Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had long suspected that the universe held a personal vendetta against him.
There was simply no other explanation for why his life had taken such a spectacularly awful turn. Once upon a time, before the war, before Azkaban nearly became his summer home, before he had to learn the noble art of self-preservation through apologizing to people he loathed, his life had been something resembling respectable. He had been a Malfoy, a pureblood heir, a student with wealth, status, and the kind of effortless arrogance that had once been expected of him.
Now?
Now he was sharing a dormitory with Gryffindors.
Gryffindors.
The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
Draco had protested, of course. He had walked into Headmistress McGonagall’s office, chin held high, voice level, and had explained with painstaking clarity why such an arrangement was entirely unacceptable.
“Professor, while I fully understand the need for inter-house unity, I feel it is my duty to inform you that placing me in a shared dorm with Potter, Weasley, Longbottom, and even Granger will likely result in multiple acts of violence. None of which will be my fault, naturally.”
McGonagall had not looked impressed. She had regarded him with that piercing, terrifying stare, adjusted her spectacles, and said, in the calmest, most chillingly authoritative voice he had ever heard,
“Mr. Malfoy, the decision is final.”
Draco had swallowed. Audibly. That had been the end of it.
So, with all the dignity he could muster, he had packed up his belongings, left behind the comfort and familiarity of the Slytherin dormitories, and moved into his new nightmare.
At first, Draco had a plan. A perfectly reasonable, well-thought-out plan. It was one designed to minimize suffering, reduce unnecessary interactions, and maintain his already fragile mental stability. He had spent years mastering the art of avoidance. Surely, a few more months in close quarters with Gryffindors would be no different. All he had to do was stick to the basics: keep his head down, stay out of their ridiculous conversations, only talk to Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, and under no circumstances get involved in the Gryffindors’ absurd theatrics.
Avoid the Gryffindors. Do not speak unless absolutely necessary. Pretend they do not exist.
It was a flawless strategy. Simple. Elegant. An unshakable foundation upon which he would rebuild the shattered remnants of his life.
It lasted precisely six days.
The first major hurdle had been Weasley, a boy whom he had always assumed possessed the mental resilience of a particularly dense loaf of bread. Unfortunately, he quickly discovered that while Weasley may not have been academically gifted, he did have one truly infuriating talent: he did not possess the ability to sit in silence for more than two minutes at a time.
It was as if the concept of quiet physically pained him. From the moment he woke up to the moment he passed out… usually after consuming a frankly disturbing amount of food… Weasley was always talking. He talked while he dressed. He talked while he ate. He talked while he walked down hallways, during class, and even while brushing his teeth. And what was worse, his topics of conversation were so wildly unpredictable that Draco could never mentally prepare himself.
If Weasley wasn’t ranting about food, he was obsessing over Quidditch. If he wasn’t obsessing over Quidditch, he was arguing with Granger. If he wasn’t arguing with Granger, he was making pointless, absurd observations about life that no sane person would ever think to vocalize.
Draco had barely taken his first sip of tea one morning when Weasley, completely unprompted, turned to him with the expression of someone about to say something profoundly stupid.
"Oi, Malfoy, do you think gnomes have feelings?"
He, who had been actively trying to pretend Weasley did not exist, stared at the ginger. Contemplated his life choices. Thought about his ancestors, who had survived plagues, wars, and medieval torture, only for their legacy to lead to this moment. Then, after taking a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, he answered.
"I sincerely hope not, because I used to punt them across my garden."
Weasley looked horrified. As if Draco had just confessed to stomping on puppies for sport.
"Oh my Merlin."
Draco blinked. "What."
"You’re a menace."
Draco shrugged, entirely unrepentant. "They deserved it."
That was the moment he realized his plan was already crumbling.
The second issue had been Granger, who, despite her deeply irritating, never-ending tendency to micromanage everyone’s lives, had apparently set her sights on Draco Malfoy. It was almost impressive, in a terrifying sort of way, how she had taken it upon herself to become his personal rehabilitation project, as if she were some kind of self-appointed guardian of redemption arcs.
