Chapter Text
Draco saw Potter on the train once, just once, and then he was gone. He lingered at the doorway until he felt Pansy’s gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him back into their compartment. Greg sat with his forehead pressed against the window. Blaise had a hefty tome in his lap and was pouring over it. Nott was huddled across from Greg, fishing through a box of Every Flavoured Beans. Whether the others felt Vincent’s absence, Draco couldn’t say; the atmosphere in their compartment was dreary, but the summer had not been easy for any of them. Draco’s father was still on trial. His mother had been acquitted. Presently they were both on house arrest, and he had to admit it was a relief to be returning to Hogwarts for his eighth year. The Manor was unbearably silent these days. His mother spent much of her time in her bedroom, alone. At night she wandered throughout the Manor. Many nights, Draco heard her gently open his bedroom door, and then, after a moment’s silence, shuffle back down the hall. They rarely spoke. Much of the estate had been destroyed in the war, and his mother seemed in no hurry to begin reparations. His father, meanwhile, had hardly said a word to him all summer, preferring to drink alone in his study.
Draco had been cleared of any part he had played in Dumbledore’s death and the war. Of course, he largely had Potter to thank for that—bloody Potter, he thought to himself, although he couldn’t find the energy to truly be angry with him anymore. In truth, he wasn’t that bothered by Potter’s part in his escape from a lifetime in Azkaban. After everything Draco had seen, and continued to witness, their rivalry felt like silly schoolboy nonsense. In fact, the whole lot of it—the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, the interhouse rivalry—it all seemed trivial now. It was hard to imagine a future where he could return to his lessons or partake in the old Hogwarts traditions as if nothing had happened. As if his entire world hadn’t been flipped upside down, and him along with it.
He sat next to Pansy as the train whisked them through the countryside. Much of the conversation centered around their lessons this year. An eighth year at Hogwarts was unprecedented.
“We aren’t prepared for our N.E.W.T.s at all, are we?” said Pansy. She had grown out her hair over the summer, and it curled in soft wisps down her back. She was already wearing her robes. “They’ll have us doing seventh-year lessons, trying to catch us up.”
“Not with the seventh years, I hope,” Draco grumbled.
“What will they do, then? Have separate classes for the eighth years? How will they manage? They’ll need extra classrooms, and it’s even more work for the teachers…”
Blaise looked up from his book. “Mother says we won’t only be doing classes this year.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Nott asked.
Zabini shrugged. He had grown somehow taller over the summer, thinner. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, we have to catch up, haven’t we? What else will we have time for?” Pansy turned to Draco, as though he had the answer.
Draco sighed and ran a hand over his face. “You’ll do just fine on your N.E.W.T.s.” He was tired. Not for the first time he found himself questioning his decision to return to Hogwarts. He reckoned they all had. His eyes flicked over to Greg, his great figure oddly diminutive as he sat by the window and gazed outside. He had not seemed to notice their presence at all. His father had died in the war, and his mother had gone into hiding somewhere in the Balkans. And, of course, he had lost Vincent. Draco had only seen Greg briefly over the summer, mostly in passing at the Ministry as they attended their respective trials.
Pansy followed his gaze and looked over at Greg, hesitated, and then shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was a strange thing—they had all needed each other to survive, had needed each other desperately throughout the war, and yet now there was a gaping distance between them. They were his only friends, and yet they weren’t his friends at all. The realization burned a sad, hollow pit in his stomach, and not for the first time he felt rather sorry for himself. They had all been thrown together through circumstance, through their parents’ ties and the house system, but the friendships they had clumsily tried to piece together were so fragile. He counted Pansy as a good friend, but he wondered if even that affection would fade away. He had asked himself more than once if this was adulthood, the painful realization that the things that had mattered so much before were really just silly rubbish. Or perhaps they had shown each other too much of their darkest, most cowardly, most selfish selves, and there was nothing left to salvage.
Before long, it had grown dark out, and they moved to gather their belongings. As the Hogwarts Express drew to a halt, students flocked the corridors, chattering excitedly. Draco felt as though he was in a bubble—he could sense the nervous energy as it coursed through the students, and yet he felt numb to it. They sat, almost unmoving, watching through the window as students streamed out of the train. As the corridor cleared, Pansy rose from her seat, stretched, and said, “Come on. Let’s go.” They followed her out the train, and Draco felt his head clear somewhat as he took a deep inhale of the crisp evening air. Hogwarts loomed above them, as awe-inspiring as ever, and Draco was surprised to find that the damage from the battle seemed to have been repaired. He moved along with the crowd towards the carriages, gazing up at the castle. It wasn’t until he bumped into Pansy that he tore his eyes away and paid attention to where they were headed.
