Chapter Text
“All the fighting paid off, for me to be with you, here, now.”
Harry truly believed it, looking into Ginny’s sparkling, brown eyes, as she laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“You’re such a sappy tosspot.”
“But I’m your tosspot.”
“That you are.” She leaned in for a kiss, which Harry reciprocated enthusiastically.
However, Ginny’s lips were ice cold.
And her eyes were red.
“The Boy who Lived, come to die” Ginny hissed - their entire conversation had been in parseltongue, Harry realised, how had he not realised sooner, Voldemort was back - he was frozen, collapsing on the cold, unforgiving ground of the forest as Ginny’s bed disappeared, hearing a high pitched cackle that he would never forget ring in his ears and Voldemort was in front of him, behind him, encompassing the entire world...and Harry was almost relieved when he heard those too-familiar words, saw a flash of green light, felt a stabbing pain in his chest as he was falling…
Harry sat up in his bed, almost falling out in his haste to get his wand. He was covered in sweat, his heart was racing, his chest was so tight it hurt and he was breathing heavily.
He curled into a foetal position on his bed, trembling, whimpering slightly at the headache. It was too close to the aching of his scar for Harry’s liking. “He’s not back, there were no more horcruxes, he’s dead” Harry whispered, a mantra to drive the nightmare away from reality.
About five minutes afterwards Harry was still shaking slightly, but had calmed down enough to have some coherent thoughts. He cast a tempus - it was 4:30 in the morning. He knew he wasn’t going to get back to sleep with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, so he padded down the stairs of Grimmauld Place to make himself a cup of tea.
It had been three months and twenty-eight days since the Battle, and twenty-eight days since he’d gone off Dreamless sleep, so he didn’t become addicted. This meant twenty-eight nightmares, twenty-eight nights of under five hours of sleep, and twenty-seven days of using glamours to hide just how bad the bags under his eyes are when around anyone other than Kreacher.
Twenty seven days of glamours because Harry had been reasonably sure he didn’t look that bad when he went to the Weasley Sunday lunch. That was before the concerned looks from Bill and Percy - the same ones that were directed at George - before being pulled over by Ron and Hermione (who were inseparable now, and did everything together), and then Arthur, and then Ginny - before being fed enough food for three fully grown men by Molly because he was “looking terribly pale dear, what is that elf of yours feeding you?”
Harry appreciated all of their concern, but at the end of it all had had to leave early - he’d felt like the walls were closing in, like he was about to crumble under the weight of their concerned stares. He’d gone home and thrown up all of Molly’s food, heaving until there was nothing left. Then he’d curled up on his bed, eyes open and staring at the wall, shaking at the thought of another nightmare - so he’d stayed awake for as long as he could.
That night, he’d dreamt of being under a petrificus totalus and his invisibility cloak, like that night on the tower, while watching the Weasleys being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, after the curses she’d fired towards Ginny and Molly during the Battle had struck true.
He hadn’t been able to eat anything the next day.
Kreacher had been very helpful - he always seemed to know what Harry had needed, whether it be a cup of chamomile tea (it tasted disgusting, but always calmed him down), a hot meal, or something to blow up. Harry had especially enjoyed blasting the wall which Walburga Black’s portrait had been on, and Kreacher had been surprisingly amicable to Harry destroying some Black family heirlooms. Of course, he insisted on keeping some, but there were many even Kreacher had found distasteful - the first things to go had been the decapitated house elf heads that had once lined the stairs.
Regardless, Harry had lost a lot of weight, looking more like his first year self with each passing day. He had permanent, purpleish bags under his eyes, and his head was always throbbing at the base of his skull. Whenever it approached his scar, Harry automatically grabbed his wand and put up a protego, ready for any threat. These particular episodes, Harry found, were the worst, as he could think that what he was doing was stupid, and Voldemort wasn’t in his kitchen he was dead, but his body was acting on muscle memory, tensing and firing hexes at anything that moved. Harry had ordered Kreacher to stay away if he knew Harry was having an episode, after he’d accidentally fired an expelliarmus at Kreacher, causing his wooden spoon to go flying out of his hand. He’d also incinerated most of the curtains in the house - not that this was a huge loss, they were ugly and moth eaten and dispelled dust in unnerving shapes every time they had been moved.
