what this monster in human shape would have written if the war would have ended without a single death. Probably not newsworthy at all.
During the time which would have been Summer Break under normal circumstances, a team of specialists had worked to rebuild the castle, renew the spells which hid it from Muggle eyes, and double-check the magic of it. Several portraits had been replaced, because the originals had been damaged too much. The greenhouses had been renovated – with the help of an overly enthusiastic Neville – and a few parts of the castle had been refurbished past all recognition. The only part mostly undamaged had been the dungeons and, ironically, the Slytherin common room.
Next to Dumbledore's tomb, a memorial had been constructed, bearing the names of all wizards, witches, goblins, house-elves, giants, and anybody else who had died during the Second Wizarding War. Harry was glad to see that the dead got the recognition they deserved, but every time he walked past the white marble, his chest stung. He didn't need to look at the engravings – he knew all the names by heart. The list started with people who were near and dear to him – Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Fred Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks – and ended with countless students who had defended this very school against the Death Eaters. Well, not countless. Harry knew the numbers. Ninety-and-seven people had died since the anew rise of Tom Riddle.
Some of the names were harder to bear than others. Many of those below the age of seventeen years had snuck back into the school to fight, and the better part of them had gotten themselves killed in the process, due to lack of experience. The worst of them had been a first-year, who had nothing beyond theoretical knowledge about some magical creatures. Harry could never look into another pair of eleven-year-old eyes again without reliving the day he had had to face the parents of the dead first-grader. Professor McGonagall had offered to do so herself, but Harry had refused, ninety-and-seven times. Those people deserved to learn the news from the man their sons and daughters had died for, and if they wanted to blame him, it was their right.
The Great Hall wasn't the same as it was before the war. They had replaced the windows with coloured ones, like the windows of a church. It showed scenes, not from the war, but from the everyday life at Hogwarts. Students playing Quidditch, brewing potions, practising spells, or tending plants in the greenhouses. It was a constant reminder that, even after the war, life continued. New first-graders had arrived, and for the first time since his first year at Hogwarts, Harry would get to hear the song of the Speaking Hat again. No Whomping Willow or Dementor to keep him away from the opening ceremony.
It felt unfamiliar to see Professor McGonagall deliver the speech instead of Dumbledore. Headmistress McGonagall. They had, on Harry's insistence, inserted a portrait of Dumbledore into the huge window above the Staff Table, and the smile of the glass-Dumbledore reminded Harry of his first day. Dumbledore's idea of a speech had been to encourage everybody to dig in and remind the Weasley twins not to sneak into the Forbidden Forest. McGonagall, the greatest professor Harry had ever had the pleasure of meeting, couldn't keep up with the greatest headmaster Hogwarts had ever had in its long history.
Harry was jolted out of his thoughts when Professor McGonagall placed the Speaking Hat on its stool, and the hat opened his mouth and began to sing.
I may seem old and may seem torn
Too many heads have had me worn
And though I have no eyes and ears
I can sense your skills and fears
Hard times we have seen and felt
With evil wizards we have dealt
Many lives this war has cost'
Many friends we all have lost
Yet you shall not mourn the past
Since for each of those who passed
A new face I can see in here
A new voice I can hear in here
To sort the hous's my task is now
And to do my best I vow
Don't hesitate, put on your head
Me old and worn but speaking hat
Your new home I shall show to you
The place where to belong you do
If smart and zealous 's what you are
You do belong to Ravenclaw
If bravery you do have more
I shall place you in Gryffindor
If friendship you do value much
You might feel home at Hufflepuff
If sly you are and slick within
your place then is at Slytherin
Applause echoed through the Great Hall after the Sorting Hat had finished his song. Then, Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment which held the names of the new first-graders, calling each of them up to be assigned to a house by the hat. Harry involuntarily smiled at the memory of how nervous he'd been back then, afraid the hat might send him back home. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron and Hermione smile as well.
'Addams, Benjamin!' Professor McGonagall called.
'Hufflepuff!' Applause from the Hufflepuff table.
'Ahmed, Muhammad!'
'Ravenclaw!'
'Bond, Zachary!'
'Ravenclaw!'
'Bancroft, Logan!'
'Slytherin!'
