Chapter 2

A week into his eighth year, Harry had learned a number of things that he hadn't previously considered. More than just that he didn't think he ever wanted to drink again after the first night back that he remembered all too clearly.

One was that Hogwarts had recovered only superficially. The wounds that marred the stone and reflected those upon the students and staff had been treated and covered, but they were still there. Another was that, though those wounds remained, every day they seemed to heal just a little more. Or maybe those who bore them simply learned to accommodate them a little better.

Harry learned that the divisions between the houses, the stark lines that had once defined them, seemed to have become blurred. Those that remained in Slytherin house still bore a distinct quietness, something that resonated with pain and even a little guilt, but they weren't hated. Harry suspected that maybe they were the ones that hated themselves the most. It was a strange possibility, but more apparent by the day.

He learned that McGonagall was a stronger woman than he'd even given her credit for. That the professors as a whole were stronger, even if Slughorn spoke with a bit of a quaver sometimes and the new Defence professor seemed to be at constant war with the precedent set before her. The students themselves were stronger, too, and it was apparent from the murmur of chatter at mealtimes that rose into real conversation and even natural laughter over the span of a single week.

Harry also learned, realising with a deduction that was echoed by the sceptical mutters of his dorm mates, that no one had quite anticipated just how many eighth years would return that year. That not only was their tower, the so-named Dragon's Nest, just a little too small for them but that the table provided in the Great Hall for their use, a table set before and below the dais of the Head Table, was too small as well.

Entering the Great Hall on Friday morning, Harry yawned behind his hand. At his side, Ron barely seemed awake, and even Hermione was walking with heavy steps. Their classes had started with a bang, forcing each and every one of them to hit the ground running, and Harry hadn't realised what a difference a whole year without school and its routine would make upon his efficiency.

Study was bloody hard.

Wandering up the aisle towards the Little Head Table, as he'd had heard it called by some of the younger students, Harry waved absently to the Gryffindor table where Ginny sat. She caught his eye with a smile and waved back, though was distracted almost instantly by the girl at her side who drew her back into their conversation.

Harry bit back a sigh. Whatever had existed between himself and Ginny had passed. It was too confusing, maybe too soon or too late, to decide if he was saddened by it, but that fact was blatantly apparent. He still loved her, and he knew she still cared for him, but more than that? Some things it seemed simply didn't seem capable of surviving the war. Some loves. Some hatreds, too.

Almost against his will, Harry glanced back towards the Little Head Table. His gaze drew unerringly towards Malfoy's white-blond head, caught for a moment, then detached as he shook his own head. The ex-Slytherins were a little confusing, to say the least, with not a single one of them so much as raising their hackles at a passing comment that would have once started a fight. Granted, few muttered such imprecations and accusations even under their breaths anymore, with almost unanimous consensus holding fast to group support and a recovery mentality even for those once excluded, but even so. It was a little unexpected. More than a little.

Just as the fact that Harry remembered more clearly than he'd care to admit that he'd all but climbed into Malfoy's lap on the first evening in the Dragon's Nest. Or that Harry had promptly fallen to sleep. Or that one of the most prominent memories of doing so wasn't shame, or discomfort, or even embarrassment but that it had been… surprisingly comfortable.

Giving a mental shake of his head, Harry glanced back towards his friends where he'd only half realised they were sharing a discussion. "What's this?" he asked, catching sight of Ron's face scrunched in displeasure.

Ron switched his attention from a chiding Hermione towards him. "You know we had a Transfiguration essay due this afternoon."

Harry blinked. "Oh. Yeah, I remember. I think I'm mostly done."

Ron's face scrunched further. "When were you doing that?"

"In Defence yesterday."

"That's what you were writing?" Ron asked, eyebrows snapping upwards, even as Hermione clicked her tongue and chided him in turn.

"You should be doing Defence work in Defence, Harry."

"To be fair, Hermione, I doubt anyone's really going to tell Harry-bloody-Potter he needs to learn more about Defence Against the Dark Arts."

It was Harry's turn to pull a face, though Hermione had leapt upon Ron's words, diving headfirst into explaining just why theoretical and practical were very, very different types of learning, and he doubted either of them noticed. Turning away from them, he picked up his pace a little to step around the pair of junior girls headed down the aisle towards them, offering them both a smile that they returned in kind as they passed. He caught a word or two as he did so, a brief "try out for the team" that was nothing if not utterly normal conversation, and unexpectedly halted into a flux of consideration. Rather than listen to Ron defending the merits of experience over book knowledge, and Hermione arguing the exact opposite, Harry turned towards the Head Table.

"I'll be back in a second," Harry said over his shoulder, though he doubted either Ron or Hermione heard him. Picking up his pace, he trotted the rest of the way down the hall, skirting past another cluster of younger students as they rose to their feet, and rounded the Little Head Table to where the professors were seated.