As if he, Draco Malfoy, needed saving. It was infuriating, not only because it was unnecessary, but because Granger had the sheer audacity to be persistent about it. He could feel it in the way she watched him, analyzing him with that sharp, calculating stare of hers, as if he were a particularly difficult Potions essay question that she refused to get wrong.
And it was relentless.
There was no escaping it. Every time he turned a corner, there she was… like some omnipresent specter of moral betterment… armed with an arsenal of self-improvement books, unsolicited advice, and an absolutely exhausting level of concern. She would shove books into his hands as if that alone could force him to change. She would recommend therapy sessions, subtly prod at his supposed emotional wounds, and, worst of all, she would check on him as if she actually cared. It was suffocating. It was insufferable. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend that it didn’t affect him.
"Malfoy, have you read ‘A Practical Guide to Post-War Healing’ yet? I really think you’d benefit from—"
Draco, who had been peacefully minding his own business, barely spared her a glance. He didn’t bother to look up from his book before delivering what he hoped would be a conversation-ending response.
"I’d rather bathe in Bubotuber pus."
Granger let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind of sigh that only someone used to dealing with insurmountable stupidity could produce. It was a sigh of frustration, exasperation, and, Merlin forbid, mild fondness.
"Malfoy."
Draco rolled his eyes, because of course, Granger was going to push the issue. She couldn’t help herself. She was physically incapable of letting things go. Fine. If humoring her would get her to leave him alone for at least five minutes, then so be it.
"Fine. I'll consider it." (He absolutely did not.)
The third problem — and this one had been entirely unexpected — was Longbottom.
Draco had spent years under the impression that Neville Longbottom was harmless. A mild inconvenience at best. A bumbling, forgettable background character in the grand narrative of Draco Lucius Malfoy’s life.
Sure, the war had apparently forged him into some kind of unshakable, sword-wielding war hero, but old habits die hard, and he had never quite updated his mental Neville Longbottom file beyond easily intimidated Gryffindor with questionable academic and practical skills.
Which was why it had been such a shock to realize that Longbottom was, in fact, impossible to ignore.
For one, he had this infuriatingly calm presence, as if nothing in the world could shake him anymore. It wasn’t the self-righteous stubbornness of Granger or the chaotic unpredictability of Weasley, but something worse. It was an effortless, unshakable ease that made it feel like Draco was the ridiculous one whenever he tried to get under his skin. And he did try. He had attempted snide remarks, passive-aggressive comments, and outright sarcasm, but all he ever got in response was an amused eyebrow raise or, at best, a vaguely disappointed shake of the head. It was like Draco was a misbehaving Kneazle that Longbottom simply didn’t have the energy to discipline.
And the herbal tea.
Merlin help him, the bloody tea.
At first, Draco thought it was just some kind of personal obsession Longbottom had. He was always drinking it, always carrying some steaming cup of whatever earthy concoction he’d brewed that day. Fine. Draco had lived with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott long enough to know that some people had eccentricities. What he had not expected was for Longbottom to start offering him tea like some kind of benevolent Hufflepuff charity worker.
At first, he had refused, obviously. What kind of person just accepted drinks from their former enemy? It was suspicious. It was strange. It was definitely poisoned. But then one particularly miserable evening, when the stress of pretending he was fine had become too exhausting, Neville Longbottom had simply shoved a mug into his hands and said, “Chamomile. Helps with headaches.”
Draco had stared at him, half expecting some kind of mocking smirk or a sarcastic remark. But Longbottom just shrugged and walked off, leaving him holding the stupid mug, feeling entirely off-balance. And damn it all the tea had been good. So now, whenever Longbottom wordlessly set a cup of tea down in front of him, he didn’t bother questioning it anymore. He simply drank it. And somehow, against all odds, that had become normal too.
And then there was Potter.
Potter was the worst of them all. Not because he was loud, like Weasley, or insufferably self-righteous, like Granger, but because Potter refused to make things simple. He did not fit into the neat, comfortable box that Draco had prepared for him. The one labeled enemy, rival, Gryffindor menace. And he seemed wholly uninterested in making Draco’s life easier by staying inside it. No, Potter had to be bloody complicated. He had to break rules that he hadn’t even realized he’d set. He had to be unpredictable in the most frustrating, disarming ways.
