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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.

Chapter Text

September 1995 

Hermione POV

The common room glowed with golden light and restless energy. Gryffindor banners hung proudly, the fire snapped and hissed, and laughter filled every corner like it had so many times before. I sat at the edge of an armchair, an old, worn book open in my lap, pretending to read while the noise swelled around me.

Ron leaned against the sofa arm near the fire, lanky and casual, freckles bright in the flickering light. He was laughing too loudly at Seamus’s retelling of some ridiculous story about Quidditch or something that happened this summer. Ginny sat curled up beside Harry, sharp-eyed and amused, occasionally tossing in a teasing comment that made Ron flush. Harry was quieter, but he smiled when Lee Jordan made a joke, his arm around Ginny, absently rubbing her shoulder. Every once in a while, the light would catch the scar on his hand that still hadn’t quite faded.

For a moment, it was almost like the old days. Almost.

“Come on, Hermione,” Lee said suddenly, turning toward me with his trademark grin. “You’re not really buying Seamus’s story, are you? Tell him it’s rubbish.”

I blinked, startled. My eyes flicked down to the page in front of me, though I hadn’t processed a single word. “What?”

Ron grinned, nudging Harry with his elbow. “You know, the one about the kettle biting his mum. Absolutely mad. Go on, tell him he’s full of it.”

“Oi!” Seamus protested, laughing. “It’s true, I swear, had to pry it off with a poker!”

Even Ginny rolled her eyes. “Mum nearly died laughing when she heard. Honestly, Seamus, I don’t know how you expect anyone to believe you.”

They all looked at me then, waiting for me to smirk, maybe give a witty comment about how that’s not possible, to join in the harmless teasing.

I forced a smile, the kind that stretched too tight at the edges. “Well, a kettle with teeth is… highly improbable.”

My voice was flat and empty. Not me.

The laughter wavered, the air shifting. Ron frowned. “You alright, Hermione?”

“I’m fine,” I lied quickly, snapping my book shut. “Just tired.”

Ginny studied me in that way she had for the last few months, silent, perceptive, not fooled for a second. But thankfully, she didn’t press. “Goodnight, then,” she said softly.

I nodded, clutching my book to my chest like a shield. Behind me, the warmth and chatter of the common room swelled again, but my steps were heavy as I climbed the staircase.

The girls’ dormitory was hushed. From behind her curtains came the faint, even sound of Parvati’s snores, while Lavender’s bed remained untouched, empty, yet somehow still hers. At least they hadn’t tried to fill the space. I changed quickly, tugging a light purple wool jumper over my nightdress before slipping into bed. Drawing the curtains tight, I shut myself into a small cocoon of darkness.

It should have felt safe.

Instead, the silence pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. The hours stretched endlessly, each minute dragging like an anchor. My body lay still beneath the covers, but my mind would not follow. Memories crept into every space: the blinding clash of spells, the crash of stone, the cries as bodies fell. Nameless students, their faces no more than fleeting blurs as they crumpled. Their shadows clung to me, haunting the darkness behind my eyelids.

I shifted restlessly, twisting beneath the blankets, clutching my pillow like a lifeline until my arms ached. No matter how fiercely I squeezed my eyes shut, the images refused to fade. My chest tightened, each breath shallow, as though the air itself had turned against me.

I couldn’t just lie here. Not tonight.

Sliding quietly from the bed, I eased the dormitory door open. My wand slipped into my sleeve almost by instinct, a habit I hadn’t been able to break since the war. Thankfully, the common room below had gone still, fire burned down to embers, and the echoes of laughter were gone.

The portrait hole opened with a creak, and the Fat Lady stirred, peering out blearily.
“Out late, aren’t you, dear?” she murmured.

“I just… need some fresh air,” I whispered.

Her painted eyes softened, but she didn’t say anything else. The portrait swung open just enough for me to get by, and I slipped into the silent corridor.

Hogwarts at night was no longer the Hogwarts I had known. It wasn’t the castle where I scolded third-years for sneaking out after curfew, or caught fifth-years plotting some elaborate prank on another House. That world felt distant, like a memory belonging to someone else.

The corridors stretched on, long and hollow, shadows bending and stretching in the flicker of the torches. Each step I took echoed against the stone floor, far too loud in the suffocating stillness. Once, roaming the castle at night had been exhilarating, slipping through passages with Harry and Ron, hearts racing with the thrill of discovery or the urgency of a problem to solve. Now, every corner felt weighty, every shadow haunted, as though the castle itself carried the memories of what we had endured.