It was only half-full, a speckling of the professors choosing to partake their meals alone and away from the near-constant company of students, but McGonagall was there. With the hall bubbling with noise, peak breakfast hour living up to its name, Harry doubted they would have been able to hold much of a conversation with one another anyway. As he climbed up the steps, he caught the eye of a number of them, shared a nod or two, and stopped before McGonagall.

"Hi, Professor," he said by way of greeting.

McGonagall lowered her fork onto what remained of her eggs. "Potter," she said, raising a napkin to wipe her lips. "Good morning."

"Hi. Yeah, morning. I was wondering, do you mind if I just chatted to you for a sec?"

McGonagall's lips twitched, and Harry recognised it as the suppression of a smile that he would have once misread for annoyance. "I believe we already are."

"Right." Harry didn't bother hiding his own smile. He wondered absently why McGonagall did – he thought they were probably past that in whatever relationship they shared – but supposed she had an image to maintain as the Headmistress. "Just a thought, but I was wondering, is quidditch going to be running this year?"

McGonagall's lips pursed slightly. It was as good as a frown, and Harry was reminded that, at least when it came to the Hogwarts community, she was one of the most dedicated supporters of the sport. "I should certainly think so," she said.

"Great." Harry smiled again, then bit his lip, then struggled to maintain that smile. "So, I was wondering…"

"About captaincy and team positions, I suppose?"

Harry's nod was a little stilted.

McGonagall settled back in her chair. Her hands folded over one another on the table before her. "What are your preferences, Potter?"

Harry blinked. "My preferences?"

"Yes. Do you have intentions to continue playing? Is it your hope that you'll step back into your position as captain and seeker? You wouldn't be filling anyone's shoes given the circumstances of the Gryffindor team last year, if that's your concern."

Harry opened his mouth to reply but closed it almost immediately. He'd thought about quidditch. He really had, and quite a bit over the past few days, but not quite as thoroughly as to be able to provide answers to McGonagall's questions. Gnawing on his bottom lip, he glanced absently over his shoulder in the direction of Gryffindor table. He could make out Ginny's bright hair, her head still turned in avid discussion with her friend.

Did he want to keep playing quidditch? Yes. Of course he did. There were few things he loved more in the world than flying, and the game added an extra layer of excitement and competitiveness that Harry had never experienced in a sport before. And yet, after everything, coming back to Hogwarts and resuming the position and status he'd once held… Somehow, it didn't feel right.

"I don't… know," Harry said. "I don't think…"

McGonagall was quiet for a moment, waiting with respectful silence, before straightening in her seat. "Perhaps, with the workload you are to be buried beneath this year, keeping your extracurricular activities to a minimum may be a wise decision."

"Other people keep up quidditch in their final year," Harry said without much force, still watching Ginny. "Oliver Wood did."

"Yes, he did."

"Plenty of people can…" Harry trailed off. He truly loved quidditch, and a part of him was itched to climb onto a broom at the first chance he got. And yet…

"None of those people fought and won a war less than six months prior, though, Potter," McGonagall said.

In spite of the potential horror behind her words, Harry found himself smiling a little once more as he turned back to his headmistress. "You make it sound so exceptional."

"Yes, well." McGonagall's lips twitched again, and Harry was sure it wasn't in annoyance this time. "You can still think about it, Potter. The season isn't set to start just yet."

"Right."

"Give it some time."

"Okay."

"And get back to me."

Harry nodded. He spared a final glance over his shoulder before taking a moment more to meet McGonagall's eyes. "As a suggestion, if you happen to need it, Ginny would make a brilliant captain."

McGonagall didn't even try to hide her satisfaction this time. "That she would. I'm glad we're on the same page."

Nodding again, a little saddened yet somehow also satisfied, Harry turned from the Head Table to that placed just below it. Only to pause halfway down the dais stairs, scanning along the length of the parallel benches.

Well, fuck, he thought, propping his hands upon his hips. Did everyone decide to bombard the Great Hall for dinner at once or something? Not a single spot remained, and some places even held two people. Hermione was practically on Ron's lap, Lavender entirely on Parvati's, and Seamus wasn't in a seat at all but instead had slung himself over Dean's back to both chat to him and lean over his shoulder to pick at a bowl of grapes. The small cluster of ex-Slytherins were a little more spaced out, the flinch response that entailed not even the consciously aware students could help giving them minute extra distance, but it wasn't much.

"Professor," Harry said over his shoulder, continuing down the stairs, "just as another suggestion, I think this table needs more seats."

"I couldn't agree more, Potter," McGonagall called after him, and he could have sworn a hint of laughter underlaid her words.

