Chapter Text
Draco
Draco paced up and down the dark, quiet halls of his wing. His home, once a place of comfort, felt like a prison. Shadows danced on the walls, and the chill in the air was a constant reminder of dark memories that haunted every room. Even after Voldemort's death, the terror lingered, sending a shiver down his spine every time he passed the dining room. The long mahogany table, once a place of joy and family meals, was now a symbol of torture, murder, and fear. He half-expected to see the Dark Lord at the head each time he passed. He looked down at the letter in his hand, tracing the bright red seal under his thumb.
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
We are pleased to welcome you back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to begin your eighth year. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Draco hadn’t looked in the mirror in months and the sight that greeted him was almost unrecognizable. His mercury eyes were sunken, dark bags hanging heavy beneath them. His skin was pale. His hair—once sleekly combed back—was now disheveled and greasy. He looked at the rest of his body, skinny and frail, riddled with scars and bruises that refused to heal. He had lost most of the muscle he gained from playing Quidditch his whole life. He ran his fingers down the largest marks, 4 deep scars diagonally across his chest. Potter.
His heart began to race as his eyes became fixated on the faded and scarred Dark Mark on his left arm. The surrounding area was bruised and charred; he had used every spell, potion, and curse breaker to remove it from his body to no avail. Draco had always taken pride in his appearance, spending thousands of galleons on hair treatments and skin care products. But now, he could hardly stand to look at himself.
Draco looked in his wardrobe, before picking out a dark green sweater and black trousers. The cashmere felt odd on his skin, as he had become accustomed to wearing cotton t-shirts and joggers, while never leaving the house.
He walked down the wooden stairs to the living room, standing still in thought as he eyed the silver flask on the table.
You don’t need it. A voice whispered.
But the voice of doubt was louder.
Just one sip to get through the day.
His mind raced with conflicting thoughts: the relief the flask promised and the shame it brought. His hand trembled as he reached out, then hesitated, hovering inches above the flask. Memories of the past few months flashed before him—every day spent in a foggy haze as he attempted to drown his sorrows in liquor.
Finally, with shaky hands, he picked up the flask. His distorted reflection stared back at him as he unscrewed the cap, the scent of alcohol wafting up to his nose, both familiar and repulsive. He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the flask. With a defeated sigh, he took a large swig, the liquid burning its way down his throat. The momentary relief washed over him as he sighed.
Tomorrow I won’t need it, he promised himself, but the hollow words echoed in his mind, a promise he had made and broken countless times before.
He walked towards the fireplace, opening the jar of Floo Powder on the mantle next to pictures of him and his family. He picked up a photo and watched a young, smiling Draco, sitting between his mother and father. Lucius shot Draco a stern look, and his smile instantly faded. Stop smiling Draco. It shows your weakness. He recalled his father’s harsh words telling him as he quickly put the picture back in its place. He shook his head. Shaking his head, he stepped into the fireplace.
“Diagon Alley,” His voice was shaky, as he was engulfed in green flames, before stepping out into the cacophony of voices and bustling activity of Diagon Alley.
His eyes darted back and forth, taking in the chaos. It was as busy as the day he had received his own Hogwarts letter, all those years ago. Families hurried past him, parents dragging excited children from one shop to another. Kids pressed their faces against shop windows, their eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the latest broomstick on display.
Draco felt a pang of nostalgia and bitterness. Though he was an avid Quidditch fan, he had lost all interest in the sport. The thrill of the matches, the excitement of new broomstick launches—none of it mattered anymore. He hadn’t played in years, and the mere thought of it brought a hollow ache to his chest.
He stood there, feeling like a ghost amidst the vibrant, bustling crowd. The memories of simpler times, of a life before the war, tugged at him, but he pushed them away.
He hadn’t even set foot in Diagon Alley since his sixth year when he and other Death Eaters ransacked and destroyed every store in a brutal frenzy. The screams of innocent witches and wizards echoed vividly in his memory. The acrid smoke from the burning buildings seemed to return, filling his lungs. His chest tightened, each inhale a sharp, painful reminder of the past.
Dizziness washed over him, a slow, creeping wave that made the world around him spin. His heart pounded wildly, the sound echoing in his ears like a drum. Sweat formed on his brow, cold and relentless, as if time itself had slowed, each second stretching into eternity. His vision blurred, the edges of reality softening, and he could barely make out the figures around him.