Pansy climbed gracefully into one of the carriages, and he made to follow her, until he caught sight of the Thestral hitched to their carriage. Its taut, black skin gleamed in the moonlight, and its great wings were drawn tightly at its side. Of course, Draco had been able to see Thestrals for a while now, but at the sight of the skeletal beast he froze. His stomach clenched and flipped as though he had missed a step. The blood rushed in his ears. He hesitated, halfway into the carriage, and he found himself unable to move.
“Draco?” he heard Pansy ask. “Draco, what is it?”
He was unable to respond, unable even to turn to her. His heart beat furiously. He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know—when suddenly he was jostled by the surging crowd of students. Snapping out of his reverie, Draco looked around wildly and saw Potter of all people staring at him. He gazed back, for some reason utterly lost and unsure of where else to look. Potter was surrounded by Gryffindors, Granger on his right and Weasley at his left. His expression was stern. Their eyes met as Potter strode past, staring at him, and then Draco felt Pansy’s hand on his forearm.
“Draco, come on.”
He clambered into the carriage, clumsy in his confusion, and sat down hard next to Pansy. Blaise and Theo followed him, wary but apparently unwilling to question him. Pansy was not so kind.
“What was that about? What’s wrong?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I saw something.”
“Draco, please. You’re pale as a ghost. Do you need to see Pomfrey?”
As the carriage lurched forward, Draco rolled his eyes and turned away from her, gazing out the window. “I’m fine. You sound like my mother.”
“I’m being serious. I haven’t seen you like that since—since—” Draco waited for her to continue, but she faltered, and the four of them sat in an uncomfortable silence as they rode up to the castle. Draco looked out the window, eyeing the other students as they babbled away in their carriages. It was impossible to think that he, too, had once been like that, discussing with his friends who they thought would take the Cup that year, which classes they were dreading, and who they suspected had started dating over the summer. And yet he had been. He remembered. It had all felt so easy then, so simple. Back then, he had never had to struggle with the panic he’d felt just now at the sight of the Thestral—that rising sense of dread that threatened to suffocate him. He had had a few of these episodes, as he called them, over the summer. They left him shaky and uneasy for hours after. Now, however, he forced himself to remain calm, to rearrange his features into his typical expression of detached boredom. The others didn’t press him.
Their carriage drew up to the castle doors, which stood ajar. A warm, welcoming light spilled onto them. Draco climbed down and held his hand out to Pansy. She hesitated, and then gave him a small smile and accepted his hand. As he helped her down, he glanced towards the Thestral. It did not seem to notice their presence—it was immobile save for the gentle rise and fall of its sides, its ribs jutting out beneath leathery skin. They followed the crowd into the castle. As Draco walked by the Thestral he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and stroke it. He wavered just a moment, but then Pansy tugged him forward and he lost his chance.
As they wove through the students and made their way to the Slytherin table, Draco quickly realized that only a handful of Slytherins had returned for their eighth year. Along with those he had shared a compartment with on the train, he saw Millicent and Daphne huddled at the end of the table. Draco felt vulnerable, exposed, acutely aware of the glares and whispers directed towards the Slytherins. Instinctively, he wrapped his hand tightly around his forearm where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin.
“Alright, Draco?” Nott asked as they sat down.
He gave a tight smile and flattened his hands down onto the table. Before he was forced to reply, the swell of conversation in the Great Hall quieted as the students looked towards the High Table. McGonagall was standing before them, dressed in long, gray robes. Her expression was rather severe, though it softened, Draco thought, as she surveyed the students. As the Great Hall went silent, she waited a moment, and then said, “Good evening. To our returning students—welcome back. And to our returning eighth-year students…” Another pause, and then, “We are all very glad to see so many of you. Last year was a difficult one. And yet to see so many of you here, ready to continue your educations…” She cleared her throat. For one terrifying moment, Draco thought she might cry, but instead she carried on briskly, “Let us begin the Sorting Ceremony so that we might enjoy our feast.”
At that, the large doors to the Great Hall opened, and the first-year students filed in, led by Hagrid. They stopped in front of the wizened Sorting Hat, sat on its stool by McGonagall’s side.
“They all look terrified,” Pansy whispered. “Were we that little once?”
