Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 1995

Hermione POV

The train whistle echoed through the crisp September air, but it didn't sound the same as it once had. The scarlet steam engine stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, bright and proud, as if it had not carried terrified students into the middle of a war only months before.

My hands tighten on the grip of my trunk. The students around me are laughing, chattering, and even smiling. Their voices all blend into a hum of what appeared to be a normal life. As if this world never fell apart. To the right, a boy shows off a new broomstick to his friends. To the left, two sisters are arguing over a chocolate frog card. Parents are embracing their children as though this were just another typical first day of term.

I don't understand why we are back.

I don't understand why they made us come back like everything is normal.

How are we supposed to forget what happened?

My stomach is twisting in knots.

Nothing about this is normal. Not for me.

Everyone acts like the war is just a distant memory. Like it didn't happen, just means months ago. But for me, it's not a distant memory; it's a constant echo pressing at the back of my mind. A continuous aching etched into my skin. Sometimes I still feel like I am in the Great Hall. I can still see Fred's lifeless body, still feel the ache of loss that no spell will ever be able to heal. And yet, everyone is here, stepping onto this platform, determined to pretend that nothing happened.

"Mione?" Ginny said as she appeared by my side. Her bright red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her face was bright and cheerful. "We should probably board soon."

Giving a slight nod and a forced smile, "Right."

I follow Ginny as she leads the way to the train, with heavy steps. Each step leads me into a world I don't think I belong to anymore, one that once felt right. I slide into the compartment behind her. Harry is already seated on the right. His smile is warm and reassuring, almost too reassuring. He also wants me to believe that everything is fine.

The familiar countryside rolled by as the train began on its path. We move past the golden fields and thick forests, and they are all the same. Even though they stayed the same, I don't think I am the same. I'll never be that girl who once believed that grades, rules, and fitting in would be the most significant battle she would have to face.

Ginny and Harry talk softly across from me, their words a blur I can't bring myself to join. My chest feels tight, heavy with the things left unsaid.

I don't understand how everyone expects us to pick up where we left off, as though the cracks in our world aren't still wide open. As if the things we did never happened.

I don't think I'll ever find "normal" again.

The train ride felt impossibly long, even though the familiar countryside rolled past in golden streaks. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, pretending to watch the fields blur by, but in reality, I was trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling. Every shadow of memory from the war seemed to cling to me, whispering reminders of everything we'd lost.

By the time the train screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, my shoulders were tight with exhaustion. Ginny and Harry continued to chat quietly beside me, but I barely heard them. My mind was already racing ahead to the castle, to the Great Hall, to the place that held so many memories, the place that used to be my home.

The walk up the familiar path to Hogwarts was quiet, the autumn air crisp and full of scents that were somehow comforting and alien all at once. The castle loomed ahead, towers and turrets shadowed against the darkening sky, its windows glowing warmly. Inside, the echoes of the past felt heavier, more insistent.

When we entered the Great Hall, the familiar sight of each of the houses' tables and floating candles struck me like a memory come alive. The hall smelled of roasted meats, baked bread, and pumpkin pasties, scents that should have been comforting but instead felt like a reminder of all the meals I had taken for granted before.

The Sorting was long behind us, and the chatter of excited students filled the air. I slid into a seat next to Ginny and Harry at the Gryffindor table, still uneasy. Heads turned occasionally as the new students fidgeted, whispered, and laughed nervously, but I barely noticed them. My attention kept drifting toward the opposite side of the hall.

And then I saw him, the only other person who wasn't laughing or talking.

Draco Malfoy.

He was sitting at the Slytherin table, surrounded by a few familiar faces, yet somehow… different. His platinum hair caught the flicker of candlelight, his sharp features sharp and pale, almost fragile against the dark green of his robes. He looked… like I felt inside out of place, unsure, and heavy with memories he didn't want to confront.

Around him, conversations buzzed and laughter rang out, but he sat apart, rigid, almost sickly, as though the normalcy around him was too much to bear. It was strange, seeing him like this, someone who had once seemed so confident and untouchable, now carrying a quiet weight that mirrored my own.

I tried to look away, tried to focus on my plate, on the food, on anything else. But my gaze kept returning, drawn back to him despite myself. He was impossible to read, but now it's almost like an open book. I couldn't tell if he was thinking about the war, about the past, or overwhelmed by being back in a world that demanded we pretend everything was fine. And yet, there was a flicker there, pain, maybe, or something else entirely.

Shouldn't I feel some comfort that I wasn't alone in this? That someone else felt the way I did? But it didn't feel comforting. It felt… sharp, like a reminder of everything left unresolved, everything we had lost, everything that had changed.

I forced my eyes back to Ginny and Harry, clinging to the familiar warmth of friends who had survived everything with me. Even though they all acted like they didn't. Still, the image of Draco lingered in the corners of my mind, precise and insistent, impossible to shake.

The feast went on. Candles floated overhead, plates piled high, and the Sorting Hat songs echoed from the enchanted ceiling. And yet all I could see was him sitting across the hall, his gaze distant and blank, as if he were somewhere else entirely, unaware of the whispers and glances that had followed him since the train. He looked untouchable and broken all at once, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, because he looked like how I've been feeling since the war.

September 1995

Draco POV

"I'm not going back," I said, slamming the door of the dining room just hard enough to rattle the portraits. My mother, Narcissa, sat on the other side at the head of the table, her hands clasped tightly, her face calm but tense.

