Chapter Text
The Great Hall had regained all the lively energy it had before the war. A few first-years were arguing loudly, debating whether strawberry tart or treacle pudding was the tastier dessert.
Harry absentmindedly stabbed a piece of bacon, but didn’t eat it. His gaze drifted to a long table not too far away.
“Mate, what are you looking at?”
Ron looked up from his chocolate cake, a bit of cream sliding down his chin and wobbling precariously on the edge of his tray. Hermione, sitting across from him, couldn’t help rolling her eyes, face full of exasperation.
Seeing that Harry didn’t respond, Ron grabbed his shoulder and shook him a little. “Oi! Mate! I’m talking to you!”
“What?” Harry finally snapped out of it, quickly moving his eyes away, though that faint, almost white-gold shimmer lingered on his eyelids. “Do you want some bacon?” he mumbled, handing his fork to Ron in confusion.
The red-haired wizard pushed away the fork, squinting at Harry for a few seconds. “You’ve been really distracted lately.” He nodded in the direction of the Slytherin eighth-years. “What’s going on, do you think they’re up to something again? Is it Parkinson… or Malfoy?”
Harry nearly spat out his pumpkin juice before Ron finished. Under the increasingly suspicious stares of Ron and Hermione, he coughed hard, grabbed his napkin, and tried to hide his flushed cheeks.
“I just think those new Ravenclaws are a bit too noisy. Maybe I should go keep them in line.”
Both of his friends raised their eyebrows, clearly not buying it, but said nothing, making Harry feel his cheeks burn even more. He set down his napkin, stuffed the bacon into his mouth, cleared his throat, and started sawing at his steak.
“What I mean is, even the Malfoys have to keep their heads down these days. There’s no need for me to watch them, right?”
Ron seemed to realize his suspicion was a bit much and finally looked away, snorting with dislike.
“If it wasn’t for old Malfoy being such a two-faced git, the whole family would be in Azkaban by now!” Ron muttered, digging back into his huge chocolate cake in the plate. “I heard from Robards that the second day after the Auror Office was restarted, Malfoy sent a letter—the second day!” He pulled a dramatic face and shook his head. “Merlin, with such a loyal servant, I almost feel sorry for Voldemort.”
This past year, before Hogwarts was rebuilt after the war, Hermione joined the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, while Harry and Ron were recruited to the Auror Office, tracking down the remaining Death Eaters. The key information for those raids came from Lucius Malfoy himself.
In the letter he’d sent the Auror Office, Lucius had listed all the Death Eaters and their possible hideouts in meticulous detail. This had helped the Aurors tremendously and, not coincidentally, bought Lucius Malfoy himself a great deal of leeway.
After several rounds of emotional pleas and, of course, a huge sum of Galleons, he was only sentenced to one year of house arrest.
As for his wife and son, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, since they hadn’t been directly involved in Death Eater activities or the final battle, and had once even saved Harry, they were declared innocent and released quite soon.
However, rumors have been circulating lately that the Ministry of Magic is planning to review Lucius Malfoy’s sentence. Clearly, there are some people who believe the punishment he received back then was far too lenient.
Harry’s eyes drifted again toward the Slytherin table, but that streak of platinum blonde had vanished.
Ever since they returned to Hogwarts for their eighth year, Malfoy had completely ignored Harry, never giving him trouble, not even saying a single word to him.
Well, except for that night.
It should have been a relief, but as Harry chewed on the now-cold bacon, all he could taste was grease and salt, churning in his stomach until he lost his appetite.
“I’m off,” he said, dropping his knife and fork, the plate clattering loudly. “Bit tired.”
Ron had polished off his entire chocolate cake and was looking a bit dazed from overeating. He burped and slumped back in his chair. “Er, all right then, mate. Good night, see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you.” Harry forced a smile, turned, and left the Hall.
As Head Student, Harry now had his own private room.
Technically, Professor McGonagall had foisted the job on him— Harry couldn’t bring himself to refuse her, not when she’d looked so worn out and sincere.
“Harry, only you can lead everyone to hope,” she’d told him.
But He had to admit, the perks of being Head Student were much greater than he’d imagined: a private bedroom, permission to walk the halls at night, and free access to any common room in the castle.