As he walked down the familiar cobblestone streets, he felt his legs give way, and he stumbled, finding himself sinking onto a weathered bench. The wood beneath him was rough, grounding him in the present moment, but the trembling in his hands wouldn’t cease.
“Are you alright, dear?” An old woman sat beside him, her eyes wide with concern. Her voice seemed like a distant echo in his fading consciousness
“I’m fine,” He panted, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m fine,” I’m weak
The woman reached into her bag and pulled out a glass vial, holding it delicately between her thumb and index finger. “Drink. You’ll feel better,”
Draco eyed the vial suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Calming draught,” she replied gently. “I used to carry it for my nephew. He used to do the same thing. Of course…that was before…” Her voice trailed off, as Draco felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut, a lump forming in his throat. He could see the pain in her eyes, the shadow of loss. He wondered if the woman knew his name. If she knew he was the reason her nephew was gone. He clenched his fists, shame burning through him.
“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, the words foreign.
He accepted the vial, feeling the cool glass against his clammy skin. With a reluctant sigh, he drank the potion, waiting for the artificial calm to settle over him. Gradually, his hands stopped trembling, and his heartbeat slowed. The world around him became clearer, the chaos retreating to the edges of his awareness as he rose to leave.
Humiliating.
He walked past the store that used to be Borgin and Burkes, remembering the hours he and his mother spent over the summer buying whatever his father or the other death eaters requested. The store was now a toy shop, filled with bustling, smiling children. Their laughter and joy seemed to mock his hollow existence. He tried to recall a time when he felt as happy as they did, but he couldn’t. The memories of innocence were buried under layers of guilt and regret.
As Draco walked into Flourish and Blotts, he felt the weight of countless eyes on him. Eyes of those who had fought against him, those who had lost their loved ones because of him. Each glance pierced through his fragile composure. He watched as mothers turned their children away from him, their faces contorted with disgust and fear. The whispers followed him, ghostly reminders of his past sins.
With a heavy heart, he picked out his textbooks for the new year. The joy of learning, once a bright spark in his life, now felt like a distant memory. As he approached the counter, the cashier, a young boy with wide, fearful eyes, looked at him with trepidation. Draco set his books down, ignoring the soft tremor in his hands.
“That’ll be fif-fifteen galleons,” the young boy stammered.
Draco reached into his pocket, only to find his wallet completely empty.
Fuck.
Panic set in as he dug through his pockets, searching for any form of payment. He could feel the cashier staring at him, the line of people behind him growing impatient as his face burned with shame. Money was his security, his livelihood. Without his money, he was nothing.
“I got it,” Draco’s sunken mercury eyes were met with a pair of green ones.
The man dropped a handful of coins onto the counter, before grabbing the books and handing them to Draco. The book store erupted with murmurs and whispers as each witch and wizard got a view of Harry Potter, who could never walk into a room without becoming the center of attention.
Draco rushed out of the store, his face covered in embarrassment. Harry Potter just paid for my textbooks. As if this day could not get any worse.
“I thought the Malfoys were fabulously wealthy,” Potter caught up with Draco, walking next to him. He wore jeans that actually fit him properly for once, and the collar of his shirt hung normally across his chest rather than looking stretched out and tattered.
“We are. I left my wallet at home,” Draco lied, looking down at his feet as he walked. Go away, please…
The pair walked down the cobblestone streets in silence, before Draco realized he had been caught in his lie.
“Your wallet’s in your hand, Malfoy.” I hate you.
“My other wallet,” Draco lied again. “This isn’t my regular one.”
“You know, you are an awful liar.”
“Always looking to be the hero, aren’t you Potter?”
“It actually gets quite tiring saving your arse every year. Especially without a single thank you.” Potter shrugs his shoulders.
“If I say thank you will you leave me alone?” Draco spat.
“As a matter of fact, yes I will.”
Draco stared at Potter longer than he meant to. The war had changed him. Or perhaps Draco had simply never bothered looking closely enough before. Potter had grown into his features.
The two boys, looking more like men since the last time they had a real interaction, stood in the middle of Diagon Alley. It was hard to look at each other without seeing their younger selves.
“Thank you, Harry Potter. My glorious savior,” I am going to vomit.
