Chapter Text
The Black Years
Chapter One: A Good Seat
-o-
Never once had Luna sat down and thought to herself that Draco Malfoy was a bad person.
There had been moments people had said, oh, what a horrible boy, and Luna would listen and those people might think she’d agreed when to be honest—she hadn’t.
He had behaved unkindly. He had tormented, and had put into motion a lot of bad things.
And he was unwell.
She didn’t understand why it was so difficult to see it. Or maybe they had seen it, but did not want to face it.
It was easier to kick an aggressive dog away, than it was to ask it why it was so upset.
Luna had always been the type to ask.
She couldn’t help herself. She saw the good in everything. It leapt out to her without warrant. Everywhere she went. Ever since she was little.
It was why, when she gazed across the Great Hall, and saw him sitting at the very edge of the table all alone—
she dropped into the empty seat beside him.
Draco blinked down at her, knuckles whitening around his pumpkin juice.
He looked around, catching the eyes of several curious gossipers. Probably wondering if this were a trick, or if he were imagining it all.
Luna ignored the unease, filling up her cup and stacking her plate with fresh flapjacks.
Draco stammered, opening his mouth multiple times, only to close it.
He lifted his pumpkin juice, pretending to take a sip, then putting it down again. A nervous chuckle erupted in his throat, completely unsure of what to do in this situation.
It was simple really. They didn’t have to talk.
She just wanted him to know that she was here, is all. Luna could predict when creatures had need for her and so was merely placing herself on the map so that if he wanted to reach out…
“Uh…” he began at last, the pulse at his throat fluttering uncomfortably. “Is everything…” He clearly was not certain how to begin. “So, you’re just going to sit there?”
Luna remained serene, giving a light shrug of a shoulder. “Felt like a good seat.”
Draco pursed his lips in bewildered, false interest, making facial expressions Luna had never quite seen him make before. “Felt like a good seat… okay.” He breathed, gripping his knees. He looked around as if he were going out of his mind.
She tucked into her breakfast, taking a couple of bites, when she noticed he wasn’t eating.
“You’re not hungry,” she said, dusting her hands on her napkin. It wasn’t a question.
Draco’s attention snapped back to her as if he had already forgotten she was there. “Hm?” he peered down at his untouched plate, the half a cup of juice he’d been nursing. “No. Not… not really.”
His brows furrowed together, as if her speaking to him was the craziest thing that happened to him.
“I don’t usually… eat breakfast,” he mustered, drumming his fingers over the table once. Then he was tipping his head back and downing the rest of his pumpkin juice like it was a shot of firewhiskey.
He stood, completely unprepared to allow this to go on any further, deciding heading to class early was better than staying there under the eyes of Luna Lovegood.
Which was silly, because Luna would see him there anyway.
Every student whose life had been disrupted from war, took classes together now, young and old.
The official term the Ministry used was the Post-War Reintegration Program, with McGonagall often referring to them as Restoration Cohorts.
But the students, as if organically, had overtime begun calling themselves Black Years.
-o-
Draco flew into the Charms room, taking a seat in the corner of the back row.
He was the only one there, pretending to commit the lines of the desk by memory, listening to Professor Flitwick tittering softly to himself.
Flitwick did not speak to him, but attempted something that resembled a smile as he passed him a booklet, walking around and placing them on the desks.
Eventually students trickled in, the older sector of the Black Years. Unhoused. Stripped of their school identities. Reduced to all black and white, until things evened out.
Funeral robes, really.
And Draco had to behave as if he felt grateful for all of it.
He ignored Potter and the Weasleys, and Granger and the rest. For the most part, they ignored him.
In theory.
They did stare at him a lot, probably wondering when the moment Draco Malfoy would finally lose it. When he would crack under all this pressure.
They didn’t know there was nothing left to break.
The pressure didn’t hurt. Not anymore. It was bleak and empty. A rubberband gone slack, and the last thing he was going to do was give everyone the satisfaction of letting them think he was exactly who they thought he was.
He couldn’t cry. He wasn’t going to scream or yell or let anything ‘pull the trigger’.
He wouldn’t react at all, and that, he felt, was better.
Draco felt remorseful, but he didn’t want them to see that. It wasn’t theirs to have. He didn’t care what they said about him.
As the room crowded, he had registered little, her blue eyes, the sway of blonde until it was swishing beside him.
Draco almost did a double-take. “Wha—?”
The corner of her lips tugged. Amused by him.
“It’s a lot warmer back here,” she said, taking out her quill and ink from the colorful patchwork pouch she brought with her.
Did she believe it was usually warm up here, and that is why she sought it—or was she saying specifically because Draco was giving off warmth?
Because he was. He felt the heat climb his cheeks, and it was more than just from confusion.
Everyone was looking at them.
Draco hid his face in his hand, rubbing a spot above his brow, when finally, Flitwick began the lesson.