Based on all of this, Harry was really concerned with his decision to go back to Hogwarts in two days. He had no idea what the room situation would be, since there weren’t exactly eighth year dorms in the school, and what if he had an episode in a lesson? That wouldn’t be good for anybody.
Not to mention that Harry was terrible with crowds and anything that reminded him of the Battle.
But he couldn’t not go back, because he didn’t want to have to wait years until his mind was sorted out and then get his NEWTs. He imagined going back as a twenty-five year old, sitting in a room of seventeen year olds who hadn’t been affected by the war as much as him. It just wasn’t done, and he didn’t want exceptions being made just because he was the Saviour. He may be affected worse than most, but almost everyone went through something bad during the war.
Harry cast another tempus as he drained the last of his tea. Quarter to five. He dragged himself back upstairs, and put his trunk in the middle of his room, open and empty. He levitated the books that he’d owl-ordered into the bottom, before piling clothes on top - school robes, old, baggy t-shirts of Dudleys that he used as pyjamas and underwear, mostly. He also packed his going-out jeans and joggers for the common room. Then he put in the snitch Dumbledore left him, the Marauder’s Map, his dad’s old cloak and other various personal items. Then stuff required for school - potions ingredients, spare quills, ink and parchment. After he’d finished packing, nothing of his own remained in his room, except his Firebolt in the corner. He stared at it for a couple of minutes, but felt none of the emotions he’d felt before seventh year - the freedom a broom provided him with, the happiness he’d associated with being up in the air. Nothing. He shrunk it and tucked it into his trunk anyway - he didn’t want to be on the quidditch team, and didn’t think they’d be allowed anyway, but it was an escape plan at the very least. The thought made him feel a bit better.
“Lunch is ready for Master Harry” Kreacher croaked from behind the door. Lunch? Harry thought. The clock on his wall revealed it was twelve on the dot - Harry was surprised Kreacher had let him skip breakfast, the elf was normally insistent on regular meals. Even though he wasn’t particularly hungry, Harry headed down the stairs - the stew did smell pretty good.
He finished lunch, and pondered what to do next. He didn’t really want to do anything - normally he picked a book at random from the library and stared at the pages, occasionally reading them, but today he just wanted to do...nothing. Packing and stressing about going back had really taken all the energy out of him.
Thankfully, the decision was taken from him, as his floo chimed. Harry hurriedly cast the usual glamours - to hide the bags, add colour to his face, add weight to his body - and then answered to Hermione’s face in the fireplace.
“You are going back to school, right?”
“Hello, Hermione. Yes, I’m doing well Hermione, how are you? Yes I am going back to school, why are you asking?” Harry was used to Hermione’s usual bluntness, but was in a weird mood.
“I was just checking - are you packed?”
“Yes, I packed this morning.”
“I was just making sure - I worry about you, alone in that house. You could come stay with me and Ron?” Hermione had breached this topic at least once a week since Harry had left the Burrow; that is to say, since he broke up with Ginny. They lived in an apartment Hermione was renting in London until school started, and then were planning to use the money they’d received with their Orders of Merlin to buy a house. Harry would, but he worried - if he forgot to do his glamours, if he forgot to put up a silencing charm, if the charm failed...he couldn’t worry them anymore. He couldn’t be a burden - they’d already gone through so much for him in the last year, he couldn’t ask any more.
“I’m fine here, really. I’m keeping myself occupied, and I’ve got Kreacher - you remember how much better he got? He’s taking care of me.” The words did their trick, as the worry lines on Hermione’s face softened and she smiled.
“Well don’t hesitate to call, okay?”
“Of course not. How’s Ron?”
“He’s fine, but I’m forcing him to pack right now. You know what he’s like.”
