The train ride had been silent. Or, at least, their compartment had been.
Draco sat by the window, staring at the blurred countryside, the familiar whistle of the Hogwarts Express doing nothing to ease the weight in his chest. Across from him, Blaise lounged, unreadable as ever, while Theo and Pansy sat stiffly beside each other, their usual banter absent.
No one had spoken much.
Not when the trolley which passed, her cart rolling to a stop before them as she hesitated, eyes flicking uncertainly between their faces before wordlessly continuing down the aisle.
Not when a group of younger students—Ravenclaws, maybe—paused outside their door, whispering before quickly scurrying away as though standing too close to them was dangerous.
And especially not when the compartment door slid open and, for the briefest moment, Ginny Weasley stood there.
He hadn't expected them to be there. That much was clear in the way her eyes widened slightly before her expression twisted into something more familiar—resentment, distrust.
She lingered for only a second before muttering, "Wrong compartment," and slamming the door shut.
Pansy let out a scoff. "Yeah, you got that right."
Draco exhaled, tilting his head back against the seat. It was going to be a long year.
When they stepped out of the train, the air smelled the same. That crisp, early autumn bite, the faint scent of coal and steam curling from the Hogwarts Express. The same red train, the same station, the same castle waiting in the distance.
And yet, everything was different.
Draco Malfoy stepped onto the platform with his head high, shoulders squared, but there was no denying the weight pressing down on him. Heavy. Suffocating. A silence that followed him like a shadow, thick and unrelenting.
The stares were nothing new—he was used to them. Had grown up basking in admiration, feeding off envy, dodging glares from those who despised him. But this was different. These weren't the looks of respect or loathing he was familiar with. No, this time, the eyes that trailed him were filled with something worse.
Pity.
Disgust.
Suspicion.
Like he was some ugly reminder of everything they'd lost. A breathing, walking, talking mistake.
Blaise Zabini walked beside him, looking as relaxed as ever, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Behind them, Pansy Parkinson and Theo Nott moved in uneasy silence, the usual chatter among their group now replaced by something unspoken. Something fractured.
Draco felt it in his bones—the way the world had shifted under his feet, the way they didn't fit here anymore. Slytherin didn't fit here anymore.
The air was thick, heavy with the ghost of war, and no matter how many repairs the castle had undergone over the summer, no matter how much they tried to pretend things were normal, Hogwarts would never be the same.
"Feels different, doesn't it?" Blaise muttered.
Draco didn't answer. It wasn't a question. It was a fact.
His gaze flickered across the platform. Crowds of students, first-years whispering to each other with wide eyes, older students staring as though they were still deciding whether Slytherins should be allowed back at all.
And then— them.
Potter. Weasley. Granger.
The Golden Trio.
Stepping off the train like war heroes returning home, untouchable, unbroken, victors.
Weasley's hand was clasped around Granger's. Their fingers intertwined, easy, familiar. Draco heard rumours that they were dating. So that wasn't just another post-war fairytale.
Draco told himself he didn't care.
But in that second—just for a heartbeat—his mind betrayed him.
A flash of something else. Granger on the floor of Malfoy Manor. Her screams tearing through the room, high-pitched and raw. Bellatrix's laughter, sharp as a blade.
His stomach twisted.
Before he could stop himself, his fingers twitched at his side—a useless, involuntary reaction.
He forced them still.
It was nothing. Just a memory. Just—irrelevant.
Draco exhaled sharply and looked away, locking the thought in a place he didn't plan to visit.
His eyes lingered for only a second too long before he forced himself to look away. But Granger must have noticed, because for the briefest moment, she met his gaze.
She tensed.
It wasn't obvious—not to anyone who wasn't watching closely—but Draco saw it. The briefest tightening of her jaw, the flicker of something in her eyes.
Not anger. Not fear.
Wariness.
Like she was assessing something. Calculating.
And then—just like that—it was gone.
She turned away, started talking to Potter as if Draco didn't exist.
His jaw clenched.
Fine. He didn't want to look at her, either.
The crowd around them began to shift, students moving toward the carriages. The excitement of first-years drowned out the tension hanging in the air, but Draco could still feel it, like static against his skin. His fingers twitched at his sides.
Someone jostled into him—probably on purpose—and his lip curled, a sharp retort ready on his tongue, but when he turned, the girl was already walking away, whispering to her friend.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. This was how it was going to be, then.
They didn't have to say it out loud.
He was unwelcome.
The war might have ended, but the battle lines were still drawn.
Pansy was scowling at the murmurs, at the way people whispered behind their hands. As if she had any right to be annoyed.
Draco ignored them all. Ignored the curious glances, the sideways sneers, the too-loud whispers of "Death Eater" and "Malfoy" and "shouldn't be here."