Draco gave a noncommittal grunt. Pansy was right—some of the students were gazing up at the enchanted ceiling, while others eyed the older students filling the Hall nervously, but most of them stared at the Sorting Hat with a mixture of excitement and fear. As the Hat sang its song, Draco recalled the evening when he had been sorted into Slytherin. Of course, he hadn’t been surprised; generations before him had all been proud Slytherins. But he also remembered the restless nights leading up to his arrival at Hogwarts, when he had lain awake wondering what his parents would say if he were sorted into Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or—his greatest fear—Gryffindor. His first morning at Hogwarts, he had rushed to the Owlery to write to his parents and inform them that he, too, was now a Slytherin. Watching the students as they were called up one by one, he wondered if any of them felt the same pressure he had once felt. But then, there was also the matter of recent events: more than ever before, there was a stigma attached to Slytherin. He wondered if any of them secretly hoped they wouldn’t be sorted into Slytherin, maybe would rather even be Gryffindors, if it meant keeping the shame at bay.
As the last first-year was sorted—Hufflepuff—the students clapped raucously. “Good batch of students this year,” said Nott, craning his neck to have a better look at them.
“Very well,” said McGonagall in her usual no-nonsense tone. As the applause quieted, she went on, “Some notes before the feast begins. The Forbidden Forest is, as always, out of bounds to all students. And our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that you may find a list of all objects forbidden inside the castle in his office. You may have also noticed that we have some new additions to our faculty this year.” She turned to the High Table and said, “Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, William Proudfoot.” A tall, dark-skinned man rose from the table to polite applause. Draco knew his name—he was an Auror at the Ministry; Father had spoken of him once or twice. He had black, curly hair and wore thick-framed glasses. He raised his hand briefly to the students, gave a tight smile, and then sat back down as McGonagall continued. “And our new Transfiguration teacher, Fleur Delacour.”
Draco gave a start. He was surprised he hadn’t recognized the blonde woman seated near the end of the High Table between Flitwick and Sprout. Pansy elbowed Draco as Delacour rose from her seat. “Fleur Delacour! She was the Beauxbatons Champion, member?”
Delacour gave a neat little curtsy as the students clapped—many of the boys quite enthusiastically, Draco thought with amusement.
“Why’ve they brought her in?” said Millicent. “As if any of the boys are going to pay attention in her classes.”
“Quite young, isn’t she?” said Blaise. He looked across the table at Draco, casting him a rather wicked grin; Draco raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
“She’s married,” Pansy snapped. “To one of the Weasleys, too, can you imagine?”
Draco turned his attention to McGonagall, who was pressing forward with her speech. “And finally, I would like to acknowledge the unusual circumstances we find ourselves in this year—that is, the presence of our eighth-year students, many of whom have returned to complete their studies after the interruptions of last year. Let me be clear: while you are of age and certain restrictions will be relaxed, you are still pupils of this school and will expected to conduct yourselves accordingly. You are here to study for your N.E.W.T.s and to start planning for your future careers. That said, we recognize that you are in a unique position. Not only are you of age, but many of you demonstrated considerable courage and skill in the Battle of Hogwarts.” The professors behind her were nodding in agreement. “With that said, the Ministry and our faculty have consulted, and we have decided that this year will be an opportunity not only for you to study for your N.E.W.T.s, but also to complete an internship.”
At that, a low buzz of whispers erupted among the eighth years at all four tables. “You will,” McGonagall said, voice rising, “be meeting with your Heads of house tomorrow to discuss your career plans after Hogwarts, and to the fullest extent possible, we will be organizing opportunities for you to complete some basic job training in addition to your coursework.”
From the corner of his eye, Draco saw a hand shoot up at the Gryffindor table—of course, it was Granger’s. Several of the Gryffindors seated around her laughed. McGonagall said, “You will receive more information tomorrow from your Heads of house. For now, let us enjoy our feast.” As McGonagall took her seat at the centre of the High Table, all at once the banquet materialized before them: whole roast chickens; large slabs of steak; platters overflowing with Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and an array of seasonal vegetables; thick loaves of fresh bread; and jugs of pumpkin juice. Although he wasn’t particularly hungry, Draco filled his plate along with the others. Immediately the conversation turned to McGonagall’s remarks.
“An internship? What do you reckon she means by that?” asked Daphne.
“Do you think we’ll be working under a professor, as a sort of mentor?” Pansy suggested.
“How will they find the time?” said Millicent.
“And what about us finding the time?” said Nott. “We’re here to study for our N.E.W.T.s, aren’t we? What do they expect, that we’ll have time to provide free labour around the castle as well?”
Zabini snorted. “Yes, because you’ve always been so focused on your studies.”