He strode through the corridor, already reaching for the Marauder’s Map as usual, when a familiar voice called out from behind him.
“Wait up!”
Harry stopped, sighing in resignation. He’d known he wouldn’t get away so easily. He turned and saw Hermione hurrying out of the Hall, a pink flush on her honey-coloured cheeks from the sprint.
“Harry, what’s going on with you?”
She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, eyes sharp. “Don’t brush me off. You’ve been like this for over a week, even Ron can tell something’s wrong.”
There was laughter and chatter at the far end of the hall. Harry avoided Hermione’s searching gaze, focusing instead on a few students racing by, and only spoke after a moment, “I’m just tired, you know, with all the Head Student duties.”
“Really?” Hermione obviously didn’t believe him. She narrowed her eyes, studying him. “It’s really not because of Malfoy, is it?”
After Ron’s earlier prodding, Harry managed to keep his expression steady this time. He tried to look offended, furrowing his brow and grumbling, “What’s wrong with you two? What does any of this have to do with that git?”
Still, he couldn’t quite meet Hermione’s eyes. Guilt pricked at him, but all he could do was set his jaw and hold his face tight. He was sure that if she ever found out the truth, she’d have a meltdown right here in the corridor.
Luckily, Hermione didn’t press further. After a few more seconds of scrutiny, her face softened.
“Still not sleeping well? I know a good Healer, I can ask him for you…”
“Mione, Huntington is a great Healer, but I’m not having nightmares anymore.” Harry shook his head.
After starting at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione had taken her campaign for house-elf rights even further, and St. Mungo’s Healer Damon Huntington had given her a lot of help with the medical side.
Harry was just thinking of a new excuse to pacify Hermione when she bit her lip, looking hesitant. “Is it… is it Teddy? Are you worried about him?”
Harry stiffened at once, warily tense. “What about Teddy?” he asked.
For eighth-year students, Professor McGonagall had allowed a lot more freedom. Now, every weekend, there was a special train between Hogwarts and Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Over the past year, Harry had gone to visit Teddy almost every week. Thanks to McGonagall’s new policy, he’d managed to keep that routine going even after term started.
“No, Harry, you misunderstood.” Hermione rushed to explain. “I mean, every time you come back from seeing Teddy you’re in a much better mood. But after your last visit, you’ve just seemed… off.” She sighed, worry deepening on her honey-toned face.
“I know you haven’t been happy since the war, and that’s why I suggested you step away from Auror work and come back to Hogwarts. We all know how much you love this place. But it’s been two months, and you’re still… not happy.”
“I’m not unhappy.” Harry said.
He had lost a lot, but he wasn’t, as everyone feared, stuck in the past— all right, maybe he did have a bit of PTSD, but for Merlin’s sake, he wasn’t made of glass, and he wasn’t stupid. From the moment he turned the Resurrection Stone and walked to his death with his loved ones beside him in the Forbidden Forest, he’d already understood that the best way to honour those who were gone was to live well.
Maybe that’s why Dumbledore had left the Resurrection Stone to show up only at the very end.
So after the war, Harry became an Auror, hunt down the Death Eaters, helped with the post-war reconstruction, returned to Hogwarts as Head Student, tried to be a good godfather and watched Teddy grow. Day by day in the past one year, he’d done a lot to get his life back on track, and it had worked— these things became the anchor that steadied him, and he really was getting better, little by little.
“But those are just the things you need,” Hermione said, her tone softer now— Harry realized he must have said his thoughts out loud. “Harry, have you ever thought about what you want?”
Something flashed through Harry’s mind like a Golden Snitch, but he didn’t have time to grab onto it. “Uh, is there a difference?” He scratched his head.
Hermione was silent for a moment, then sighed in rare defeat. At last, she patted Harry’s shoulder. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll always be here, no matter what.”
With that, she turned and walked back to the Great Hall.
*
The sky was just beginning to brighten, and the chill of late autumn morning already seeped through the air. Harry, bundled tightly in his Invisibility Cloak, stepped carefully along the yellowing grassy path, making his way to the edge of the Quidditch pitch. He stopped in his tracks, looked up, and scanned the pale streaks of cloud in the sky. It didn’t take him long to spot a small black dot far above.