My fingers trailed against the cold wall, grounding me as I walked. The stone seemed to hum with memory. In my mind, I could hear the thunder of running feet, the crack of spells ricocheting, the roar of curses. I flinched at the memory of Bellatrix’s laughter, sharp and shrill, echoing through the dungeons. 

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of ghosts.

I wandered without a plan. Past the library doors, where once I had found safety in books, now they seemed like the closed gates of a sanctuary I could no longer enter. Past classrooms that whispered of lessons I had once cared about more than anything, but which now felt trivial, like echoes of the life I used to have, the girl I once was.

My steps carried me to the Great Hall. The tall doors were ajar, and against my better judgment, I slipped inside.

The sight hit me like a physical blow.

Candles drifted overhead, their flames steady and serene, casting soft light across the hall. The long tables gleamed beneath the touch of moonlight, polished and perfect, as though untouched by time. Yet without students or professors to fill the space, the stillness felt wrong. 

What had once been alive now seemed hollow, achingly empty. And now, standing here alone, the silence cut deeper. Around others, I could push the memories down, bury the ache beneath conversation and noise. But here, with no one else to fill the void, every suppressed feeling rose to the surface, raw and unbearable.

All I could see was the hall was a ruin. Rubble littered the floor, kicking up clouds of choking dust with every imagined step. Bodies lay motionless along the walls, draped in pale sheets that did nothing to disguise the shapes beneath. Faces I had once known, the familiar spark of Fred’s mischievous grin, Tonks’s lively eyes, Remus’s calm, steady gaze, were frozen and empty, twisted into expressions that no laughter could ever soften. Limbs were bent at impossible angles, robes darkened and stained, hair matted with dust and grime. Even the nameless students, whose names I barely remembered, stared up with vacant, accusing eyes, small hands curled as though frozen mid gesture.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke, iron, and something sour, almost metallic, the smell of blood and loss that I had tried to suppress all summer. I imagined the faint echo of whispered spells and screams, a low, continuous roar that seemed to vibrate through the stone floor beneath me. The candles above flickered violently, shadows stretching long and jagged across the walls, dancing like the ghosts of everything I had lost.

Mrs. Weasley knelt over Fred, her sobs sharp and ragged, shaking the space around me. I could feel the grief pressing into my chest, heavy and unrelenting, as though it had a physical weight. My stomach churned, my throat tightened, and tears stung my eyes. My legs wobbled beneath me, threatening to give out entirely. I clutched the edge of the Gryffindor table so tightly that my knuckles ached, as though holding on could keep me anchored to reality.

“It’s not real,” I whispered fiercely, teeth clenched, voice trembling. “Not now. It’s over. Everything is… okay now.”

But even as I said it, the images persisted, vivid and intrusive. Dust-covered hands reached out, whispers of names I would never forget brushed against my ears. The hall I now stood in, gleaming and untouched under the moonlight, felt impossibly hollow compared to the wreckage of memory. Alone in the silence, the grief I had been able to suppress around friends, around laughter, surged unchecked, sharp and cruel, pressing into every nerve in my body.

I sank to my knees, hiding my face in my arms, as the imagined shadows of those I had lost seemed to crowd closer. My chest ached, lungs tight with panic, and my mind spun with every flicker of memory, every spell cast, every scream, every hand I had tried to hold that slipped away. I could feel the echo of their absence in the quiet of the castle, the emptiness around me magnifying every ache, every pang of guilt.

Desperate to escape the memories, I stumbled backward into the corridor, nearly tripping in my haste to leave. My breaths came shallow and fast, my wand hand trembling. I pressed it against my chest, as though the pressure might steady my heartbeat.

I walked faster. Past tapestries and staircases, past portraits whose painted eyes followed me with quiet concern. My steps carried me upward, up winding staircases and narrow halls, as though the higher I climbed, the further I could get from the heaviness pressing in around me.

By the time I reached the Astronomy Tower, my legs ached, and my lungs burned from the climb.

The door creaked softly as I pushed it open, the night air rushing in to greet me. Cool, sharp, smelling faintly of smoke from the torches below and the damp stone of the castle walls.

I stepped out onto the tower, the vast sky stretching endlessly above me. Stars glittered against the black velvet of the heavens, and the crescent moon bathed the stones in pale light. For the first time that night, the walls didn’t feel like they were closing in.

I sank against the few pillows that Professor Sinistra kept in the tower, curling my knees up to my chest. The cold stone beneath me pressed firmly, grounding me. My breath came in ragged bursts at first, then gradually slowed, finding a steadier rhythm.