Potter did not mock him. Not like before. There were no sneering insults and no taunting remarks designed to cut deep and draw blood. Instead, Potter simply looked at him. Like really looked at him. And it was infuriating. Because there was no contempt in his gaze, no pity either. He did not see him as some pathetic, war-stained relic to be avoided or whispered about in the corridors. And Merlin helped him, that was worse. It was easier to be hated. To be dismissed. To be nothing more than a cautionary tale of bad decisions and worse consequences. But Potter… stupid, reckless, insufferable Potter… refused to let him be a ghost.
Instead, Potter simply existed in his space as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if they had always been like this, coexisting in some strange and unspoken truce. He sat next to Draco in the common room, close enough for their elbows to brush, without hesitation. He handed Draco a cup of tea whenever he made one for himself, as if it were a normal thing to do. He let their arguments spiral into something that wasn’t really arguing at all… sharp words exchanged like a well-practiced game, filled with more exasperation than malice, more amusement than hostility. It was dangerous. It was familiar. And the worst part?
Draco got used to it.
He started responding to Weasley’s jabs instead of pretending not to hear them. He started engaging in Granger’s conversations not out of genuine interest, of course, but purely for the joy of contradicting her opinions (or so he told himself). He started drinking Longbottom’s ridiculous tea without making a fuss, without even pausing to wonder when, exactly, he had stopped questioning the presence of a steaming mug beside him. He (and the rest of the Slytherins which weren’t much) started living among them without constantly feeling like they were about to be thrown out, judged, or reminded of who they used to be.
He had started, without even realizing it, to not hate them.
And that was a problem.
Because one morning, several days later, Draco Lucius Malfoy woke up, went through his usual routine, and walked into the Great Hall without thinking. He strolled past their usual corner, barely even glanced at it, and sat down automatically between Longbottom and Pansy. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just the easy, thoughtless action of someone who belonged there.
It took him a full twenty seconds to realize what he had done.
By then, it was too late.
The problem with getting along with Gryffindors… truly, fully, inexcusably getting along… was that they started inviting you places. It started small, casual things that Draco had convinced himself were tolerable. A quick butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks, a shared walk back to the castle after a late study session, and an impromptu trip to Honeydukes because Weasley had been whining about treacle fudge. At first, he told himself it was strategic — better to keep an eye on them, know thy enemy and all that. But at some point, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint when, he and his friends had stopped making excuses.
And worse still? They had started saying yes.
Which was how Draco found himself in The Wandering Hare, a new pub in Hogsmeade that was trying far too hard to be cozy. The moment they stepped inside, he was instantly assaulted by the overwhelming stench of fresh wood and cinnamon, as if someone had decided to bottle the concept of warmth and dump it all over the place. The walls were decorated with mismatched paintings that were obviously charmed to rearrange themselves every few minutes, which he found unbearably tacky. The whole place screamed look how charming I am! in a way that only made him want to hex the furniture.
Predictably, he hated it.
Unfortunately, he was trapped in a booth far too small for seven people (Longbottom had skipped and decided to help Madam Sprout), squeezed between Pansy and Theo while Potter sat directly across from him, looking entirely too comfortable in his ridiculous oversized jumper. They had just gotten settled when a new argument broke out… this time about what drinks to order.
“No offense,” Weasley started, looking directly at the Slytherins, “but if one of you orders wine, I’m hexing you.”
Blaise, who had already lifted a lazy hand to summon the waitress, arched a brow. “How tragic. What will I ever do without Weasley’s approval?”
Theo snorted, but Weasley simply crossed his arms and huffed. “I’m just saying! We’re in a pub, not some posh wine bar.”
“Would you rather we drink firewhisky and make poor life choices like you lot?” Draco drawled, already bored with the conversation.
Weasley grinned like that was the best suggestion he had ever heard. “That’s the spirit, Malfoy!”
“No, it absolutely isn’t,” Granger cut in, shaking her head. “I refuse to carry Ron back to the castle again.”
Pansy gave a delicate sniff, already looking unimpressed. “I don’t know what you’re all debating about. I’ll have the elven rosé.”