Nott opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Greg said quietly, “I like it. Give us something to do. We won’t be at Hogwarts forever.”
Draco looked up to consider Greg. His plate was almost empty save a thin slice of roast beef. Pansy must have noticed, for she placed her hand on his arm and said, “Go on then, Greg, that’ll hardly fill you.”
He shrugged her off and stared at a spot on the table in front of him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, which Daphne broke by saying with a forced cheeriness: “Greg is right. What are you all planning to do after Hogwarts, then?”
“I thought we were all signing up to be Aurors?” Zabini said drily. That earned him a round of laughter.
“We could still work in Magical Law Enforcement, no?” said Daphne. “The Investigation Department…or Improper Use of Magic…you could even try for a junior position with the Wizengamot.”
“How cool would it be to work for the Department of Mysteries, though?” Nott suggested. “I’ve heard they’re studying all kinds of things in there—time, death, who knows what else.”
“Will they let the likes of us in there, though?” asked Zabini.
“Why shouldn’t they?” Nott said fiercely.
“What about you, Draco?” Pansy asked him.
“Yes, Draco, you’ve been rather quiet,” said Blaise.
The others turned to him. He took a sip of water, set down his goblet, and opened his mouth to reply when Millicent said, “Not likely to have good prospects given your father’s reputation, though, are you?”
“Millicent!” Daphne cried. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s true, though,” she protested. “For the rest of us too, probably, but Draco especially. Your family must have burned all their bridges by now.”
“Well spotted,” was Draco’s acidic reply.
There was an awkward pause, and then Nott went on to describe his aspirations of working in the Department of Mysteries. Pansy gave Draco a sympathetic grimace; he shrugged. The eighth years continued to discuss their post-Hogwarts plans as he leaned back and scanned the Great Hall. What were his plans? It was one of the many questions that had haunted him all summer. Most Hogwarts students went on to work at the Ministry, but Millicent hadn’t been wrong in suggesting that the Malfoy name was not exactly in good standing there—or most anywhere these days. Everything had been so simple before. He had always been a good student, and Draco and his parents had assumed that following Hogwarts he would take up an important position in the Ministry. Before the Dark Lord’s return, they had enjoyed all kinds of connections. The Manor was always buzzing with friends, family, and important guests visiting his parents. They frequently held parties in the opulent dining room, and they were invited on holidays around the world by his parents’ international contacts. But things had changed. Since the Dark Lord’s defeat, the Manor had seen no visitors. Its dining room remained dark and empty. They received no invitations to travel abroad. His parents had not even discussed with him what this would mean for his career prospects. Perhaps they no longer cared.
As the table was magically cleared of the remnants of their dinner and replaced with puddings, tarts, pies, and cakes, Draco’s eyes fell on Potter and his gang of friends. They seemed to be in high spirits: Granger was laughing at Weasley as he stole a large mouthful of dessert from her plate, while Potter was talking to Longbottom across from him. Draco heard Daphne ask him something and he made to turn to her when Potter suddenly looked in his direction. They eyed each other for what must have been only a second or two. Potter’s expression was cool, detached, almost surly, and then he abruptly looked away, laughing at something Longbottom had said.
“Draco? Are you taking Arithmancy?” Daphne asked him.
“Er—yeah. Yes.”
“So am I, but I’m quite nervous. I’ve never really cared for it at all.”
They discussed their classes until the table was cleared of dessert. McGonagall bid them goodnight, and the students made their way out of the Great Hall to their respective dormitories. The Slytherin common room, Draco was pleased to find, looked just as they had left it: a large, grand room filled with leather sofas, ancient writing tables, and tapestries lining the walls. Although they were in the dungeons, the room was warmed by a fire crackling away in the hearth. The eighth-year boys filed up the winding stairs to their shared dormitory, which featured four-poster beds hung with green, filmy curtains. Draco found his luggage on the bed closest to the window, which suited him: in years past, he had spent many nights sitting at the window, following the water’s gentle movements as the others snored around him.
They changed into their pyjamas and spoke very little. Greg was in the bed next to his; without saying goodnight, he crawled into bed and drew the curtains around himself. Once again, Vincent made himself felt through his absence, and, in spite of himself, Draco found that there was something not quite right about rooming with the others without Vincent there. While he was hardly sentimental, they had all shared a dorm since their first day at Hogwarts, and now one of their number was missing. Unsettled by the thought, Draco slipped into bed, closed the curtains tight, and then pulled the sheets up around his chest, falling into a fitful and uneasy sleep.