Though he couldn’t listen, distracted by the fact this random—girl—had decided to sit by him twice, and for seemingly no good reason that Draco could tell.
Just this alone was boggling his mind, to the point he had to make himself look away from her. He kept glancing back, surreptitious.
Her soft brow.
Her large eyes that he once thought held nothing behind them. No awareness. No true important things going on in there.
Like everything else, Draco had filed her under the category of a joke. Something he could ignore, or laugh about.
All the nonsensical, costume-like clothing she often pranced around in.
She seemed… less loud now.
It made sense, especially after what had gone on his basement that Draco never ever thought about and damnit—she caught him looking.
Draco behaved as if he had been studying a spot on the wall, his stare going fuzzy.
“Now, open up your booklets,” said Flitwick with a smile. “Read the introduction and fill in its questionnaire.”
The classroom was a rush of rustling movement.
Draco finally took out his ink, uncapping it, quill at the ready as he opened the booklet.
A Review of Reparo.
What is the first thing you ever repaired?
What is something you believe cannot be repaired?
What would you most like to restore, if you could?
Fuck, Draco thought, almost spilling his ink.
Lovegood noticed his near fumble, but said not a word, quill skimming her booklet as she answered questions.
Draco pulled himself together.
What is the first thing you ever repaired? — my trousers.
He cleared his throat, trying to cover his answers with his hand.
What is something you believe cannot be repaired? — myself.
What would you most like to restore, if you could? — nothing.
Draco snuck a glance at Luna's paper.
What is the first thing you ever repaired? — a toe
What is something you believe cannot be repaired? — a troutnut on a Tuesday
What would you most like to restore, if you could? — everything
Draco swallowed, looking at Flitwick who placed about twenty bins of broken clutter at the front of the room.
This was so stupid.
And he might have said so, if he had been his old self, might have mumbled it under his breath, but he hadn’t even thought to.
“Alright,” began Flitwick, turning toward the rows of students. “Get yourselves into pairs, and pick a box. Each one has a broken tea set. Fix them, at your leisure. No pressure, no clock to beat, just—take your times.”
Draco dared not glimpse around as clothing rustled and his peers chattered quietly amongst themselves, choosing each other, Draco all too aware that no one might choose him.
He was simply going to wait for everyone to pick their boxes, and go for the last one, hopeful not to make eye contact as he did so, or brush anyone’s shoulder by accident, when Lovegood plopped a clattering bin beside them.
She sat down, sparing him a soft smile before reaching into the bin and drawing out a jagged shard from one of the set’s cups.
His eyes only bulged briefly, settling into the feeling that this might be the way things were now, hoping to evade Lovegood for the rest of their classes that day.
Did she plan on making this a habit, or—?
At least he didn’t have to work alone, taking out half of an ornate plate, crumbled at the edges. He pressed it onto the desk, retrieving its other half by some miracle, and piecing them together.
He hovered his wand over it, swirling his hawthorn the way the repair spell called for, the way he always had.
Though the two halves only quaked slightly, unwilling to put themselves back together.
Draco stared at his wand, the black of it, brittle now where it shouldn’t be.
It’d never been the same, since…
“Standing works a lot better for Reparo,” breathed Luna, gently and she made to get up to demonstrate.
Draco blinked up at her as she turned herself into a perfect stance before the desk, readying her wand with a sort of unbothered confidence he only wished he had.
He glanced Hermione Granger behind her, observing Lovegood with something like untapped pride. Granger used to not be able to stand the girl.
Then again, neither could he.
And yet…
She didn’t seem all that bad, radish earrings included.
He’d let this all go, for now, he thought, as he watched Lovegood swish her wand with an efficient loop, shards rattling together, finding themselves until they became a perfect cup.
Pristine, and good as new.
Draco stood, adjusting his collar slightly as he moved to Lovegood’s side. She gazed with barely contained interest as he positioned himself the way he’d seen her do it, wand at the ready.
He could feel the entire classroom’s eyes on him.
They all seemed to hold their breath, but Draco took a deep one through his nose, flourishing his wand in a steady loop—more steady than he felt.
It took an agonizing moment, the plate absolutely unwilling, but eventually they all but jammed together, jittering with a reluctance that Draco all too understood. His fingers were stinging, the pain of it he hid with everything he had. He’d been expecting it, as his wand reacted this way any single time he wanted to use it.
Didn’t matter what for. Could have been for saving a fucking baby, the wand would still resist him.
“Well done, Draco,” Lovegood said, familiar and unabashed.
He shut his eyes, nodding, hoping to just get this tea set fixed and over with.
He didn’t think about the fact that everyone heard her call him Draco. He didn’t think about the fact that everyone had seen his wand fail him and almost fail again.
He didn’t think about the fact he knew he was a failure.
He did not think at all, features wiped clean. Emotionless.
Draco might well have been a ghost of these halls, just as any other. Lost and beaten and refusing to move on.
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