He didn't flinch. Didn't react. Didn't acknowledge a single one of them.
Instead, he kept walking.
Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its silhouette jagged against the sky, the stonework patched, mended, but still broken.
Just like him.
Some damage had been patched over the summer, but there were places where the cracks still showed, where the magic didn't settle right.
Draco could feel it in the air—the lingering weight of everything that had happened. The castle might have been standing, but it was different now. They were different now.
He followed the others into the carriages, settling in beside Blaise.
Draco barely glanced at the creatures as he climbed in beside Blaise. He didn't need to. He knew they were there. The Thestrals.
Silent. Watchful. Creatures of death.
He could see them now. He had been able to for a while.
The way they loomed in the dim evening light, their skeletal wings shifting with every movement, their hollow eyes tracking the students boarding the carriages—he knew that look.
It was the same one everyone had given him today.
Like they were trying to decide if he was dangerous. Or already dead.
It was almost laughable. A year ago, Hogwarts had been a battlefield. And now? Now they were expected to just… go back to normal. As if they could. As if everything hadn't changed.
The castle doors swung open as they reached the entrance hall, and the flood of students moved toward the Great Hall.
Draco stepped inside, the familiar scent of candle wax and roasted meat curling around him, but there was something off about it. The enchanted ceiling flickered unevenly, the sky above struggling to maintain its usual illusion.
A banner still hung torn along one of the walls, its edges singed. The long tables were filled, but the gaps where missing students should have been impossible to ignore.
He barely had time to breathe before the whispers started again, and Draco gritted his teeth. He told himself he didn't care.
But then—
"Bet his father bought his way back in."
His jaw locked. His fingers twitched at his side, an old, dangerous instinct flaring to life. A cutting remark was ready—sharp, cruel, effortless—but he swallowed it down. Forced his breathing even.
He wasn't that person anymore.
But Merlin, some days, he wished he could be.
He walked faster, sinking into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.
The Great Hall had always been a place of order. Each house had their table, their space, their silent understanding of where they belonged. But now… something was different. The air had shifted. Conversations weren't as divided. Lines were blurred.
McGonagall stood at the head of the room, surveying them all with her sharp, calculating gaze before calling for silence and the sorting ceremony began.
The Sorting Hat's song was shorter than usual. No grand riddles or poetic warnings—just a brief acknowledgment that Hogwarts had survived, that unity was needed more than ever.
Draco barely listened. He kept his gaze trained on the long line of first-years at the front of the hall, most of them wide-eyed and nervous. It should have been a normal sight. Should have felt like any other year.
But it wasn't.
A small, pale boy stepped forward when his name was called. He trembled under the weight of the Sorting Hat as it slipped down over his ears. The pause felt endless, the hat murmuring its decision only loud enough for the boy to hear. And then—
"Slytherin!"
Silence.
No polite applause. No welcoming cheers. Just an eerie, suffocating stillness—like the whole Hall was waiting for the Sorting Hat to change its mind.
The boy's lower lip wobbled. His shoulders shook as he slid off the stool and made his way to the Slytherin table, where he sat stiffly, fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. Draco watched, expression unreadable.
The Sorting continued. The next student was placed in Hufflepuff, and the hall erupted with applause.
Draco's fingers curled against the table.
It was the smallest Slytherin class Hogwarts had ever seen.
When all the new students were seated, Professor McGonagall asked for silence again as she stepped forward, her sharp gaze sweeping across the hall.
The usual warmth of a Hogwarts welcome was absent—not out of unkindness, but necessity. This was not a normal year. This was not a normal Hogwarts.
She cleared her throat, and the murmurs died instantly.
"Before we begin our feast, there are a few matters that must be addressed," she said, her voice steady, unwavering. "Hogwarts has stood for over a thousand years. Through war, through loss, through triumph. And we are standing still."
A hush fell over the students. Even those who had been shifting in their seats, restless and impatient for dinner, sat a little straighter.
"But we do not stand unchanged," McGonagall continued. "Last year, our school became a battlefield. We lost classmates, teachers, friends, family. Some of you fought. Some of you hid. Some of you did what you had to do to survive. And now, we are here. Together. But make no mistake—Hogwarts is not healed. Not yet. And neither are we."
He barely listened. He didn't need a speech to tell him things weren't the same. He could feel it with every step he took.
Draco's fingers tapped idly against the wood, but the movement felt wrong—not his own. He stilled them, curling them into a fist, and for a split second, his eyes flickered downward.
His father used to do the same thing—a slow, irritated drumming of fingers against his cane whenever the world displeased him.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and shoved his hands under the table. He hated the thought that any part of him still mirrored his father.