Harry rolled his eyes and forced his mouth to turn up at the corners slightly - Ron always waited until the last day to pack, always forgot something and that something was, without fail, needed the day before it arrived. “It’s impressive you’ve got him packing this early in the week.”
“This is after a week of nagging, Harry, you have no idea.”
“Well you’ve managed what Molly didn’t, which is impressive. You’d better go check on him though.”
“That’s an idea, Harry - there is an unnerving lack of swearing coming from his room. Talk tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure.” Harry smiled until Hermione’s face left the fireplace, then slumped back in his chair and waved his wand to remove the glamours. He went upstairs to lie on his bed and do nothing for a few hours.
~
Harry flooed into Hogwarts at quarter to six - he wouldn’t be the first one there but would still have time to adjust. It was a shock to his system to see so many people, but thankfully he was used to it due to Weasley Sunday lunches. He made his way through the crowd, trying his best to control his breathing, eyes on Ron and Hermione.
“So what do we have to do guys? I’ve got my trunk shrunk in my pocket.”
“There are room assignments on the wall - we’re in that corner of the school with all the empty classrooms, they’ve been converted into dorm rooms. We’ll come with you, we haven’t dropped off ours yet.” Hermione said. Harry was immensely glad - he really didn’t want to go roaming around the castle alone.
None of the corridors they went down particularly stood out in Harry’s memory, so he was quite calm, and proud of himself. The dorms were on the fifth and sixth floor, but the entrance was on sixth with the girls’ dorms being downstairs. There was a sheet up with all of the room assignments - two people per room. There didn’t seem to be any Slytherins back - Hermione was rooming with Lavender Brown, the Patil twins were together, Ron was with Neville, Seamus was with Dean (Lucky bastards Harry thought - the two had got together straight after the Battle. Harry made a mental note not to go into their room unless it was absolutely necessary.) However, Harry couldn’t find his name...until he got to the very bottom of the list.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy - Room Nine
“Bad luck mate” Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Maybe McGonagall would let you get a room change? I’m sure you could sleep with me and Neville. Or in the common room.”
Indeed, the common room sofas were looking quite inviting, but Harry didn’t feel anything towards the idea of having to room with Malfoy. “He isn’t a threat, and maybe he’ll just leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone?! Have you met the pointy git?”
“Yes I have met him, Ron, and I gave him his wand back. I’ll probably just avoid the room anyway - just go in to sleep.”
“That’s a good idea, Harry.” Hermione smiled at him - one of those soft, ‘I’m sorry’ smiles. It made Harry feel slightly ill, so he said:
“Let’s go dump our stuff in our rooms before dinner, yeah?”
Hermione headed down the stairs, while Harry and Ron went straight ahead to a stone corridor with cheerfully burning torches on the walls, lined with wooden doors and gleaming, brass numbers. Ron was two doors down from Harry.
Harry turned the knob (just as gleaming and brass as the number) to reveal a room about half the size of a classroom. There were two double beds, each done in a soft grey. There was a huge window looking onto the forbidden forest, so Harry took the bed nearest to the window - Malfoy could fuck off, Harry wasn’t waking up every day to a view of the place where he walked to his death. Opposite each bed there was a desk and a wardrobe in a dark wood - maybe mahogany? Harry had never been much good at identifying plants - and there were two side tables between the two beds in the same dark wood. There was a rug matching the drapes on the floor, and while it all should have looked quite drab, Harry found it calming. He unshrunk his trunk and put a few random clothes on his bed to claim it as his before shoving the trunk underneath.
He met Ron who had probably done the same thing, as they exited their rooms at the same time, and they walked up to the common room, sinking into squishy armchairs opposite each other to wait for Hermione.
“What is she doing that’s taking so long?”
“Ron, we’ve been sitting here for thirty seconds.”
“But the feast Harry. The feast.”
“Won’t be served before the sorting, which won’t start for another ten minutes at least.”
“Fine.” Ron crossed his arms and pouted.