…
The list went on and on. 'Crawley, Amber' was the first new Gryffindor, two twins going by the surname of Murray, who had wished to be Gryffindors, were sent to Ravenclaw – though they didn't look unhappy, given that the Sorting Hat considered them smart enough to be Ravenclaws. The row of the new students grew shorter and shorter, and Harry didn't envy the poor girl who was the last person waiting while 'Wright, Callum!' made his way to the Slytherin table.
After 'Wright, Leah!' had sat down at the Gryffindor table – by now, Harry was pitying her, being in the house which was supposed to be the arch rival or her brother's – the meal started, and, god, how Harry had missed the treacle tart from Hogwarts' kitchen. Within seconds, the whole student body was chattering, and Harry could see a few shocked faces here and there, when muggle-born (or, muggle-raised) first-graders learned about the war. Harry hoped his housemates wouldn't scare the young children. They needed to know what had happened, yes, but no need for cruel details. He couldn't really imagine a Gryffindor deliberately scaring a little kid. Maybe someone like Malfoy—
No, actually, Harry couldn't picture Malfoy scaring a first-grader either. Not the new Malfoy, anyway. He had seen this new Malfoy at the trial for the first time, when he had quietly muttered 'guilty as charged', without looking anyone in the eye. The old Malfoy would have taunted the judge, or demanded to be judged by a pure-blood. Then, on the train. Malfoy had not merely acknowledged their presence and all but allowed them to stay. The old Malfoy would have mocked them, made a comment on Ron, would have insulted Hermione, and maybe taunted their absent friends as well. So it was obvious – well, maybe not to Ron, but to Harry, and hopefully to Hermione, too – that Malfoy had changed.
Harry had been offered to be a prefect by Professor McGonagall, but he had refused. He didn't need any more responsibility to bear. In fifth year, he had felt hurt when Dumbledore hadn't made him a prefect, but now, he was three years older and god-knew-how-many years more mature. War had made him an adult prematurely, and war had left its scars and traces. One of them being his new-found fear to bear responsibility. He wouldn't allow anyone to die for him again. This decision he had made in the midst of the combat, and he was going to stick to it.
The new Gryffindor prefects – it was strange to have someone younger than himself lead him, Harry thought – led them to the Gryffindor tower once the feast was over. Harry hadn't felt really festive at all. He knew he should, and the wizarding world truly had a reason to celebrate, even though Voldemort's defeat had been months ago – after the first time Tom Riddle had died, the wizards and witches had celebrated for months as well. And back then, the celebrations had also been overshadowed by the deaths of James Potter and Lily Evans.
Suddenly, the row of students came to a halt when they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and Harry violently bumped into Ron and Hermione. 'Password?' the Fat Lady said, and Harry could hear a few gasps here and there, coming from the new students. 'Negatio,' the prefect recited the new password, and the portrait hole swung open, granting them access to the Gryffindor common room.
Harry immediately strode towards the boy's dormitories, pointedly ignoring the worried glances Hermione, Ron, and Ginny gave him. They had already noticed his somewhat depressed attitude at the Burrow, but so far, Harry had successfully evaded all talks about his mental state, not-so-sublty changing the subject or bluntly ignoring questions whenever the topic came up. He was fine, as fine as a mentally scarred young adult could be after he fought a war and saw his friends die. Alright, so he was not fine, but nothing a shrink could say would change anything. Harry would have to deal with this by himself.
He knew he had trust-issues. You don't live on the run for one year without becoming wary and suspicious. When you begin to suspect everyone of having taken Polyjuice potion and pretending to be someone else, you know something is wrong. Harry thought that slowly, he had become as paranoid as Mad-Eye. He didn't dare turn his back to people when their wand was in their hands, even in class. The number of people he trusted was small – maybe ten. Ron and Hermione, of course. Ginny. George? Nah, who knows what he is able to do, so shortly after losing his brother, the voice in his head unhelpfully whispered. Who else? Professor McGonagall. Mrs and Mr Weasley. Draco Malfoy, another voice in his head supplied, and Harry frowned. So he trusted his former arch enemy, but not the brother of his best friend? How flipping screwed up was he?
