The rain crashed against the carriage windows as it trudged up the muddy path toward Hogwarts. Harry pressed his forehead against the cool glass, watching lightning fork across the sky and illuminate the castle in brief flashes. Ten years since smoke had clouded these skies and blood had stained these grounds. Ten years since the battle that still haunted him in his sleep.
"Almost home, Mr. Potter," called the thestral driver, voice barely audible above the storm.
Home. The word caught in Harry's throat like a fishbone.
The carriage jolted to a halt at the bottom of the stone steps. Harry grabbed his battered leather satchel and drew his wand. With a fluid motion he cast a shield charm above his head. The rain struck an invisible dome, in the shape of an umbrella, cascading around him in rippling sheets while lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the droplets like falling stars. The spell wasn't strictly necessary, but old habits died hard. Ten years of being an Auror had left its mark.
He stepped from the carriage, the magical umbrella following his movements. His boots splashed through puddles as he approached the castle, the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead barely visible now–faded to a thin white line that most days he forgot was even there.
The great oak doors swung open before he reached them. Warm light spilled onto the steps, catching the raindrops and turning them golden. Harry squinted against the sudden brightness.
"For Merlin's sake, Potter." A tall figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. "Still making dramatic entrances, I see."
Harry froze. That voice. He hadn't heard it in a decade, but he'd know the cutting edge of it anywhere.
"Malfoy?"
Draco Malfoy stepped forward, examining Harry's magical umbrella with a critical eye. His pale pointed face had sharpened with age, cheekbones more pronounced, eyes a colder gray. His white-blond hair was shorter now, swept back from his forehead in a way that emphasized the sharp angles of his face.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, the old wariness settling in his chest.
Malfoy's mouth tightened. "Same as you, I expect. Unless you've come to polish your memorial statue."
Before Harry could respond, a familiar Scottish accent cut through the tension.
"Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy. If you're quite finished reminiscing in the rain, perhaps we could begin the staff meeting."
Professor McGonagall stood in the entrance hall, as stern and uptight as ever, though silver now dominated her dark hair. She wore emerald-green robes with the Hogwarts crest, and her eyes, behind square spectacles, missed nothing.
"Professor," Harry nodded, climbing the steps.
"Headmistress now, Potter," she corrected, her tone softening slightly. "And you're Professor Potter, I should think."
The title sounded strange in Harry's ears. Professor Potter. Not Auror Potter anymore. Not The Boy Who Lived. Just a teacher with a subject to teach and students to face tomorrow.
McGonagall turned and marched toward her office, clearly expecting them to follow. Harry fell into step beside Malfoy, intensely aware of the space between them–a space once filled with hexes and insults, now just thick with silence.
The gargoyle guarding the Headmistress's office sprang aside without a password, recognizing McGonagall's approach. The spiral staircase led them up to her office, and Harry felt a jolt of vertigo that had nothing to do with the movement. So many memories, layered like sediment.
"I assume neither of you has been informed of the housing situation," McGonagall said as she settled behind her desk.
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who looked equally puzzled.
"Housing situation?" Malfoy repeated.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Yes. The recent expansion of our staff has created certain… logistical challenges. The east wing of the staff quarters was damaged during spring renovations when Professor Longbottom's Venomous Tentacula escaped containment."
"Typical Longbottom," Malfoy muttered, rolling his eyes.
Harry shot him a glare. "Neville's a brilliant Herbologist."
"I didn't say he wasn't," Malfoy snapped. "Just that his plants have always had homicidal tendencies."
McGonagall cleared her throat. "As I was saying. The repairs won't be complete until after Christmas. Until then, I'm afraid we've had to double up on accommodations."
Harry's stomach sank. He suddenly knew exactly where this was heading.
"You'll be sharing quarters in the west corridor, adjacent to the library." McGonagall handed them each a slip of parchment. "You two will be in our last room. I must warn you, there is only one bedroom. I assumed you two could manage. The house-elves have already delivered your trunks. The current password is written here. It changes weekly."