Harry looked around the common room. It was similar to the Gryffindor one, if a little smaller - comfy armchairs scattered around a rectangular room, rather than circular, with a different colour scheme - probably so all the houses felt equally uncomfortable. The room was monotone with purple accents. It should have looked cold, but the fire was burning cheerfully and cast comforting shadows around the room. Harry didn’t feel at home, exactly, but he was...comfortable. He really wanted to go into his room and stare at the grey canopy above his bed, but with the feast that wasn’t an option.
The feast. Harry really wasn’t feeling up to that. The thought of all those eyes on him, the pressure to be the picture-perfect Saviour, wasn’t one he thought he could endure. But he had to. Nobody needed to be worrying about him and his issues on top of their own. And it wouldn’t do to never leave his room again.
Harry looked at Ron. He didn’t look any different than he did in sixth year, before everything. His face was relaxed, probably daydreaming about the food he was going to eat. His posture was terrible, showing he was at ease, and his long legs were stretched out. The only difference was he didn’t try to hide the way his eyes lit up when Hermione walked in the room, and he jumped to his feet saying “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
“We’re not going to be late, we have ten minutes to get downstairs. You coming Harry?” She added, looking over at Harry, who hadn’t moved from his seat, wondering whether there was any excuse for him not to go.
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry groaned as he got out of the chair.
The trio made their way down to the hall. Harry kept his gaze on the floor for the most part - if he didn’t look at the walls, he wouldn’t see Lavender with Greyback, dead students, dead Tonks, dead Remus, dead Death Eaters. The images of the Death Eaters were less depressing and more disturbing, but all death is sad.
It did not, however, prevent Harry from the flashes of the dead in the Great Hall. This was so, so much worse than the corridors. Harry focused on keeping his breaths even, keeping his feet moving, following Ron and Hermione on the opposite side of the tables - it wouldn’t do for all three of them to be on the same side.
He sat down, not staring at the Hall as a whole, not acknowledging the memories that pounded at him. Rows of people covered by white sheets; Parvati pulling a sheet over Lavender’s bloody face; Dennis Creevy crying over the small, pale body of his brother; the Weasley family crowded around Fred, his face still smiling at the ceiling.
He zoned back in just as the sorting hat started its poem:
The days of dark are over,
The Battle done and won,
We are slowly repairing,
Now that we can have fun.
We have been saved from him,
You-know-who is dead,
The castle is rebuilt from the ashes
But it must be said.
We can’t become complacent,
As we did before;
We must band together,
As did the founding four.
We must support each other,
Same as when it was hard,
We must not become divided again
Regardless of our cards!
There was applause throughout the hall at the end of the song, even as Ron muttered out of the side of his mouth “The rhyming’s gotten bad.”
“To be fair, the hat only had since the Battle to write this one instead of the whole year.” Hermione chided.
Harry had zoned out again. He watched emotionlessly as small children (“We couldn’t possibly have been that small, ‘Mione, look at them!”) walked from the hat to the tables, registering somewhere in the back of his mind the amount of applause the Slytherin first years was significantly less than the other three houses, but couldn’t find the effort to be mad about it.
He focused on the conversation at the meal, allowing Ron to steal from his plate to cover up the fact he didn’t eat very much - a slice of bread, a bit of meat and potato, half a slice of treacle tart - enough to satisfy everyone, not so much that he’d run out of the room ready to throw up.
Afterwards they headed up to the room, Harry in the middle of a large throng of Gryffindors. He hadn’t been approached by anyone who wasn’t his friend yet, but based on what happened on the one outing to Diagon Alley that Harry went on it wouldn’t be long before the crowds got braver. Harry decided to enjoy the peace as much as he could, while it lasted.
Once they were at the common room, everyone collapsed in the chairs closest to the fire in a large circle. Harry looked at the large gathering of people - it was one thing on the tables in the dining room, where he could only see three or four people at a time, but the large circle, that many eyes on him if he talked - his blood started pounding in his ears and he started sweating.
“I’m tired guys - gonna head off for the night.”