"Draco, you have no choice," she said, her voice clipped. "You know what will happen if you don't return. Azkaban is not an idle threat. You are underage, but they will still come for you. Your father—"

"I don't care!" I snapped. "Going back to that school, walking into that… that place, it's a stupid idea. Hogwarts is nothing but walls full of ghosts, memories, and people who hate me. Do you think I want to see their faces again? Do you think I want to sit there while everyone whispers Death Eater, traitor, monster, killer?"

She softened, stood up, and reached for me, but I stepped back. "No, Draco. You have to go. You survive, you stay alive, you avoid Azkaban. This is the only way."

I ran my fingers through my platinum hair, frustration tightening in my chest. She was right. Of course, she was right. The Ministry would not forgive me. Not yet. Not ever, probably. Hogwarts was the lesser evil. But it felt like stepping back into a cage.

"I know," I muttered finally, my voice low. "I just… I can't believe they expect it to be normal. That I can walk back into those halls, sit at that table, and act like I belong."

"You don't have to act like you belong," she said softly, "just act like you survived. That alone is enough for now. You are clever, Draco. You can manage this."

I didn't answer. I wanted to scream, to leave, to run. But I knew she was right. Survival meant returning. Survival meant pretending. Survival meant facing them all again.

—

The train ride to Hogwarts was just as miserable as I had imagined. The countryside blurred past, golden and green, but I didn't care. I kept my hands folded tightly over my trunk, staring at the window as if it could offer a portal into a world that hadn't changed or a world that hadn't changed me.

There were a few others in the compartment with me, Nott, Zabini, and Pansy. We'd been crammed together on this train since our first year, yet somehow, now, the space between us felt like a chasm. Even though they tried to chat, their voices soft and brittle, as though we weren't exactly what everyone else would call us. As though our own parents hadn't pushed us down the paths we'd taken, branded us long before we were old enough to fight back. Their words slid around me like smoke, meaningless.

I stared out the window, watching the countryside blur past, and thought—not for the first time that maybe Azkaban would be easier than this. At least there, the hatred would be open and obvious. At least there, you knew who your enemies were.

In the corridors outside, the train was alive with excitement. First years gawked at every door and window; upper years laughed and swapped jokes, their voices carrying easily into our compartment. And there I was, silent, detached, cold, isolated. The whispers had already begun before the train even left the station, mutters, curses, pointed glances, sneers so subtle at first I almost could have pretended they weren't real.

But they were.

At every turn I felt it: the judgment, the suspicion, the hatred. It clung to me like a second skin, heavier than my robes. Everyone knew my name. Everyone knew my face. Malfoy. Death Eater. Monster. Killer. It followed me like a shadow I couldn't outrun.

By the time the train screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, I felt tense and exhausted all at once, as if I'd already lived a day's worth of battles. I didn't speak to anyone as we disembarked. I didn't want to. I gripped my trunk tightly, my knuckles white, walking quickly up the path to Hogwarts. Students passed me, whispering, nudging, staring.

A couple of first years shoved past, one hissing over his shoulder, "Watch it, Malfoy!"

I swallowed hard, every instinct screaming to shove back, to hex him, to make him shut up. But I didn't. I couldn't. One hex, one angry outburst, and I'd be expelled. And expelled meant Ministry eyes, Ministry judgment, and Azkaban. And I couldn't do that to my mother, not after everything she'd done to protect me.

So I gritted my teeth, kept walking, and let their hatred roll off me like cold rain.

Inside the Great Hall, the smell of roasted meats and pumpkin pasties hit me like a memory I didn't want. The candles floated overhead just as they always had, and the long tables stretched out before me, full of light and sound. Nothing had changed yet, everything had changed.

The Sorting was already over, and the feast was in full swing. I slid into a seat at the Slytherin table, hands folded, expression carefully neutral. Whispers followed me like a current. A couple of students jostled me under the table, barely enough to make me flinch, but enough to sting.

"Death Eater," someone muttered when a fifth-year accidentally bumped my shoulder.

Across the hall, a group of Gryffindors laughed loudly, and somewhere nearby, a Hufflepuff muttered, "Don't touch him, he'll hex you."

I forced myself to ignore them, to push down the anger and shame that rose like bile in my throat. My plate was untouched. I moved food around with my fork, tasting nothing. I wasn't hungry. Not for this. Not for their whispered accusations. Not for their judgment.

It wasn't just the first and fifth years. Pretty much all the students threw sharp glances, their eyes full of things left unsaid. They didn't care that I had survived. They didn't care that I had been young and terrified. All that mattered was the name: Malfoy. Death Eater. Traitor. Murder.

I looked down at my hands, the same pale hands that had once held a wand steady, that had signed my name onto something I didn't fully understand, that had never known true hardship until the war. And I hated them. I hated the boy I had been. I hated the shadow I had become. I hated that survival came with this price: isolation, suspicion, and the weight of every whispered judgment in the castle.

The feast continued around me. Candles drifted overhead, the Sorting Hat's song still echoing faintly from the enchanted ceiling. Students laughed, joked, and pretended everything was fine. And I sat there, rigid, hollow, a ghost in the midst of life.

And in that moment, I realized sharply, painfully, that this year would not be easy. Not by a long shot. Hogwarts would not forgive me. The students would not forgive me. And I wasn't sure I could forgive myself.