Harry grinned at Draco. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” He looked at Draco for longer than he probably should’ve, examining each of his features.
Draco looked at Harry, before quickly walking away. He had not planned on being out this long, and the calming draught was starting to wear off. He had been humiliated by Harry Potter once again. All he wanted to do was go home.
As he was engulfed in green flames once again, he realized his entire life had been taken away. His assets had been frozen. The thought made his head spin. He stepped out of his fireplace, and held onto the nearest wall to keep from falling. He was nothing. He had no money. No wand. No control. No one left who needed him. He was a prisoner in his own home, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.
Draco walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, a habit he had developed out of pure loneliness and sorrow after the war. As he held the glass in his hand, he thought of everything that had led to this moment. He thought of how much he hated his father, how much he missed his mother, how much he missed life before the Dark Lord, as he threw the glass against the wall. The wine left a red spatter on the wall and floor, as the sound echoed throughout the mansion.
Harry
“I can’t believe they’re letting him roam about Diagon Alley!” Ron said, eating his second plate of lasagna, “I mean, he was a bloody death eater wasn’t he? He was gonna kill Dumbledore!
Hermione kicked his leg underneath the table, “Ronald!” she exclaimed, shooting him a look.
Ron stared at her in confusion “What? It’s true!” He exclaimed as he continued chewing his food. “I’m not saying the bloke deserves it all,” he muttered, his voice suddenly quieter. “But it’s Malfoy.”
“They have him on some sort of restriction,” Harry said, “They took all of his money. I saw him at Flourish and Blotts. He looked like he was about to vomit all over the place.
“I feel bad for him,” Hermione said pitifully, “He has nothing to his name besides the manor. Not to mention both of his parents are in Azkaban.”
Harry didn’t answer. A part of him hated that Hermione was right.
Molly cleared her throat, “That’s enough of that. Are you all excited to start school again? It’s wonderful they’re giving you a second chance.”
Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione all exchanged knowing glances. In Harry’s mind, Hogwarts was no longer a school, but a battlefield. Hogwarts was the place he watched his classmates be tortured and killed. The classmates he had lived with for most of his life. The classmates who would never return to finish their education.
“I’m happy McGonagall’s the new headmistress. She was always my favorite,” Ginny broke the silence. The rest of the table murmured in agreement.
The Burrow was much quieter after the war. The sounds of bickering and laughter at the dinner table were replaced with silence and occasional small talk. It was rare for the family to gather together, and even rarer for George to join them. The weeks leading to Fred’s funeral were the hardest. Molly, Arthur, Ron, and Harry would take turns watching George, who had violent nightmares and often woke up in the middle of the night screaming in anguish.
Harry was no stranger to nightmares. In fact, he had become accustomed to them. They had become such a normal part of his nights that he went to sleep expecting to wake up covered in beads of sweat and breathing heavily. He thought of everyone who had died for him. Everyone who believed he was worth saving. The thought of his godson, Teddy, how he would never know his mom or dad, just like Harry never had. How he would grow up with stories instead of memories. There was nothing else to do but think. And thinking was the one thing he couldn't escape.
Shortly after dinner, Harry had excused himself, and was sitting on the porch of the backyard, rocking back and forth in an old chair. As he watched the sun set, as he did every day, Hermione joined him, as she often did.
“How are you, Harry?” she asked with solemn eyes.
“Alright. You?” he replied.
She sighed, “Alright.”
Sitting in the chair next to him, Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it. She caressed the top of his hand with her thumb, as the pair watched the moon take its place in the sky.
“He looks different,” Harry looked at Hermione, “Malfoy.”
“Different how?”
“His eyes. They were…empty. Like he hadn’t slept well in months. His hair too. He used to slick it down, but now it’s messy.”
“Harry,” Hermione looked back at him, “Everyone looks different. We fought in a war. And besides…” Her grip on his hand tightened. “Dark magic changes you. You saw what happened with the locket. If something were to happen to you or Ron—”
“I know, Hermione, I know. I just…sometimes I think of what would’ve happened if I had just accepted his handshake. First year. Maybe all of this could have…been prevented somehow. Do you know what I mean?
Hermione’s eyes softened as she nodded. “Harry. You can’t save everyone.”
Harry turned his gaze back towards the sky, “Do you think this year will be different?”
She sighed, “You know it will be.”