He waited quietly for a while, standing perfectly still as the little dot in the sky slowly grew larger.
After circling low for several laps, making certain he hadn’t been spotted, Malfoy leapt off his broom. He carefully slipped the still-wriggling Golden Snitch into his pocket, then peeled off his dragonhide gloves, pushed his messy blond hair off his forehead, and looked around one more time—much too cautious for this early in the morning. Only when he was certain the place was empty did he finally pick up his broom and head towards the castle.
Harry walked as quietly as he could, trailing after him with great care, but unfortunately, Hogwarts was far too quiet at this hour. No matter how skilled an Auror he was, it was nearly impossible to stay completely hidden as he walked on the leaf-strewn, branch-strewn lawn.
“Who’s there!”
Malfoy spun around sharply. He tossed his broom aside and pulled out his wand, aiming it directly at where Harry was standing, his back bent low and ready to attack or defend.
Harry noticed that Malfoy was using a new wand. A pale brown color, looking like cypress.
Why isn’t he using his old hawthorn wand? Harry wondered, glancing once more at the new wand before his eyes settled back on Malfoy’s face, which was expressionless and pale. Was it just his imagination, or did Malfoy’s face look thinner and sharper than it had that night?
For the last ten days, Harry had been wanting to talk to Malfoy, but he quickly realized that, even holding the Marauder’s Map, catching up with Malfoy wasn’t so easy.
Although the Malfoy family hadn’t been given harsh punishments, Lucius Malfoy’s history as a notorious fence-sitter meant that, whether out in the open or behind the scenes, whether in Hogwarts or out in the wizarding world, there were plenty of people with a grudge against the family. Maybe to avoid trouble, Malfoy spent nearly all his time, when he wasn’t in class or sleeping, hiding out in the library or the Slytherin common room.
As for Harry, the library was clearly no place for a conversation, and while he technically had the right to enter the Slytherin common room, barging in without a good reason would only stir up trouble.
Harry had tried to stop Malfoy after class, but most of the time Parkinson and Zabini guarded him like bodyguards. There was one time after Transfiguration when Malfoy was finally alone, but he simply treated Harry as if he were invisible, ignoring everything Harry said.
All the arrogance, the mockery, the provocation, the coldness and even the fear from the past seven years had gone, blown away like wind through leaves.
All that was left was a cold, unyielding stone wall.
It wasn’t until Harry spent five full days watching the Marauder’s Map that he discovered Malfoy flew a few solo laps around the Quidditch pitch every single morning.
In the soft morning light, Malfoy’s golden eyelashes trembled slightly, casting a gentle crow-colored shadow on his face. It felt as if someone had reached into Harry’s chest and squeezed his heart. Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and forced a stiff smile onto his face.
“Hey, don’t freak out. It’s me.”
He couldn’t be sure, but for an instant, he thought he saw a flash of fear in Malfoy’s eyes. The next second, the expression vanished, and Malfoy’s face went blank again, lifting his wand even higher.
A surge of irritation rose in Harry’s chest. He walked forward quickly, the grass crunching sharply under his feet. Watching Malfoy stumble back several steps, as if he’d been stung by a Billywig, somehow made Harry’s mood even worse.
Staring at the light brown wand pointed right at his own face, Harry said, “Malfoy, your father’s sentence is about to end. If someone catches you attacking me, I can promise you’ll be in real trouble.”
Finally, Malfoy’s face changed. He scanned his surroundings quickly and hissed, “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m stating the facts.”Harry says.
“I didn’t attack you.” Malfoy’s hand holding the wand was trembling slightly, his grey eyes refusing to meet Harry’s. Harry realized now it hadn’t been his imagination. Malfoy really was afraid.
In that instant, all the anger in Harry’s chest felt like a balloon suddenly burst, gone, replaced by a sour, chilly feeling, sharp like lemon sorbet.
“I’m not threatening you, Malfoy.” Harry lowered his voice, softening it. “I just… I just want to talk to you.”
The blond wizard paused, his grey eyes quickly flicking over Harry’s face and his outstretched, empty hands, then scanning their surroundings again. Once he was sure no one else was around, his grip on the pale brown wand finally loosened, just a little.
