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Author's Note:

Hi everybody! I do want to clarify for those who may not have read the story summary that a major theme throughout this story is dismantling harmful rhetoric that is unconsciously absorbed about ourselves and others through the violence of war, abuse/neglect, and other adverse experiences— particularly those in childhood and adolescence. Characters will grapple with self-harm, PTSD, grief, and other possible triggers in the fallout of this; I'll do my best to specifically note any content that might be potentially triggering at the start of each chapter.

There's a (very) slow-burn Drarry (Draco/Harry) romance.

I don't own the Harry Potter universe or characters. This is not my intellectual property and I receive no compensation for posting it. No copyright infringement is intended.

TW: grief/mention of canon character death (Fred)

Thanks for reading!

...

It was 10:42 AM on September 1st, and Draco was sitting up against the window in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, his cloak pulled tightly around his face, his knees curled up by his chest. The rhythmic chugging of the train and the faint chatter of students drifting down the hallways of the train did little to distract him from the storm brewing inside his mind.

Draco had been dreading this day. It had been a full year since the final battle, since the events that had irrevocably changed not only the course of the war but the course of his life. Professor McGonagall—well, now Headmistress McGonagall—had taken up his Uncle Severus' post after he had passed away last year, and the weight of that change weighed heavily on Draco. His uncle, the last remaining semblance of order and purpose in Draco's fractured world, was gone. And now McGonagall was in charge of Hogwarts, a place he had once felt more at home than anywhere else, yet now felt suffocating.

Due to the "significant disruption to learning" posed by the Battle of Hogwarts, McGonagall had decided that all students would need to return to school in the Autumn for an additional year of study at the course level that they should have taken in the year prior.

His mother had told him that Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister for Magic, had wanted to offer some students the opportunity to skip over their N.E.W.T.s and jump straight into Auror positions—those who had contributed significantly to the war effort. But McGonagall had shot this down. The Headmistress had said that those students, like Harry and Hermione, deserved to experience "an ordinary school year" and receive "proper training under less harsh and traumatic circumstances." Draco had thought it sounded like a heap of Hufflepuff rubbish. But his mother had spoken about McGonagall's decision with an odd degree of gratitude, which meant Draco had to bite his tongue.

Of course, Draco knew he wouldn't have been one of the lucky few granted an exemption by the Minister. There was little love for students like him—ones who had once been loyal to the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, even if they had renounced their allegiances. Despite Draco throwing Harry his wand during the final battle and his mother lying to Voldemort about Harry's death, there would always be people who couldn't—or wouldn't—see past the past. His role in the war, though small in the grand scheme of things, would forever mark him. The fact that he had done the right thing in the end, that he had aided in bringing down Voldemort, didn't seem to matter much in the eyes of most people.

Draco knew what awaited him when he arrived at school—more whispers behind his back, more stares that seemed to pierce straight through him. And yet, despite the heavy weight of it all, there was something about being alone that Draco had grown used to, perhaps even found comfort in. He had always been a solitary person, one who enjoyed the quiet and the space to think. He didn't mind the solitude; it gave him time to focus, to bury himself in the things that mattered to him—his studies.

Everything would be fine, he told himself as he leaned back into his seat, pulling his knees a little closer. The calmness of the train, the familiar hum of the wheels, was soothing, and he let himself focus on his breathing. His academic pursuits had been his salvation this past year, keeping him sane when everything else had seemed to fall apart. He had thrown himself into his studies—reading and writing voraciously—anything to distract him from the chaos in his personal life.

He had torn his way through several ancient astronomical texts, The Shadowed Path: An Analysis of Dark Magic and its Users, the 8th Edition Potion Master's Manual, Essences and Elixirs: A Scholar's Guide, The Geometry of Magic: Arithmancy and Its Role in Magical Structures, The Arithmantic Code, and even Living Among Muggles: A Wizard's Guide to Non-Magical Customs and Etiquette- although he would hex anybody who found out about that last one.

It was a subject he had once scoffed at, a concept he had never cared to entertain. But now, with his father in Azkaban, Draco found himself questioning everything he had once held dear. His hatred for Muggles, for Muggle-borns, had dulled into a strange, begrudging curiosity. He wasn't sure if it was genuine interest or simply a way to feel like he could escape the shadow of his father's legacy. Either way, it was a distraction—a way to feel like he was moving forward.

The constant strain of academic pressure had its rewards, though. His father's absence had lifted the invisible weight that had always hung over him. No longer was Draco in the shadow of Lucius Malfoy's expectations, and for the first time in years, Draco was allowed to succeed for his own sake. The achievements he made now were his own, not a reflection of his father's ambitions, and that gave him a sense of fulfillment that he had not experienced in a long time.

This year, Draco had chosen to take ten N.E.W.T.-level courses. It was an ambitious load, even for someone with Draco's intellect, but it was nothing he hadn't heard of before. Percy Weasley had managed to take twelve N.E.W.T.s in his final year, after all. The extra workload would give him something to focus on, something to keep him busy. Not that he would have much else to do. His friends, if they could be called that, were mostly gone—sidelined by their own moral choices or, in the case of his old Slytherin cohorts, no longer interested in associating with someone who had been so deeply involved in the downfall of their former leaders. He doubted anyone would try to sit with him on the train ride, and that suited him just fine.

With a sigh, Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a well-worn copy of The Mentalist's Ward: Advanced Techniques in Occlumency and Psychological Penetration by Althea Blackwood. He had read it multiple times already, but the action of flipping through the pages kept his hands occupied, even if his mind was far away. His eyes skimmed the words without much focus as he felt sleep slowly creeping up on him. He had been exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally—after the long summer filled with Ministry interrogations and the endless trips to St. Mungo's.