From here, the grounds stretched out in shadowed waves, the Black Lake glimmering faintly, the Forbidden Forest looming like a dark sea of trees. The world seemed vast, endless, indifferent.

I tilted my head back, eyes stinging as I looked at the stars. They were unchanged. They had looked down on the battle, on every laugh, every tear, every moment of my life, and they were the same. Eternal.

The ache in my chest throbbed sharply. Everyone else seemed determined to pretend the world was whole again. That Hogwarts was safe, that we were just students once more. But sitting here, beneath the stars, I knew the truth: the world was fractured, and so was I.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, resting my chin on my knees. My body shivered, not just from the cool night air, but from something more.

“I don’t belong here anymore,” I whispered to no one but the stars.

And for the first time, I admitted it aloud. The Golden Girl was finally breaking.

Chapter Text

September 1995
Hermione POV

The morning sunlight was muted through the tall windows of the Gryffindor common room, the autumn air crisp and sharp. Breakfast was quieter than usual, though the familiar chaos still bubbled around the edges, first years whispering nervously, older students laughing a little too loudly. It was the kind of noise that should have been comforting, but instead it pressed against my chest like a weight.

I dressed mechanically, my uniform neat, my hair smoothed into place with meticulous care. Each movement was ritual, a shield to keep grief and memories at bay. I kept my eyes low, afraid that one glance too long at someone I knew might pierce the mask I’d built.

In the Great Hall, Ginny was already beside Harry, and Ron sat across from him. I slid into the seat next to Ron.

“You okay?” Ginny asked softly, her eyes searching mine.

I forced a thin smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Harry glanced up at me, concern flickering in his eyes, his hand brushing mine in a quiet, familiar gesture of comfort. It felt practiced now, everyone’s way of pretending I was fine.

Ron, of course, couldn’t resist. “Give it a rest, Hermione. You’ve been acting like this forever now. How is that ‘tiring’?” His voice carried more bite than usual, sharper than it had been before the war. Ever since our…break up, something in him had shifted, a quiet sharpness beneath his words that kept me on edge.

I gripped my mug of tea, flinching at the bite in his tone. Even through the sting, I understood. Losing so much, seeing the people you care about suffer… it changes you, carving sharp edges where softness once lived. Since the war, Ron was frustrated, angry even, but beneath it all, he was hurting, and he didn’t know any other way to express it.

“It’s just been a long morning,” I said quickly, though the doubt in my voice betrayed me.

Things between Ron and me had been different since the war. After everything we had endured, we tried to return to normal, but nothing felt right anymore. That kiss, his kiss, had been desperate, born from chaos and the need to believe in something. I wanted so badly to feel what I thought was love, to believe we were meant for each other, the way everyone seemed to expect, but we weren’t. That kiss was a mistake. But expectation isn’t love. And the harder I tried to convince myself, the more I felt the distance growing. He looked at me with expectations I could no longer meet, and though I wanted to believe I could love him back, I don’t think I even know what love meant anymore.

The mug clinked too hard against the table as I set it down. “I just… need some time,” I murmured, softer now. “To readjust, to classes.” The words felt clumsy. 

Ginny’s eyes lingered, calm and steady. “I get it, Hermione. Everyone’s trying to find their footing again, back at Hogwarts. Things feel different, but that’s okay. We’re all adjusting.”

Harry looked away, pretending not to notice, but I could see the quiet understanding in Ginny’s gaze, a small anchor in the chaos of the morning. She was the only one who still seemed to care, the only one who hadn’t drifted away like Ron and Harry had when I retreated into myself. If I couldn’t be “fixed,” I wouldn’t have been surprised if she, too, had pulled away. But Ginny had stayed. She had been a true friend, steady and unshaken, even when everyone else seemed to flinch at my brokenness.

The walk to Potions was heavy with unspoken words, the crisp autumn air doing nothing to lighten the weight pressing down on me. The castle’s echoes carried ghosts of the past with every step.

The dungeons were cool and dim, torches flickering against stone. Slughorn’s booming voice filled the corridor before we’d even entered.

“Ah! My favorite students! Hermione, Harry, Ron! Proof that Hogwarts is in safe hands again!”

His words landed like stones. Heroes. Survivors. Symbols. The Ministry’s perfect story. But nothing about it felt safe, or normal. Not for me.

I slipped into a chair at a lone table, needing space. Harry and Ron sat behind me, their chatter strained. Around the room, Gryffindors settled with ease, while the Slytherins sat with stiff shoulders and careful movements, survivors of their own kind of battle.

