Chapter Text
The dormitory smelled faintly of dust and polish, like the castle was trying too hard to scrub away the war. The beds had been replaced, curtains freshly mended, windows shined until the glass almost gleamed. Only two this time, instead of the usual four, because no matter how hard they tried, Hogwarts reminded them of nothing but pain and death.
Harry set his trunk down on the bed nearest the window, jaw tight. He hadn't wanted to come back. Not here, not after everything. But McGonagall had insisted. One final year, to finish your education. For closure, Potter.
Closure. As if Hogwarts had ever been anything but a graveyard.
Every corridor was a tomb. He could still hear screams in the stairwells if he let his mind wander, still see blood staining the flagstones in flashes. The Great Hall wasn't a place for feasts—it was the room where Fred had lain cold, where bodies had been lined up in neat, unbearable rows. Even the Gryffindor common room seemed smaller, quieter, like laughter would be an insult to the walls that had once sheltered the terrified. No matter how much they scrubbed and repaired, the castle wasn't healed. And Harry wasn't either.
He almost didn't come back, but Hermione had that quiet, relentless way of hers when she wanted something, when she knew something was right, had finally worn him down.
“Just one more year,” she’d said. “We’ll finish properly. Together.”
And Ron had nodded, eyes shadowed but trying to smile. For Fred, he’d added, voice rough around the edges. That had been the end of it.
So here Harry was, standing in a room that wasn’t really his anymore, surrounded by ghosts wearing fresh paint.
The door creaked, and Harry's stomach sank. He didn't even need to turn. That voice—smooth, biting, unmistakable—cut through the air. He really didn't want to share a room with anyone this year, and he had begged McGonagall too, but she insisted sharing a room with someone else with trauma like his would help. So why him of all people? Why not Ron? Or... Neville?
"Of course. Out of everyone in this forsaken castle, I get you."
Harry turned slowly. Malfoy stood at the other bed, robes immaculate, expression sharp as glass. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—weariness, maybe—but it vanished under practiced disdain. Harry's gaze darted towards the door for a second, as though he was making sure no one else was there.
Harry snorted. "Trust me, I'm not thrilled either."
Malfoy's lips curled. "Good. Then we're in agreement: this is hell."
They unpacked in silence, but it wasn't peaceful. Every movement was loud—the snap of Harry's trunk latch, the fold of Draco's robes, the scrape of quills on wood. Harry caught himself watching Draco's wand hand out of the corner of his eye, then forced his shoulders loose. He hated that he noticed.
When the silence finally cracked, it was Draco who struck first.
"Still playing the hero, Potter? Or are you retiring now that you've collected all your glory?"
Harry's shoulders tensed. He stared at the scarred surface of the desk, jaw tight, before letting out a bitter laugh. "Still bitter you lost, Malfoy? Must sting, knowing you backed the wrong side."
Draco's eyes flashed, but his voice stayed cool. "Better than pretending you're some saviour while you can't even save yourself."
The words hit harder than Harry wanted to admit. His fist clenched around the edge of the desk, knuckles white. For a second, his eyes darted to the door—reflex, habit—before he forced himself still. "Nice try. You'll have to do better than that."
Draco leaned back against his bedpost, arms folded. "Oh, don't worry, Potter. We've got a whole year. I'll get plenty of chances."
Harry scowled and turned away.
The tension carried with them to the Great Hall.
The long tables were thinner this year—fewer students had returned, some still too shaken, others gone forever. The empty spaces felt louder than the chatter. Harry slid onto the Gryffindor bench beside Hermione and Ron, trying to ignore the dozens of eyes that followed him. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The one who survived.
He kept his head down.
Across the hall, whispers rippled as Malfoy took a seat at the Slytherin table. A few younger students shuffled away from him, leaving a visible gap around where he sat. Harry saw it, and though he told himself he didn't care, something twisted in his chest.
"Still can't believe they let him back," Ron muttered darkly, stabbing at his potatoes.
"Ron," Hermione hissed, though her eyes were troubled too. "But after everything he did, 'Mione?" Ron shot back, nearly jabbing Harry with his fork.
Harry didn't answer. He stared at his plate, fork hovering, realising only when Hermione's hand brushed his wrist that he hadn't eaten a bite. He forced himself to chew after that, slow and deliberate, as if remembering it was safe to.
The whispers started halfway down the table and spread like wildfire. Malfoy's here. He's back. After all that. Some voices carried more openly, sharp enough for Harry to hear.
"Should've been expelled—"
"Lucky he wasn't in Azkaban—"
"Bet his daddy pulled strings even from prison." A few laughs.
Seamus leaned closer to Dean, reaching towards the leg of chicken on Dean's plate. "Can't believe McGonagall lets him walk these halls like nothing happened." Dean tried to slap his hand away, but nodded in agreement.
Neville tried to stop them, bless him. "She's giving everyone a second chance," he said quietly. "That's what this year's about, isn't it? Rebuilding?"