Shaking his head, Harry continued up the length of the table. He tapped Ron's shoulder as he passed, gesturing along the benches in vague indication, and left him with eyebrow raised and question half spoken to continue to what little spaces were available.

It was going to be a little awkward. Maybe more than a little. But Harry figured that he and every other student had to start somewhere, didn't they? If they were going to remedy the situation of the still-present but less pronounced ostracism of certain members of the student body, active steps would need to be taken. Besides, the eighth years had already started, hadn't they? What with the party of their first evening back, and – and –

And the fact that I accidentally slept on top of Malfoy for half the night. A hint of warmth pooled in Harry's cheeks, but he ignored it. It wasn't like Malfoy had said anything about it anyway. Once, maybe, he might have ensured that Harry never heard the end of it. Once, he probably would have kicked up a fuss and practically thrown Harry across the room if he'd so much as bumped into him, let alone tripped and fallen into his lap.

But not anymore. Malfoy, it seemed, was trying a little bit too, even if most of that trying took the form of remaining silent where he would have once spluttered with indignation and spat curses. That, and the fact that he 'd mostly likely been as drunk as Harry that first night.

When he reached the cluster of almost ominously quiet classmates, Harry ignored the slightly widened eyes and unblinking stares that immediately locked onto him. Prodding Malfoy's shoulder much as he had Ron's, he was almost certain his smile remained friendly as he gestured him to shuffle aside. "Shove up a bit, would you?"

Malfoy stared up at him. His eyes were widened just as mutely but distinctly as Parkinson's across from him, though he quickly gathered himself to reinstate the blank façade he'd worn almost constantly since returning to school. "Shove up?" he asked more mildly than Harry had ever heard him speak to him before.

Harry shrugged. "There's not a whole lot of space anywhere else." Sliding a leg over the bench, he spared a glance for Zabini at his other side. "Unless you object?"

Zabini raised his own shoulder in a shrug, and Malfoy didn't reply, so Harry wriggled himself onto the bench. Or attempted to; he seemed to have drastically over-estimated how much room was actually available.

"Sorry," Harry muttered as he found himself half sitting on Malfoy's lap for the second time in a week. He shared a sidelong glance with Malfoy, chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, before half rising again. "I think I'll just –"

"It's no bother," Malfoy said, waving a hand in a grandiose manner that was so unexpectedly reminiscent of the stuffy pureblood Harry had known him as most of his life that he almost laughed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

A touch of renewed warmth rose in Harry's cheeks, and he switched his glance towards Parkinson across from him, to Zabini at his other side. Zabini gave a small smirk. "Don't worry," he said. "We already knew about it."

"It's kind of hard to miss when you wake up to it shoved in your face," Parkinson said without heat, though her stare was trained intently upon Harry.

"Right," Harry said, glancing again towards Malfoy. "Sorry about that, too."

Malfoy brushed it aside again with a flick of his hand. "I told you, I don't care."

"He doesn't mind," Zabini echoed.

"That's what I said."

"No, you said –"

"Shut up, Zabini," Parkinson said, and the sound of a thud gave Harry the startling impression that she'd kicked him under the table. Zabini's shit-eating grin, a little tamer than those he might have once worn but sincere nonetheless, only added to the impression.

Harry stared at him. He stared at Parkinson. He stared at Malfoy, too, who seemed to be perfectly happy to resume picking at his breakfast with dainty little stabs of his fork despite the fact that Harry was practically sitting on him. A little along the table, Theodore Nott shot him a look before quickly looking away, while Greengrass and Bulstrode exchanged identical glances of raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

Harry was missing something, he thought. He was almost certain of it.

"Right," he said, mostly to himself. "Right, then, that's… okay."

It was surprisingly unremarkable thenceforth, a breakfast much like any other. The only difference was that, without quite knowing how it happened, before he'd even finished his plate Harry found himself sitting almost completely in Malfoy's lap. 'How' seemed to be a bit of a confusing sequence of shifts and shuffles, but 'why' was a little less explainable. Why the hell Malfoy hadn't shoved him off with a huff, mostly. Why Harry didn't shove himself off, too.

He didn't rightly know. He didn't like Malfoy, even if he knew he didn't – couldn't – hate him as much as he once had. All he knew was that sitting so close to someone, the warmth of someone else's body head against him and the casual bump of an elbow, the shift of a knee beneath him, the brush of a shoulder against his back…

It was kind of nice. Nice, and come from the most unexpected of places.

A/N: thank you to all of the lovely people who read and reviewed last chapter! I feel so blessed!
I'll be trying to update as often as possible, so shouldn't be too long until the next chapter. Please let me know what you think if you have a second, and I'll see you next time!