I worked methodically, each motion mechanical: grinding dittany petals, measuring, stirring. Routine was safer than memory. But every hiss and bubble from the cauldron felt too loud, a reminder of how fragile my control really was.

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Draco. He sat rigid among the Slytherins, pale in the torchlight. The swagger he once carried was gone; what remained was brittle, guarded silence. When our eyes met, just for a breath, he looked away. Something in me twisted, an unwelcome flicker of recognition.

Slughorn bustled past, lavishing praise on me, on Harry, on anyone he favored. “Marvelous work, Miss Granger! The Ministry will be delighted to hear Hogwarts’ finest minds are thriving!”

I stirred my potion harder than necessary, jaw tight. Hogwarts wanted proof of normalcy. The Ministry wanted heroes. And none of it felt real.

Then it happened.

A sharp hiss. A violent crack. Draco’s cauldron erupted in greenish smoke, splattering potion across his robes. Gasps broke out, then laughter swelled around the room.

I stiffened. My gut told me what my eyes hadn’t caught, sabotage. His potion had been steady, deliberate. This wasn’t clumsiness. It wasn't kind.

Draco didn’t react. He stood rigid, jaw tight, pale rage flickering in his eyes but not a word passing his lips. His silence seemed to intensify the laughter.

Slughorn clucked and tutted, more flustered about the mess than the humiliation. “Careless work, very careless!”

But I knew better.

I forced my attention back to my cauldron, grinding harder, the rhythm sharp and uneven. My insides churned. The echoes of laughter felt too much like the jeers of war.

At last, the bell released us. Draco slipped out quickly, head down. No one admitted to anything. No one ever did.

As we climbed the staircases, Ron snorted. “Did you see Malfoy’s cauldron go up? Funniest thing I’ve seen all term.”

Harry gave a half-shrug. “Yeah… but I’ve heard he’s been getting it from everyone since he came back. Not sure it’s all that funny anymore.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Please. After all the trouble he’s caused, he’s lucky it’s just a few pranks. If anyone deserves it, it’s him.”

The words hit me harder than they should have. My mind was still in the dungeon, Draco rigid, potion dripping down his robes, laughter echoing. No one should have to stand through that.

I hadn’t laughed. I hadn’t found it funny. There was something unbearable in the silence he kept, in the way he refused to rise to the bait. It reminded me too much of myself. And the truth was, I didn’t think he deserved it. Yes, he had been cruel, but cruelty was what he’d been taught. He’d never known anything different.

The silence stretched heavy between us. Ron frowned but let it drop. Harry didn’t press.

The rest of the day passed in a blur as the boys and I went on with our classes, moving through lessons like shadows. The schedule felt deliberately uniform, almost mechanical. Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology were stacked so that the war heroes were always together, a show of unity and strength, a reminder to the school and to themselves that the castle had survived. Charms felt like a string of familiar incantations, the motions of wandwork hollow and mechanical. In Transfiguration, Professor Whitlock guided us through subtle shifts, but the classroom seemed quieter.

I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the thought of the Great Hall, laughter, chatter, and the smell of food felt impossible to face tonight. I let the evening pass me by, lingering in my room until I could hear the last few students trickle out of the common room. Then, slipping quietly past the empty staircases, I made my way to the Astronomy Tower, invisible and alone, choosing the stars over a night of restless sleep.

I climbed the winding steps of the Astronomy Tower, each one sharp with exhaustion. The night air bit at my skin as I curled against the scattered pillows Professor Sinistra had left, knees drawn tight to my chest. Above me, the stars glittered, distant, indifferent, while the castle below lay silent, everyone asleep. Somehow, the quiet didn’t suffocate me. I could finally breathe, just a little, free from the constant pulse of expectations and judgment.

I remembered nights long ago at home, when my parents and I would sit on the lawn, tracing constellations with our fingers and sharing the stories written in the stars. Back then, their light had felt like a promise, comforting and untouchable. Now, even the stars seemed far away, indifferent to the cruelty lingering closer to the ground.

They wanted him to pay for the sins his family had committed. They wanted me flawless. The Ministry demanded heroes. Hogwarts demanded normalcy.

And I understood it, more than anyone could know. I had felt the sting of sneers and whispered insults since primary school, had learned early that standing out could make you a target. Even here at Hogwarts, people had mocked my grades, my study habits, my insistence on always doing things “right.” That same calculated cruelty now echoed in the dungeon, aimed at Draco, and it twisted something deep inside me.