"In the past, our four Houses have stood apart. A tradition as old as the castle itself. But tradition does not always serve us well," McGonagall went on, her voice carrying through the hall.
"For too long, these divisions have separated us. Encouraged us to see each other as rivals first, enemies second, and only rarely as equals. That must change."
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here it comes.
"This year, inter-house cooperation will not be optional," McGonagall continued, her expression firm.
"Students will be partnered across Houses for patrols, classes, and rebuilding projects. Prefects will no longer supervise only their own House, but will work together. Common areas will be shared for study groups and meetings. And House points—" she paused, glancing around the room as if to make sure they were all listening—"will no longer be awarded or deducted based on inter-house competition alone. Points are meant to reward achievement and effort, not reinforce hostility."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the Hall. Some students looked intrigued. Others looked openly disgruntled.
Draco's fingers curled into fists.
Perfect. Bloody perfect.
He could already imagine the conversations that would come later. Forced cooperation won't erase what happened. Sitting next to a Gryffindor in class won't make them forget which side we were on.
Across the Hall, Granger sat up a little straighter.
Of course she would be thrilled about this. The brilliant Hermione Granger, eager to prove a point, to fix the world, to play hero—even when no one asked her to.
Then, as if she could feel him looking, she turned.
Their eyes locked.
Draco didn't flinch, didn't look away. He knew that expression well—annoyance, suspicion, that irritating sense of superiority.
She was excited about the project, for sure. She was just not excited to execute it with him.
A smirk curled at his lips.
At least we agree on something, Granger.
"I will not pretend this will be easy," McGonagall went on, cutting through the murmurs. "I will not pretend that one year will undo centuries of division, or that shared assignments will erase the pain of the war. But healing does not happen in isolation. It happens through understanding, through effort, through choice."
Her gaze swept over them all once more.
"What we choose now—how we choose to move forward—will define the Hogwarts we leave behind."
A heavy silence settled over the Hall.
Then, with a small nod, McGonagall straightened. "Now—let us eat."
The food appeared in an instant. Conversations started up again, though they were quieter than usual. The usual excitement of the start-of-term feast had been dulled, dampened under the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future.
Draco barely glanced at the spread in front of him. He wasn't hungry.
He was too busy thinking about how impossible all of this was.
House unity.
As if fixing Hogwarts was as simple as forcing them all into the same room and hoping they'd get along.
He could already feel it—being forced to spend time with people who despised him, expected to work alongside the same students who had fought against him in the war. As if that would fix anything. As if slapping some forced unity onto the wounds would make them heal.
Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He knew what was coming.
Forced group projects. Awkward, stilted patrol shifts. Hours spent pretending to tolerate people who wanted nothing more than to see him gone.
As if being paired with a Hufflepuff in Charms would erase the fact that his father had once stood at Voldemort's side.
As if sharing a study session with a Gryffindor would make them forget the way the Carrows had ruled last year—how some Slytherins had stood by and watched.
And how others, like him, had done much worse.
Draco swallowed. His appetite was gone.
The Great Hall felt suffocating. The clinking of cutlery, the hum of whispered conversations, the stolen glances thrown his way—it was all too much.
With a sharp scrape of wood against stone, he pushed back from the Slytherin table and stood.
Blaise raised a brow but said nothing, simply following. Theo and Pansy did the same, and together, they left.
As soon as he stepped out into the entrance hall, the difference was stark.
The warmth of the feast behind them gave way to cold air and colder silence. The torches flickered against the stone walls, shadows stretching long and jagged. The sound of laughter and conversation echoed faintly from inside the Great Hall, but out here, it felt like another world.
Draco let out a breath, flexing his fingers at his sides.
It was strange. For years, Hogwarts had been a place of certainty—a game where he knew the rules, where he knew his place.
Now?
Now it was something else entirely.
The doors to the Hall swung open again, and the flood of students spilled out, filling the space with movement, voices, tension. Draco straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling back, mask slipping into place.
He didn't need to hear their whispers to know what they were saying.
But he kept walking, his hands shoved into his pockets, his usual careless stride forced and deliberate. Blaise and Theo were at his side, silent as ever, and Pansy trailed a step behind, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor.
It should have been like every other year—leaving the Great Hall, heading to the dungeons, slipping into the comfortable arrogance of being Malfoy, Slytherin, untouchable. But nothing about this was the same.
He could feel it. The way the castle watched him.
And then, Weasley's voice cut through the air, grating against Draco's nerves like sandpaper.
"Malfoy—" Ron's voice cut through the hallway, sharp and bitter. "Can't believe they just let them back in."
Draco didn't slow his pace. Ignore it. That was the rule now. That was what he had to do. Ignore it. Keep walking.