“I don’t think the Saviour and I have anything to talk about,” he said quietly.
Only a sliver of the sun was visible now, the Quidditch pitch was still empty and silent, a chilly wind brushing their cheeks. It was obvious, aside from the two of them, Hogwarts was still asleep.
Before coming, Harry had rehearsed this conversation hundreds of times in his mind. He wanted to ask why Malfoy had shown up at that Muggle bar that night, who the dark-haired man he kissed had been, why he’d left first the next morning, and why he was acting like Harry was some sort of disease now, when he’d been the one to start it all.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “Why do you come to the Quidditch pitch at this hour?”
He regretted it immediately. It was practically a provocation.
With classes back in session, the House Quidditch Cup had resumed as well, but it was clear, even Slytherin didn’t want Malfoy on the team.
Harry instinctively clenched his fists, already prepared to clash with Malfoy again. But after a few seconds, Malfoy simply turned his head to look at the distant pitch, his grey eyes almost blending into the sky.
“That’s all you want to talk about?” His voice was flat, emotionless.
The morning light caught on his pale lashes, and suddenly Harry remembered that night at Grimmauld Place—the way Malfoy’s eyes fluttered half-shut, the sound of his soft gasps, the way the dim candlelight painted delicate, butterfly-wing shadows on those trembling lashes.
Harry’s face burned.
“No… uh, I just wanted to ask…” He stumbled over his words, his throat dry. “Um, are you… alright these days?”
Malfoy’s pale profile seemed to twitch. But when Harry looked closely, there was nothing more to see. The gentle morning breeze brushed past them, and the rustle of leaves in the wind sounded like the hot breaths from that night, wrapping around Harry’s ears, making the whole thing feel like a fever dream.
“I don’t mean anything by it, Malfoy.” Harry took another step closer, his voice rough. “I don’t know if you remember, I just wanted to say… I was really drunk that night…”
He stared at Malfoy’s pale profile, glowing almost translucent in the dawn light, but Malfoy only kept looking off into the distance, his fair brows drawn together tightly. Harry suddenly wanted—stupidly, desperately—to reach over and smooth them out. He snapped himself out of it, taking a deep breath and speaking even more softly.
“Uh, I was too drunk that night, so… if I said anything, or did anything… just forget about it—”
“Potter, what the hell is wrong with you?”
At last, Malfoy reacted. He jerked his head up, his thin, pale cheeks blooming with color. “What are you even talking about?”
Those pale gray eyes glared at Harry with open disgust, as if looking at a worm. Harry froze, a chill sweeping through his mind.
Could Malfoy really not remember anything?
No way, Harry quickly shook off the thought.
Malfoy had called out Harry’s name that night, and had been the first to wake the next morning. He had to have seen Harry was the one lying beside him before slipping out of Grimmauld Place.
Anger welled up again, and Harry growled, “What am I talking about? Malfoy, what’s wrong with you? Don’t act dumb. You’re the one who started it—”
Harry’s face flushed red, and he bit his lip so hard it almost hurt, forcing himself to swallow the words kissed me. Meanwhile, Malfoy’s blush had faded, leaving him pale as always.
“Listen, Potter,” Malfoy’s tone had returned to cold indifference, slow and deliberate. The panic that had flashed across Malfoy’s face when he’d first seen Harry was gone now—just like that night. It was as if the whole thing had become nothing more than a dream, and Harry was the only one who remembered it.
“You followed me out here at the crack of dawn, now you’re spouting nonsense. I don’t know what you want, but if you’re trying to get me to confess something, so you can pin a new crime on my father, you’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not trying to hurt your father! I just—”
But before Harry could finish, Malfoy was already bending down to pick up his broom, walking away without looking back.
Harry’s first instinct was to chase after him, but after a few steps, he stopped. He watched the thin figure slowly disappear, finally melting into the morning light and the shadows of the trees.
The sun had fully risen. From the castle, faint shouts and laughter from the students floated on the air. Harry stood at the empty edge of the Quidditch pitch for a moment, silent, then slowly turned back toward the castle.
Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe he really was really wasting his time.