Harry wakes before dawn, the cold seeping into his bones despite the heavy blankets. The Slytherin dormitory is silent, the only sound the faint, steady drip of water somewhere in the depths of the dungeon. He stares at the canopy of Draco's bed, tracing the patterns in the dark fabric with his eyes as his mind churns restlessly.
There's an ache he can't quite name. It isn't guilt, not exactly. It's more like… loss, though he isn't sure for what.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under his feet as he reaches for his wand on the nightstand and casts a Lumos, the faint glow illuminating the room.
The other beds are still drawn shut, their occupants silent. For a moment, Harry wonders if they're really asleep or if they're lying awake, listening for any sign of him stirring. The thought makes his skin crawl, and he quickly extinguishes the light.
He dresses in silence, pulling on his school robes with practiced efficiency, and slips out of the dormitory. The common room is empty, the greenish light from the lake casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. He hesitates for a moment, then heads for the door.
The dungeons are colder than usual, the air damp and heavy. Harry moves quickly, his footsteps echoing faintly in the narrow corridor. He doesn't have a destination in mind—he just needs to move, to do something, anything, to shake off the weight pressing down on his chest.
By the time he realizes where he's going, he's already there. The entrance to the Astronomy Tower looms before him, the door slightly ajar. He climbs the winding staircase, his breath coming in short puffs of mist in the chilly air.
At the top, the sky stretches out above him, a sea of deep indigo speckled with stars. The horizon is just beginning to lighten, the faintest hint of dawn creeping over the edge of the world. Harry leans against the stone parapet, his hands gripping the cold surface as he stares out at the expanse.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself think about home—his real home. About Ron and Hermione, about the Gryffindor common room, about Hagrid's hut and the Burrow and oh God his family and all the places that feel like pieces of himself.
The thought is a sharp pang, but he pushes it aside. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. There's nothing he can do, not anymore.
"Couldn't sleep?"
The voice startles him, and he turns to see Theodore Nott leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
Harry schools his expression into something neutral. "What are you doing here?"
Nott shrugs, stepping onto the tower. "Heard you get up. Followed you."
Harry is suddenly, fiercely glad that he didn't go to the Room. He doesn't respond, watching as Nott moves to stand beside him at the parapet. The other boy's sharp features are softened by the starlight, his usual guarded expression replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative.
"You caused quite the stir yesterday," Nott says after a moment, his tone light but his gaze piercing. "Though my father's letter was a bit pleased. Just a bit. He hates your dad, you know. Thinks he's a pompous git."
Harry blinks, caught off guard. "Why are you telling me this?"
Nott shrugs again, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Just thought you might like to know. Not everyone's rooting for your father to crush you like a beetle."
"That's comforting," Harry says dryly.
Nott laughs softly, the sound low and bitter. "Don't get me wrong. Most of them are. My father, too, in case I gave you the wrong idea. But not everyone."
They lapse into silence. Harry studies Nott out of the corner of his eye.
"Why are you really here?" he asks finally. "Is this about—yesterday?"
Nott doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, more serious. "Fine. Yes. I couldn't let you go about with—with some wrong idea you made about me after our… talk… so I just want to clear things up. You're not the only one who hates this life, you know. The only one who wants out."
He turns to face Nott fully. "Then why don't you do something about it?"
Nott snorts, his expression twisting. "Because I'm not you. I don't have the luxury of throwing everything away and starting over. My father would kill me. Literally."
Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Nott holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not saying I want to be a blood traitor," he says. "I don't—but I don't want to be like my parents. So. I get it. And for what it's worth… I think you're braver than the lot of us."
The words hang in the air, and for the first time since this whole mess began, Harry feels something like hope.
"Thanks," he says quietly.
Nott nods once, then pushes away from the parapet. "Don't let it go to your head."
He turns and disappears down the staircase, leaving Harry alone once more. But the weight on his chest feels just a little bit lighter now, and as the first rays of sunlight break over the horizon, he allows himself a small, fleeting smile.
Harry walks into the Great Hall for breakfast, bracing himself for the cold stares and muttered insults. The Slytherins are predictable: their glares follow him from the moment he steps through the doors, whispers crackling like a low-burning fire. It's almost a relief, actually, having the Slytherins hate him. Some normalcy in this fucked up world. He squares his shoulders, pretending not to notice, and scans the room for an empty spot.
The Gryffindor table catches his eye. He's not sure what compels him, but before he can overthink it, his feet are carrying him across the hall. He sits at the far edge of the table, ignoring the startled looks from the Gryffindors around him.
Ron is the first to break the silence, his voice low and wary. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
Harry meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. "Not Malfoy. And eating breakfast. Is that a problem?"
Ron's ears turn red, but Hermione nudges him sharply in the ribs before he can retort. "It's fine," she says. "If he wants to sit here, he can." She moves over pointedly to make more space for him and Harry gives her a small smile.
The tension at the table is palpable, but Harry doesn't care. He grabs a piece of toast and starts spreading marmalade on it, his movements deliberate. A few seats away, Neville Longbottom sneaks a glance at him, then quickly looks away. Draco gives him a meaningful glance.
"You've got nerve, I'll give you that," Seamus Finnigan mutters finally, though there's no malice in his tone—just curiosity. "What's the deal, Malfoy? You turning over a new leaf or something?"
Harry shrugs, biting into his toast. "Something like that."
Draco raises an eyebrow. "So it's true, then? What they're saying about the Wizengamot?"
"Depends on what they're saying," Harry replies, keeping his voice casual.
"That you stood up to your father," Draco says. "That you called yourself a blood traitor."
The table goes quiet, every eye on him. Harry swallows his mouthful of toast and meets Draco's gaze.
"Yeah," he says simply. "I did."
Ron lets out a disbelieving snort, but this time, it lacks the venom it usually carries. "Merlin's beard. You really did it."
Lavender gives Harry a thoughtful look, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"
Harry hesitates, the question hanging in the air. He knows he can't tell them the truth—not here, not now—but he also knows he needs to give them something.
"Because it was the right thing to do," he says finally, his voice low. "That's all."
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Neville, of all people, surprises him by nodding. "Well… good for you, then. My gran was thrilled."
Harry blinks. "Thanks."
The rest of breakfast passes in a strange sort of truce. The Gryffindors don't go out of their way to include him, but neither do they push him away. It's more than Harry expected, and he feels a flicker of something like relief.