Of course he didn't trust Draco. He could never. He was just tired, he decided. On the other hand, you could trust the new Draco, the voice kept arguing. It fought a lost battle. Harry Potter did not trust Draco Malfoy. Period.
— Denial and its Side Effects —
Two weeks of being back at school, and Draco already thought it was hell. He took in his surroundings as he stepped into the Slytherin common room. There had been a time when the green light had made him feel more or less at home; now it was a reminder of times he wanted to forget. Too many bad memories were connected to this place.
By the fireplace, he could see Goyle's – so far fruitless – efforts to win Pansy's affection. His eleven, or maybe thirteen year old self would have jokingly considered to buy Goyle a book about love, just to laugh at the question whether or not Goyle could read. But now? Draco caught himself finding it rather… cute? Good god. He was becoming a flipping sentimental Gryffindor. His father would throw a tantrum in his cell at Azkaban if he knew… not that Draco cared about his father anymore. Unfortunately, other people did care about his father.
Draco was at Hogwarts for two weeks now, and already he had had to visit Madam Pomfrey because some sixth-grader had thought it'd be funny to send a trip hex after Draco, for 'being a fucking bloody traitor, Death Eater scum!' Draco had strained a muscle in his ankle and broken his wrists – both – as he fell down the stairs. Madam Pomfrey had asked, of course, but he had refused to turn the other guy in. It wouldn't do him any good. If anything, he'd get it paid back the next time. Probably for 'being a bloody tell-tale', or something like that. Draco had also seen some other students give him dirty looks, so he probably had a few more injuries coming.
Actually, there were two factions at school which despised each other, but both had it out for Draco. On the one hand, there was the 'light side', the self-entitled 'good guys', who had fought against the Dark Lord, and considered everyone who had done otherwise either a coward or a traitor. With Draco, of course, being on top of that list. He had tried to explain the guys who had beaten him up the other day that he had not had a fucking bloody choice, but they didn't care. To them, he was a traitor and deserved punishment, and they let show what they meant by that. Draco's entire body still hurt, and he would sure as hell have bruises where their fists had hit him. Luckily, no bone was broken, because Draco didn't wish to see Madam Pomfrey so soon again.
Then, on the other hand, there was the – much smaller faction – of the children of the former Death Eaters, most of them being his housemates at Slytherin. To them, Draco was a traitor as well, but for completely different reasons. Because unlike their parents, who had been Death Eaters just as he had been, he wasn't imprisoned. They suspected him of having cooperated with the Ministry and turning people in, and thus beat him up. He hadn't done anything like that, but that didn't keep them from doing so. They needed a scapegoat, and he was the perfect victim for them. It had been one of Draco's lovely fellow Slytherins who had shot the trip jinx at him.
During class, Draco tried to blend with the mass as best as he could. The teachers didn't treat him any differently than they had the years before, besides the obvious fact that Professor Snape wasn't there anymore. Draco rarely ever raised his hand during classes, he just silently did whatever was demanded from him, did his homework in time, and quietly entered and left the classroom at the beginning and end of each lesson. His grades were always satisfying – As and Es weren't exactly top, but it was enough. The only subject Draco exceeded in was Potions. Sure, Snape had always praised him more than other students, but also without a teacher who favoured Draco, he was an excellent student when it came to potions.
The worst, however, was at night, when Draco lay awake for several hours. It wasn't that he slept particularly bad – not worse than most of the other veterans, anyway – but the insecurity which hung above his head was what kept him awake. He was fairly certain he would pass his exams without major problems, but what then? Apply for a job? They wouldn't want a former Death Eater. Sure, what was left of the Malfoy estate was enough to live in peace for the rest of his life, but the prospect of being lonely for the rest of his life was enough to scare Draco. Even though a Malfoy oughtn't to be scared. He refused to admit it to himself, but now that he had an actual life without a war or a Dark Lord to rule said life, he realised that he was all but craving for a significant other. Someone to confide in. Someone to trust, to love, to have his back. Someone in whose presence he would be just Draco. Not Draco Malfoy, not Draco the traitor, Draco the Death Eater, Draco the failure. Someone to whom Draco could be himself.
Not that he would ever have such a person. A Malfoy wasn't supposed to cry, and so Draco didn't. This particular Malfoy wasn't supposed to be happy, and so he never would be.