I thought of him then, rigid in his chair, his potion ruined, laughter bouncing off the walls. He had been cruel, yes, but he had been taught cruelty, had grown up in a world that left him little choice. Seeing him like that, guarded, fractured, trying to hold himself together under the gaze of everyone else, made something ache in me. I understood him more than I wanted to admit, more than anyone else probably could.

Here in the tower, I could hold that understanding without judgment, without expectation. The stillness wrapped around me like a shield, giving me space to process, to feel, to be. I was alone, yes, but not lonely. I was finally free to acknowledge the weight of everything I had endured and to recognize the quiet, painful struggles of someone else.

The war may have ended, but cruelty never did.

Chapter Text

September 1995

Draco's POV

The castle had never felt this quiet. Not even during the war, not even when the corridors reeked of dust and blood and fear. Back then, silence was alive, with whispers, secrets, and footsteps echoing behind locked doors. Now it was a different silence, a hollow echo of something that used to be whole. A silence that made the stone walls seem older, colder, as if Hogwarts itself was trying to forget what it had become.

I sat alone in one of the high-backed leather chairs of the Slytherin common room, staring up at the green light rippling against the damp stone ceiling. The hour didn't matter anymore; time had blurred ever since Mother and I were put under house arrest. The dorm upstairs was full, Theo's bed empty, Zabini snoring like a dying engine, everyone else sleeping, but I couldn't make myself go up. Sleep was a stranger now, and the firewhisky tucked in my pocket was the only thing that dulled the ache that lived just beneath my ribs.

Coming back had been a Ministry requirement, or maybe a suggestion so strongly worded it might as well have been a demand. "Finish your education," they said. "Show good faith." What they meant was: prove you're "prove that your tame" no longer a threat. Sit quietly in the classroom where you once smirked and sneered. Let them stare at you. Let them remember.

back had been "a condition." That's what the Ministry called it: "Finish your education," they said, "Show good faith". What they really meant was "prove you're tame," no longer a threat. Sit quietly in the same classrooms where you once smirked and sneered. Let them look. Let them whisper. Let them remember.

The war may have been over, but the punishment was public.

My hand tightened on the armrest until my knuckles went white. The common room smelled of damp wool and smoke, once comforting, now suffocating. Even the portraits seemed to eye me differently. I wasn't the Slytherin prince anymore. Just another name they'd rather forget. Just a boy, they were forced to tolerate.

I shouldn't have to be here. Not like this. Not after everything. I'd survived. I'd done my duty, my family's duty. And now I had to pretend that knodding politely and sitting through lectures made up for it? That was ridiculous. I should be out there, making my own way, not sitting in some dungeon pretending to be a student again.

But refusing wasn't an option. They'd twist it into proof I was still dangerous. Still loyal to something that no longer existed. Still a fucking Malfoy.

When the first smear of dawn hit the black lake outside, I finally dragged myself upstairs. My uniform was immaculate—pressed, perfect, lifeless. My wand lay beside it, polished but heavier than it had ever been. It hadn't felt right since the war. Nothing had. Dressing was automatic: shirt, tie, robes, hair. A soldier's routine stripped of its purpose.

I stepped out of the common room, the soft morning light spilling across the hallway as I made my way toward breakfast. The faint aroma of the kitchen drifted through the air, but before I could take another step.

"Look who it is," a fifth-year drawled. "Little Malfoy, back from house arrest. Shouldn't you be in Azkaban? Or did Mummy buy you out again?"

Their laughter cut sharply through the corridor. I didn't flinch. I'd learned that much. Their eyes followed me, hungry, waiting for a reaction and waiting for him, the arrogant, untouchable boy who used to rule this place.

He was gone.

At the Great Hall buzzed with noise, but it was a hollow kind of noise. Forced. Fragile. Everyone pretended they weren't still afraid. I took my usual place at the end of the Slytherin table, close to the door, just in case. I sat straight-backed, composed, my breakfast untouched. The whispers came as expected. Traitor. Coward. Death Eater.

I didn't.

Millicent Bulstrode murmured something to a friend, a little too loudly. The word "traitor" floated between them like smoke, sharp and poisonous. I stiffened, ignoring it.

Theo's voice cut through it, low and deadly. "Careful, Millicent. Keep running that mouth and you'll find out what it costs to forget who survived."

Millicent blinked, clearly taken aback. But she looked away first. Theo leaned back, his eyes never leaving hers.