As the train chugged along, the hum of its motion seemed to lull him into a light sleep. He closed his eyes, the rhythmic motion of the train soothing him into a state of calm. The stress of the past year, the looming uncertainty of the future, seemed to melt away for a moment. And for the first time in a long while, Draco let himself drift, if only for a few hours, into something resembling peace.

...

"Why is it that neither of you can ever be on time?" Hermione chastised, her voice sharp with frustration as she broke into a near sprint, pushing a trolley full of luggage through the bustling train station. Her usually calm demeanor was now a whirlwind of urgency.

"'Mione, relax," Ron replied, sounding exasperated but with a playful undertone. "It's not like they're gonna leave without us."

Hermione spluttered in disbelief. "Well that's no excuse for making everybody else late! It's called respect, Ronald." She gave him an intense look, trying to make him understand the gravity of the situation.

"Sorry, mum," Ron said, rolling his eyes at her reproach but unable to suppress the playful smile that was slowly creeping onto his lips. Hermione, despite her frustration, softened a little at this. Her hurried pace didn't slow, however, as she continued to charge towards the platform, her heels clicking sharply on the stone floor.

"I mean seriously, you two," Hermione muttered under her breath, more to herself than to them. "I'm Head Girl this year. I'm supposed to be setting a good example for the incoming students, and yet we're somehow making it onto the Hogwarts Express with only two minutes to spare." She speeded up, weaving her way between other students as they poured into the train station.

Ron leaned over and muttered to Harry, "Have you heard that she's Head Girl this year?" He barely contained a laugh as Hermione scowled at him from ahead, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

"I heard that, Ron!" Hermione yelled back, turning her head to shoot them both an exaggerated glare.

Harry, who had been following closely behind, did all he could to muster up a smile for his friend. He had grown so accustomed to their bickering over the years that it felt almost comforting, though it also reminded him of how much things had changed over the summer. The trio had spent most of it together at the Burrow, working through the strange new normal of life after the war.

The start of the summer had been really difficult for everyone. The loss of Fred had cast a sort of auspicious gloom over the house, even with the inherent sound and chaos of all the siblings minus Bill and Charlie moving back in (plus Harry and Hermione). There was a constant sense that something was just not quite right, that any second the additional person who belonged in the household would come bounding down the stairs to join for dinner, or wizard chess, or whatever that evening's conversation topic was. Even the loud, rambunctious atmosphere of the Burrow couldn't mask the underlying grief that clung to everyone like a cloud.

The Weasleys had welcomed him into their family, offering a semblance of normality amidst the chaos, but it was hard not to feel the absence of Fred in every corner of the house. Harry often caught George staring at empty spaces, a haunted look in his eyes, or Percy retreating into his room, brooding. Molly Weasley did her best to maintain the household's warmth, but Harry could see how much of a struggle it was for her, especially when small moments of grief would hit unexpectedly. It was clear that no one had fully processed the loss.

At times, Harry wondered if the Weasleys saw him as a sort of reminder of the burden they carried. Fred's death, after all, was linked to the battle he had fought, and Harry often wondered if they resented him for it, even if they never said as much. But they didn't need to. The guilt and shame were heavy enough to wear on Harry, making him feel like a constant weight that was hard to shake off.

Hermione was concerned, of course. She was always concerned about him. But there was a certain distance between them now. She would check in on him, sometimes with a worried frown, but Harry could tell that their relationship had shifted. She and Ron had grown closer in a way that made Harry feel like a third wheel at times. Not that he begrudged them their closeness; it was just... different.

"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts as she glanced back at him, noticing his pensive expression.

"Yeah, just thinking," Harry said, giving her a small smile that he hoped was reassuring, though he knew it didn't reach his eyes.

"Well, stop thinking and start walking. We're cutting it close!" Hermione huffed, already speeding up again as the three of them rushed to the train platform.

It wasn't long before they found themselves rushing down the narrow aisles of the train, trying to find an empty compartment. The train had already begun to move when they finally started their search, and Hermione sent them both an "I told you so" glance over her shoulder.

It wasn't lost on Harry how many compartment doors opened to them, even compartments that barely had room for one of them, let alone all three. It seemed that everywhere they turned was an excitable pleasantry and an amicable smile. But all Harry wanted was to finally settle into a compartment with his friends where he wouldn't feel so much like an animal on display. He was reminded a bit of the snake that he released from the zoo before his first year at school- sets of eyes seeming to prod him through glass doors at every angle.

"Any idea where Neville and Luna are? Or Dean and Seamus?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as they continued their quest for an empty compartment.

"No idea," Hermione replied distractedly, still scanning the compartments for an available spot. The train was getting more crowded by the minute, and their options were rapidly narrowing.

Just as they were about to give up, they stumbled upon a compartment that seemed to have a lot of open space. However, as they approached, they realized there was only one other person inside. Draco Malfoy was sitting in the far-right corner, curled up against the window, seemingly asleep. He had his cloak pulled tightly around him, his posture tense and defensive even in slumber.

Ron groaned audibly, his face contorting in distaste. "We aren't seriously gonna ride all the way there with Malfoy, are we?" he grumbled, eyeing the compartment with disdain.

"Ron, come on," Hermione started, stepping forward with a soft but firm tone. "I know he can be a bit of a prat, but he and his mother did save Harry's life last year. And it's seemingly the only cabin left on this side of the train."

Harry nodded in agreement, his mind already made up. He was far too exhausted to argue or care about the awkwardness of sitting with Malfoy. "Works for me," he said quietly, his voice tinged with relief. He didn't particularly want to engage in long conversations, especially not with people who might still view him as some kind of celebrity.