After a chorus of “Okay Harry”’s and “See you Harry”’s, he turned around on his heel and walked out as fast as he could without running. Each double room had its own bathroom, and Harry’s, thankfully, was empty. He went to the toilet, and cast a mouth freshening charm instead of brushing his teeth, before heading to his room. Malfoy wasn’t there, but his trunk was - it was black with gleaming silver buckles and “D.A.M” in silver lettering on the side. Very Malfoy, Harry thought, glad that Malfoy hadn’t moved his stuff to get the window bed.
He quickly stripped down to his boxers, before pulling on one of Dudley’s old shirts. It was grey and had holes in it and came halfway down his thighs, despite Dudley having worn it when he was fourteen and Harry being eighteen. The Dursley’s really had treated him well. Or his parents were just short. Nobody had ever told him.
He drew the curtains around his bed, casting five different silencing charms that would hold overnight, and curled in on himself, and dropped the barrier holding his emotions back, crying for what seemed like an age before he went to sleep.
~
Draco was surprised when he’d got the letter inviting him back to Hogwarts, and had spent several days deliberating whether or not to go back. He’d flooed Pansy, Blaise, Greg, Milly, Tracy, Daphne and Theo - he would be the only Slytherin eighth year. Hopefully this would mean he’d get a room to himself this year. If he didn’t, hopefully he’d be rooming with Ravenclaws, or even Hufflepuffs; definitely not Gryffindors. Arrogant bastards.
He still got nightmares - mostly of being forced to torture other people, while his parents were held at wandpoint - and he woke up sweaty and with his heart racing, but when he’d asked the elves they’d said he didn’t make any noise and his nightmares didn’t tend to invade his day.
After the Battle, Draco had been held in a cell for three days. Then Potter (Saint Potter, always saving everyone Draco had thought, before chastising himself - Potter had saved him, and he would never have been able to live freely without him) had spoken up for him, elaborating a touch but mostly telling the truth about Draco’s parents being threatened, and Draco had been released with a warning. So he had to be a model person, but he had no intention in following in his Father’s footsteps of bribery anyway.
After being released and three panic attacks in three hours after walking into the Manor, it had been sold within a day, and the Malfoy family had gone to France. But Draco had felt uncomfortable there - he missed England, with the shitty weather and rude people and good tea, so he’d gone back. When he’d gone to Diagon Alley, he’d been less than welcome, and had ended up in a muggle bar. Nobody spat at him, and while he got a couple of odd looks for his clothes he’d mostly been left alone. He’d never harboured the passion his parents had against muggles, and now was grateful for the anonymity they leant him.
He’d stayed in a hotel for a couple of days, before finding a nice, modern looking apartment that wasn’t so big he’d have issues cleaning it. He’d moved in a day after, and for the next three months spent his days reading, watching muggle TV and running around a nearby park, and he spent his evenings frequenting gay bars and clubs. They were amazing, Draco had found - the alcohol got him as drunk as firewhisky did while tasting nicer - the brightly coloured ‘cocktails’ were his favourite, although any berry-flavoured cider was good enough. Then, once he had a pleasant buzz going, he’d go to a club - the drinks were more expensive, but it was worth it for the dance floor, dozens of sweaty bodies writhing to the beat that caused the very floor to pound. A hasty handjob, or blowjob in the alley or toilets was always a good way to cap it off. Draco had had to buy a whole new wardrobe for these experiences, but it was worth it. He could never be so open with his preferences, as his parents were expecting an heir, and never could have been able to participate in such ‘scandalous’ behaviour before, so now every sleeveless shirt, every pair of tight jeans, every stroke of kohl on his eyes was sweet rebellion, being the opposite of everything he’d once revered and now detested.
The main issue Draco had when considering going back to Hogwarts would be giving up this freedom. While before he couldn’t have imagined living like this, now he couldn’t imagine living without it. The tipping point, the one that had him writing his confirmation, was that this was the only opportunity he would get to return to Hogwarts - while he had been happy in his home, it had been a refuge in sixth and seventh year, and didn’t hold many negative memories - and he wouldn’t have to go to the Astronomy Tower or Room of Requirement for the entirety of the nine months he would be back. He would continue paying his rent for the year though, just in case he couldn’t do it.