Weasley groaned. “That’s worse.”
“Do you even know what elven rosé is?”
“No,” he admitted, “but it sounds expensive.”
Theo smirked. “That’s because it is.”
Before Weasley could explode, Potter suddenly perked up and turned to the waitress, grinning. “I’ll have the Gryffindor’s Glory.”
Silence.
Draco blinked at him, horrified. “The what?”
Potter, completely unapologetic, pointed to the menu. “It’s right here. Gryffindor’s Glory. It says it’s a mix of cinnamon firewhisky, sweet cherry liqueur, and a splash of something called ‘Bravery Brew.’”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are a walking stereotype. A parody of yourself. A self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Blaise looked personally offended. “You’re actually going to drink something called Gryffindor’s Glory?”
“Obviously,” Potter said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I hope it’s disgusting,” Theo added flatly.
“Oh, come on,” Weasley said, grinning. “Let Harry have it.”
Granger sighed, looking deeply unimpressed. “You lot are unbearable.”
Draco turned to the waitress before he could be dragged into further nonsense. “I’ll just have a mead.”
Blaise and Theo followed suit, ordering their own drinks, while Pansy stubbornly stuck to her elven rosé, much to Weasley’s dismay.
The drinks arrived a few moments later, and as expected, Potter’s was the most obnoxious of them all. The Gryffindor’s Glory was topped with a floating golden sugar lion that actually roared when Potter picked up his glass. Draco stared at it, appalled.
Potter grinned, completely unbothered. “This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
Draco, already regretting his life choices, turned away and promptly found himself dragged into another absurd argument, this time about Weasley’s offensive jumper.
It had started when Granger, upon seeing her boyfriend shrug off his cloak, immediately wrinkled her nose and said, “Oh, not another one.” She looked deeply pained, as though the very sight of it was personally offensive. Weasley had bristled immediately, shooting her a glare as he smoothed down the fabric with a level of defensive affection that could only mean it was a Molly Weasley Original.
“What?” The ginger had asked, frowning. “Mum sent this red jumper last week.” He spoke as though that alone should justify its existence, as if any criticism of the jumper was an attack on his family’s honor.
Pansy, who had been gracefully ignoring the nonsense up until now, tilted her head and examined it with the kind of clinical detachment one might use when inspecting a questionable piece of meat. “That’s… maroon,” she finally declared, voice laced with undisguised distaste.
Weasley groaned, throwing his hands up like she had personally insulted him. “It’s red.”
“It’s maroon,” Pansy corrected, nose wrinkling further. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s definitely just red,” Potter chimed in, glancing at it with the kind of careless certainty that implied he had no idea what he was talking about.
Weasley grinned triumphantly, throwing an arm around Potter’s shoulders. “Thank you! See, Harry gets it.”
Granger, already exasperated, crossed her arms. “No, it isn’t. Maroon and red are not the same.” She said it like this was an indisputable fact of the universe, as if failing to distinguish between the two was a fundamental flaw in one’s character.
“They look the same,” Theo muttered, eyeing the jumper as if it had personally wronged him.
“They do not,” Pansy and Granger snapped at the same time, both glaring daggers at him.
Blaise, ever the agent of chaos, smirked and turned to Draco, who had been pointedly ignoring all of them in favor of his drink. “Dray, settle this. What color is Weasley’s jumper?”
Draco, bored out of his mind, barely glanced at it before answering. “Gray.”
Silence.
Draco blinked.
He looked up.
And immediately regretted it.
Because every single Gryffindor was staring at him like he had just grown a second head.
Potter, very slowly, said, “Did you just say gray?”
He exhaled sharply, already over it. “Yes, Potter, I said gray.”
“That’s red, Malfoy.”
“Oh, not you too.” Draco rolled his eyes.
Weasley looked like he was experiencing a personal crisis. “Mate, are you… are you colorblind?”
Draco stiffened.
Blaise sighed, taking a slow, unbothered sip of his drink.
Theo muttered, “Well. There it is.”
Pansy, still utterly unbothered, took another sip of her drink.
Draco hated all of them.