"S'not right, after everything they did."
His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists.
Ignore it.
But of course, Pansy didn't.
Pansy let out a sharp, bitter laugh, but didn't turn around. "Yeah, well. We can't all be Gryffindor war heroes."
She didn't say it loudly. Didn't meet their eyes. Just tossed it over her shoulder, careless.
But her grip on her wand tightened.
Weasley went red instantly. His shoulders squared, his hands clenching at his sides as if he were moments away from swinging.
"Shut your mouth, Parkinson," Weasley snarled, stepping forward.
Potter grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Don't," he muttered under his breath.
Harry's grip on Ron's arm was firm, but his eyes—his eyes were on Draco.
It wasn't the glare of an old enemy. It wasn't even distrust.
It was exhaustion.
A tired, assessing glance, like he was trying to decide if this fight was even worth it anymore.
Draco thought Potter might say something. Might call him out, or tell him to piss off, or make some half-hearted attempt at civility.
But then, Harry just sighed, shook his head, and let it go.
Draco didn't let himself think about whether that made him feel better or worse.
Didn't matter.
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Let them fight. Or don't. What difference did it make?
But the headache pressing behind his temples said otherwise. This wasn't worth it.
"Leave it, Pansy," he said, voice flat, cold.
Pansy shot him a look of disbelief. "Draco—"
"I said leave it."
And that was when Granger turned to him.
She had been quiet until now, standing beside Potter and Weasley, arms crossed, expression tight. But at his words, her head tilted, brown eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Never thought I'd see the day Malfoy kept his mouth shut." she said, voice dripping with something he couldn't quite place.
He turned to her, arching a brow. "Disappointed I'm not acting like the villain in your little story?"
Her jaw tightened.
"No," she said coolly. "I just didn't expect you to roll over so easily."
Something in his chest twisted.
He held her gaze, smirking like he hadn't felt the sting of her words. "Not at all, Granger. Though, I'd have thought you'd prefer me silent. You always liked the sound of your own voice best."
Hermione opened her mouth, a retort already forming—but then she hesitated.
For a second, just a second, she saw something different in his face.
Not arrogance. Not cruelty. A crack in the mask. Something raw and unsettling.
She wasn't sure what to make of it.
Her jaw tightened, her words shifting in her throat. Whatever she had been about to say, she changed it. Softened it.
Instead, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head, muttering, "Forget it."
And then she turned away.
Draco watched her go.
Something in his chest twisted.
He ignored it.
He had to.
He and the others kept walking without incident, which was good. He said the password and they were finally inside their common room.
The Slytherin common room had always been comfortable.
Draco had grown up in these stone walls, had spent years sinking into the plush green-and-silver armchairs, had sat by this same fireplace countless times. It had always been a place of certainty—where things made sense, where he knew his place.
But now?
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the dungeon walls, but the warmth didn't reach him. The room felt colder than usual, the tension from dinner lingering in the air like smoke.
Conversations were hushed, cautious. Slytherins weren't used to being watched the way they had been tonight, judged with every step they took.
Draco sat in his usual chair, back against the worn leather, fingers drumming against his knee. He wasn't tired. He should have been—exhaustion had settled into his bones months ago—but his mind wouldn't quiet.
Blaise dropped into the chair beside him, stretching out his legs, watching him with that sharp, unreadable expression of his.
"You alright?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."
Blaise hummed, clearly not convinced. "Sure. That's why you nearly flinched when Granger spoke to you."
Draco tensed.
"I did not flinch."
Blaise smirked. "Whatever you say, mate."
Draco exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.
The problem was—Blaise wasn't wrong.
Granger was the last person he wanted to be thinking about tonight. The absolute last.
And yet—her voice was still in his head.
Never thought I'd see the day Malfoy kept his mouth shut
His jaw tightened.
He didn't know why it bothered him. Maybe because of the way she'd looked at him—not with hatred, not with disgust, but with something else. Something that made his stomach twist in a way he didn't like.
He wasn't stupid. He knew what people thought of him. What she thought of him. That he was nothing more than a coward. A spoiled, spineless coward who had chosen the wrong side, and now had to live with it.
Draco dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.
Blaise had already dozed off in the chair beside him, but Draco sat rigid, mind churning.
His hand slipped under his sleeve before he realized what he was doing. Fingertips brushing over his forearm.
The Dark Mark was still there. Faded, but never gone. No one found a way to get rid of it.
A phantom sensation prickled beneath his skin. Not pain, exactly. But something else. A weight that would never quite lift.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe he shouldn't be here.
Draco clenched his fist, yanked his sleeve back down, and forced himself to look away.
He exhaled, tilting his head back against the seat. This wasn't just another school year.
It was a sentence.