However, walking into the room where the eighth years had been told to floo in, Draco started to really doubt the sanity of his decision. The room was chock full of Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, all of whom glared at him as he walked through the room. While it was jarring to be so alone, to stand out so much, Draco purposefully kept his head held high and his back ramrod-straight as he walked through the room. He walked down the corridors, noting that there was no evidence that any Battle had taken place. The volunteers had really done their jobs well.
Draco continued into the ‘Common Room’ - distastefully cluttered with chairs of all shapes and sizes, although there was at least a colour scheme. Purple wasn’t the best colour - Draco couldn’t help but think the room would look great with green accents rather than purple, even if he is rather biased - but at least it wasn’t Gryffindor red. He looked at the names, becoming increasingly panicky as he didn’t see his name, but there is was, next to-
Potter. Draco almost jumped with excitement, having harboured a crush on Potter since seeing those bright green eyes, before coming to his senses.
Why in the name of Merlin did McGonagall think that putting him in a room with Potter was a good idea? She knew about their history...but she also knew Potter’s character. He was probably the least likely in their year to hex him in his sleep, which was a relief - he’d get enough of that in the corridors, probably. After seeing his name on the sheet, Potter would likely spend most of his time outside of the room anyway.
Satisfied with the conclusion he’d come to, if not particularly happy about it, Draco continued to their room. It was adequate - the bed was large, the drapes were grey - and Draco would get a nice view out of the window, as Potter had taken the bed closest to it. Draco unshrunk his trunk and put it on his bed, briefly admiring the silver lettering on the side.
He realised it was very close to the Feast, so Draco power walked down to the Great Hall, thankful for his long legs. He slid into a seat at the end of the Slytherin table - more sparse than usual, but not as bad as Draco was expecting. The song was terrible, but it always was. Draco was furious at the lack of enthusiasm from his house when the children were sorted into Slytherin, but he refused to draw attention to himself - it wouldn’t do any good for anyone. He tried for comforting smiles - until his gaze was drawn to the Gryffindor table.
Potter was gazing down at his food, pushing it around with his fork and occasionally bringing a bit to his mouth. Nothing like the gusto he usually had. He looked a bit pale, as if he hadn’t left the house, but it looked odd from Draco’s angle - a glamour. It shifted slightly around his robes too. Potter was a powerful wizard, but had no talent for delicate spells - it was a strong glamour, but could easily be spotted by someone used to seeing them. It was similar to the ones his mother had used on his father when back from Azkaban - Draco wondered what Potter had to hide. Maybe he’d find out.
Draco finished the rest of his food and walked outside, into the grounds. The ground was still damp, and there was a breeze cooling down the temperature as the sun set, turning the sky a striking orange, fading into a bruised purple.
Draco sat on a rock, watching the sun set behind the Forbidden Forest. He loved the image of black silhouettes on a sunset background - there was something about the crisp lines and block colour over a gradient that appealed to him. When the sky was mostly a dark blue-grey, surprisingly not revealing many stars, Draco headed back up to the school, shivering slightly. He walked quickly through the common room - now, rather than glaring at him, everyone ignored him, which Draco preferred - and walked into their room. The drapes around Potter’s bed were tightly closed, and there was a strong silencing charm around them. Good, Draco thought. He probably snores.
He quickly got changed, brushed his teeth, went to the toilet and got into bed. It was a different sort of tired than his usual clubbing that made him forgo reading before sleeping - stressing about coming back all day, stressing under keeping his put-together image under the stares of everyone else, it all drew on Draco’s energy reserves. He sank into the plush mattress, facing the wall and feeling at peace with only the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. He occluded before he went to sleep, focusing on the blankness in front of him.
He didn’t realise he forgot to draw his drapes until morning, when he rolled over to see Potter was long gone.