I didn't meet his gaze, but I felt something flicker in my chest—something dangerously close to gratitude. Someone still remembered we weren't just names dragged through the dirt. We were still people, however tarnished.

Theo spoke again, quieter. "Don't let them get to you. They'll never understand. And if you let them, make sure they regret it."

I clenched my jaw, nodding just slightly, my hands tightening around the edge of the table. I only nodded. Words were dangerous now, and Theo understood enough without them. That brief exchange was a shield in itself, the only thing between us and the vultures circling the table. For the first time that morning, I let myself breathe, just barely, knowing our fragile alliance was the only thing keeping us from being devoured.

By the time I reached the dungeons, the rhythm of the corridors had become almost soothing, the click of my shoes, the smell of damp stone and burnt herbs. Familiar. Predictable. A place made for masks. Still, every breath tasted faintly of ghosts. It should have felt like coming home. Instead, it felt like tracing the edge of an old scar.

Theo and Blaise were already there as I reached the potions door. Both looked the same, handsome, calm, untouchable, but there was tension in their postures, like we all knew what was expected of us, and none of us wanted it.

""Draco," Blaise said with a nod, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "You look… tired."

I let out a humorless laugh. "Not as tired as I feel. Honestly, I shouldn't even have to be here."

Theo arched a brow. "Careful. Say that too loudly and the Ministry will call it defiance."

"Let them." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "They expect us to sit quietly and smile like it erases what happened. As if survival equals redemption."

Theo's expression hardened. "Survival's all they ever wanted from us, Draco. Don't pretend it was mercy."

Blaise smirked. "Best to keep them guessing. Silence works better than outrage."

"Silence," I said flatly, "is what got people killed."

No one argued.

We fell silent for a moment, the kind of silence that isn't empty. It's full of everything you don't say. Regret, resentment, exhaustion. The kind that reminds you you've survived, yes, but at what cost?

I took my place at the end of a Slytherin bench, back to the wall. My hands moved automatically as I unpacked the ingredients and set up the cauldron. Everything precise. I'd always been good at Potions. Better than most. Precision, patience, control. It was the one subject where I could pretend I was untouchable.

Slughorn's voice boomed like a bad joke. "Ah! My favorite students! Potter, Weasley, Granger! Proof that Hogwarts is in good hands again!"

I didn't have to look up, but I did anyway. Potter's eyes still burned with that infuriating heroism, Weasley's grin was too loud, and Granger—well, she looked older. Colder. Maybe the war hadn't spared her either.

Slughorn clapped his hands together. "Vanishing Cabinet Elixir today! Tricky, but I'm sure you'll manage splendidly!"

I measured the dittany petals exactly, sliced the root into perfect slivers, and stirred counterclockwise seven times. My movements were steady, deliberate. Around me, the Gryffindors muttered softly, while the Slytherins were quieter, sharper, their movements precise. Slughorn moved from table to table, offering his praises, his attention fleeting. The tension in the room hung heavy, almost suffocating.

I didn't look up. Not at them. Not at anyone. My eyes stayed fixed on the potion, silver steam curling upward like ghosts. My hands are steady.

And then

A hiss. A sudden snap. The potion erupted.

Green smoke burst from the cauldron, splattering across the table, onto my robes. Hot liquid stung my wrists. At first there were gasps but,

Laughter followed. Of course it did.

I froze.

I hadn't made a mistake. I knew I hadn't. My potion had been exact. Someone had tampered with it. They had wanted this.

The old me would have sneered, snapped, spat something cruel back. The new one just stared at the mess, at the green streaks dripping from my sleeves, ears ringing with the sound of mockery.

Slughorn bustled over, coughing and waving his arms. "Good heavens! Malfoy, what on earth? Careless work, very careless!" He tutted.

I clenched my jaw, but said nothing. Keeping my face stayed blank.

The laughter died down, but the stares remained. Whispering. Judging.

Gryffindors whispering, Slytherins watching. A few faces turned away quickly, guilty or pretending to be.

I cleaned the spill without a word. My hands shook once, only once, then went still again.

Theo whispered, his voice low and sharp. "Someone did that on purpose."

"I know," I said, voice low, almost bitter. "But it's out of my hands."

The rest of the lesson blurred. The smell of scorched potion clung to me, metallic and acrid. Slughorn drifted away, praising someone else, as though nothing had happened.

When class finally ended, I was the first out. The dungeon air was cold against my face, and for a moment, I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in the silence.

This was what "normal" looked like now. This was survival.

I straightened, fixed my robes, and walked away.

Not turning back.