But no one listened. The air was sour, too full of grudges.
His gaze flicked once—just once—to Malfoy. The other boy's posture was perfect, chin tilted just enough to look untouchable. But his fork stayed motionless in his hand, food untouched. Their eyes met across the distance. For a heartbeat, Harry thought he saw something raw in that grey stare. A few more Slytherins leaned away from Draco, as though his presence may stain their robes.
Ron caught the look. "See? He doesn't even belong there."
Harry said nothing, though his hand clenched around his fork. He remembered the way Malfoy had stood frozen in the Room of Requirement, fire roaring around them, torn between running and helping. The way his hand had trembled when he took his wand back from Harry in the Manor. The way he had saved him when he needed it the most. Malfoy hadn't been brave. But he hadn't been simple either. But then again, neither was Harry.
The scrape of a goblet against stone rang suddenly through the hall, sharp and echoing. Harry jerked, shoulders snapping up as if bracing for a blow. His fork clattered against his plate. A few heads turned to the noise, but the chatter resumed. Harry looked up quickly to see if anyone noticed. No one had.
Except him.
From across the room, grey eyes found his. Malfoy's mouth curved into a smirk—sharp, practiced, almost lazy—but something looked off about it. Pansy Parkinson laughed at something he hadn't said, fingers curling possessively on his sleeve, while Blaise Zabini didn't even glance up from his plate. At least he had some people on his side. Malfoy lifted up his goblet in mock salute, then looked away, the smirk still in place like a mask.
Harry ground his teeth and shoved at his food.
The first class of the year was Potions, because of course it was. Slughorn, beaming and oblivious, paired students deliberately across houses. "Unity, my dears, unity!"
Harry's luck was predictable.
"Potter and Malfoy—ah, perfect! Two of my brightest."
"Brightest headache," Harry muttered under his breath as Draco slid onto the stool beside him.
"Careful, Potter," Draco said smoothly. "Your envy is showing."
They brewed in brittle silence until Draco deliberately flicked a powdered root too early into the cauldron. The mixture hissed, bubbling violently. Harry cursed and grabbed for the stirrer.
"You're doing it wrong," Draco said lazily.
"I'm fixing your mistake."
"My mistake? Please. If you had the faintest grasp of subtlety—"
The cauldron gave a threatening hiss, froth spilling over the edges. Slughorn bustled over, tutting. "Potter! Malfoy! Detention, the both of you. I won't have sabotage in my class."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Draco only smirked.
Detention
The classroom was dim and smelled faintly of dust and ink. The only sounds were the scratch of quills and the occasional drip from a leaky pipe in the corner. McGonagall had set them both the same punishment: lines. Nothing magical, just endless writing, as though she knew the silence would be worse than scrubbing cauldrons.
Harry bent over the parchment, jaw clenched, writing steadily. He could feel Malfoy across the table like a splinter under his skin. Every shift of robes, every sigh, every deliberate scrape of his quill dragged against Harry's nerves.
"You know," Malfoy said at last, voice quiet but dripping with disdain, "if you keep scowling like that, Potter, you'll end up with wrinkles before you're twenty-five."
Harry didn't look up. "Better than looking like I swallowed a lemon for sixteen years straight."
"Sixteen? Please. I mastered the look by twelve."
Harry's quill pressed too hard, blotting the parchment. He bit back a retort, but Malfoy saw it anyway and smirked, satisfied.
The silence stretched again, brittle as glass. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed. Harry's quill stuttered mid-line, his shoulders tensing before he forced them down again. Harry glanced at Malfoy but he had been too busy fixing his hair to notice.
Neither spoke again until McGonagall returned to dismiss them, her voice clipped and brisk.
As they left, Malfoy smirked, "Charming as always, Potter."
Harry shot back, "Go to hell, Malfoy."
"You're predictable," Draco replied coolly. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You think everyone buys your 'perfect saviour' act, but you're transparent. Cracks everywhere."
Harry froze. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The smirk widened, but Harry didn't see the way it faltered once his back was turned.
Later that night, in the common room, McGonagall summoned them both.
"Potter. Malfoy. A word."
They exchanged identical scowls but followed her.
"Given the need for cooperation this year," she said briskly, "the two of you will be paired for study and shared responsibilities. Perhaps by working together, you can set an example."
"Absolutely not," Harry blurted.
"You can't be serious," Draco said at the same time.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "I am always serious. You will make it work, or you will both answer to me. Understood?"
They muttered reluctant agreements.
As she swept away, Draco leaned close, voice a low hiss.
"This year is going to be unbearable."
Harry should've agreed. Instead, his chest burned with something he didn't want to name.
Maybe... Fear? Guilt? "You have no idea."
When Harry finally crawled into bed, he yanked the curtains tight, so no crack of light could slip through. It was the only way he could sleep.
And on the other side of the room, Draco Malfoy lay awake, listening to the faint rustle of fabric, watching shadows move where they shouldn't.
Both pretending the other didn't exist.
Both failing miserably.