Harry glanced at the parchment, his eyebrows rising slightly at what was written there.
"There must be someone else–" he began.
"You were confirmed late, Potter. As was Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall cut in."Everyone else is settled."
"This is absurd," Malfoy said, his voice tight with control. "Potter and I can't possibly–"
"Can't?" McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Malfoy, you're both grown wizards, not squabbling third-years. I expect you to behave accordingly."
Harry crumpled the parchment in his fist. "It's fine," he said, though it was anything but. "We'll manage."
Malfoy folded his parchment and slipped it into his pocket. "How long, exactly?"
"Four months," McGonagall replied. "Perhaps less if the repairs progress ahead of schedule, though I wouldn't count on it. Professor Trelawney has foreseen at least three more disasters in the renovation process."
"Marvelous," Malfoy muttered.
McGonagall stood, signaling the end of the discussion. "Your teaching schedules," she said, handing them each a thick roll of parchment. "And the staff handbook." Two leather-bound volumes thumped onto the desk. Harry's appeared significantly thicker than Malfoy's.
"The rest of the staff is in the Great Hall for dinner," McGonagall continued. "I suggest you both get settled in your quarters first. Classes begin tomorrow at nine sharp."
Dismissed, they descended the spiral staircase in silence. The corridors were eerily quiet– the students wouldn't arrive until tomorrow's feast. Their footsteps echoed against the stone walls as they walked, two points of life in the sleeping castle.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts, I presume?" Malfoy finally asked as they climbed a moving staircase.
Harry nodded. "And you?"
"Potions."
Of course. Snape's old post. Harry wasn't sure if the irony was tragic or fitting.
"Taking after your godfather, then," he said, the words out before he could stop them.
Malfoy's shoulders stiffened. "Watch yourself, Potter."
They reached the west corridor, and Harry counted doors until they found an ornate portrait with a silver-bearded wizard stirring a cauldron.
"Ah!" the portrait exclaimed, peering down at them. "The new professors! Headmistress McGonagall informed me of your arrival. Password?"
Harry pulled out the slip of parchment McGonagall had given them and unfolded it.
"Dumbledore's Army," he read aloud, feeling a jolt at the words. McGonagall's choice of password couldn't be coincidental.
Beside him, Malfoy tensed visibly. His eyes flicked to Harry, then away.
The portrait nodded with satisfaction and swung forward to reveal their quarters. Harry stepped through first, pushing aside the memories that the password had stirred up–of secret meetings, of students learning to fight, of everything that Malfoy had once stood against.
The room beyond was…unexpected. Not the cramped, functional quarters Harry had imagined, but a spacious common area with a stone fireplace already crackling with flames. Two comfortable-looking armchairs faced the fire, with a wooden table between them. Bookshelves lined one wall, half-filled with texts. A small kitchenette occupied one corner, and a single door on the far wall presumably led to the bedroom.
"Not bad," Harry admitted.
Malfoy stepped past him, examining the room. "Adequate," he conceded, which from him was practically a glowing review.
Harry crossed to the single bedroom door and found a large four-poster bed dominating the center of the room. Their belongings already sat unpacked and arranged on opposite sides. Harry's teaching robes hung pressed in the wardrobe next to Malfoy's. The framed photograph of his parents sat on the nightstand, his mother waving up at him with bright eyes.
"One bed," Harry said flatly, stepping back into the common area. "Of course."
Malfoy glanced toward the bedroom, his expression neutral. "I'll transfigure a second one. Or sleep on the couch."
"Don't be ridiculous," Harry said, running a hand through his tousled hair. "We're adults. We can share a bed without hexing each other.
Malfoy's eyebrows rose slightly, the first hint of genuine surprise he'd shown. "Your choice, Potter. Just stay on your side."
"What are those for?" Harry asked, watching Malfoy work with several glass vials, each containing liquids of different colors and consistencies.
Malfoy didn't turn. "Teaching. Research. Emergencies." His tone suggested the conversation was over.
"Look," Harry said, leaning against the doorframe. "If we're going to do this–"
"We're not going to 'do' anything, Potter," Malfoy interrupted, finally looking at him. "We're going to coexist in this space because we have no choice. That doesn't require conversation or camaraderie or whatever Gryffindor bonding ritual you're about to suggest."
"Fine," Harry snapped. "Sounds perfect."
The familiar frustration burned in his chest–that unique brand of anger that only Malfoy had ever been able to ignite, even after all this time.
Harry pulled his teaching notes from his satchel and spread them across the common room table. First-year curriculum. The basics of protection spells. Recognizing Dark creatures. Nothing like the practical combat training he'd given at the Ministry, but a foundation. A beginning.
Outside, the storm intensified. Rain hammered against the window, and thunder rolled across the sky. Harry worked until his eyes burned, revising lesson plans and rehearsing demonstrations in his head. Anything to avoid thinking about sharing a bedroom with Malfoy, or why McGonagall would place them together, or the knot of tension that had settled in his stomach.
A clock somewhere struck midnight. Harry's eyes burned from hours of reviewing lesson plans. He gathered his notes from the common room table and headed for the bathroom to change, trying to be quiet in case Malfoy was already asleep.
When he emerged in an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms, he hesitated before the bedroom door. The thought of sharing a bed with Malfoy still felt surreal. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The bedroom was dimly lit by a single lamp. Malfoy sat on the edge of the bed in silk pajama bottoms and a plain gray shirt, his back to the door. He was turning something in his hand–a small vial filled with purple liquid that Harry recognized immediately. Dreamless Sleep potion.
Harry cleared his throat softly to announce his presence. Malfoy didn't startle; he'd probably heard Harry approaching.
"Rough night ahead?" Harry asked, nodding toward the potion as he crossed to his side of the bed.
Malfoy placed the vial on his nightstand without using it. "Just a precaution." His voice was neutral, but Harry caught a slight tension in his shoulder. "Some habits are hard to break."
Harry understood all too well. The war had left none of them unscarred, inside or out.
They settled on opposite sides of the large bed, a good foot of space between them. Harry lay on his back, staring at the canopy above, intensely aware of Malfoy's presence beside him.
"This is ridiculous," Malfoy muttered after a moment of tense silence.
"Completely," Harry agreed.
And somehow, that small moment of consensus eased something in the air between them. Not much, but enough that Harry could close his eyes without feeling like he needed to keep his wand under his pillow.
The rain continued through the night, and Harry lay awake listening to it drum against the castle stones. Beside him, Malfoy's breathing had evened out, but Harry could tell he wasn't truly asleep. Both of them trapped in the past, separated by nothing but a few inches of mattress and everything that had ever happened between them.
The small vial of purple liquid sat untouched on Malfoy's nightstand, catching occasional flashes of lightning from the window. Neither of them had reached for it.
Tomorrow, the castle would fill with students. Tomorrow, they would be professors with responsibilities and lessons to teach. But tonight, they were just two survivors in a room too full of ghosts, waiting for dawn.
Harry turned onto his side, away from Malfoy, and watched shadows play across the wall. Beyond these walls lay the corridors where they'd hexed each other, the classrooms where they'd competed, the grounds where they'd nearly killed each other. And beyond the castle grounds lay the graves of those who hadn't survived the war that had shaped them both.
"What are we doing here, Malfoy?" he whispered, not expecting an answer.
The silence stretched so long that Harry thought Malfoy must have finally fallen asleep. Then, so quietly he almost missed it:
"Trying to live with it, I expect."
The rain continued its steady rhythm against the glass, and thunder rumbled distantly as it moved away across the mountains. Harry closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. He could not believe that he was lying beside the last person he'd ever expected to share anything with again.
And somehow, despite everything, it still felt like coming home.
He slept at last, dreaming of white-blond hair and gray eyes watching him from across a crowded room, and woke at dawn with his heart pounding for reasons he couldn't name.