Chapter Text
The familiar atmosphere of Platform 9¾ hit him with more nostalgia than he'd expected. The sound of trolleys on the floor, families chatting, owls ruffling their feathers, and cats meowing. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived (twice, technically), was returning for his eighth and last year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
After the war, the new headmistress, Professor McGonagall, offered those who hadn’t finished their NEWTs due to the war the chance to come back for an extra year. Harry, Ron, and Hermione gladly took her up on this offer, as did all their friends. It was strange, seeing the world go back to normal like this. He didn’t know what exactly he’d expected, but the normality caught him off guard. He thought about where he had been a year ago, how things had changed for the better, and how big of an impact this traumatic experience still had on him.
A hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.
"Can you believe it? I never imagined being here one more time—not until I have kids myself, at least!" Ron, his best friend, mumbled with awe in his voice.
"Yeah, I get it. It feels surreal, doesn’t it? Going back to normal just like this... I don’t think I even know what normal is anymore," Harry answered.
Ron didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and held him close. He knew. He understood. He was there for him. He didn’t have to say the words for Harry to hear them.
Gratefully, Harry let himself lean a little into his best friend, and together they watched the nostalgic scene. After some time, Ron murmured into his ear:
"Didn’t know he’d come back too."
His eyes were fixed on something to the left. Following his gaze, Harry saw a certain young man with blonde hair and pale skin.
"No, me neither," Harry answered quietly.
Something was different about him. The way he carried himself had changed. Where there had once been forced confidence and arrogance, now there was withdrawal and uncertainty, maybe? The war had changed him a lot, no doubt.
Harry’s back felt heavy all of a sudden as he remembered the letter he carried in there. It was a letter from Draco Malfoy, which he had written shortly after his trial. Harry had read it so many times he knew it by heart.
Dear Harry Potter,
I’m writing this to express my gratitude toward you.
I want to thank you for speaking in my favor during the trial. While it may seem like a small act to you, it meant the world to me. You gave me the chance of a new life—a new me, if you will—and I will forever be in your debt for that.
I am determined not to waste this chance and make you regret your decision. I truly believed you when you told me I could change for the better, and I sincerely hope I will accomplish that.
I truly hope you are managing well with the aftermath and succeed in building a happy life—you more than deserve it. The world and me owes you a life debt. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Draco L. Malfoy
Something about those words clung to his mind. Perhaps it was the careful hopefulness that things could change for the better, or the unexpectedness of the letter itself. Whatever it was, it made him feel like he could move on, too.
Moving on was harder than he’d realized at first. You think you’ve taken a step forward, only to fall back five shortly after. To the outside world, he rarely showed his state of mind. He wanted to be an example, to give hope to those who looked up to him—scared he would fail them if he didn’t.
But Malfoy’s words made all that feel more possible.
Malfoy looked up, and their eyes met. Green on gray. Malfoy’s gaze was careful, as if asking for permission to look at him, and for some reason, that made Harry feel sad. He gave him a reassuring smile, and when Malfoy returned a shy one, his heart felt a little lighter.
Some time later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally found a free compartment and sat down. After a few minutes, they were joined by Luna, Ginny, Dean, and Seamus.
Harry and Ginny shared a small smile. They had broken things off after the war. It had changed them both in ways neither could fully understand. They’d parted on the best terms possible, remaining close friends—and who knew? Maybe someday they’d find their way back to each other again.
She sat down next to him, and they started talking about a Quidditch match they’d seen last month. Everything was so normal again. It felt both reassuring and oppressive at the same time—like a thunderstorm barely held behind closed doors, with the warm sun shining outside.
The Great Hall was as breathtaking as ever, and so was the food. It felt like a haze in a way. He was there, laughing and joking with his friends, but also far away, as if watching himself from above. They ate, laughed, and shared stories about the summer, just as they had all the years before.
He felt a warm feeling in his chest when he looked at his friends. They had all made it. They were managing. They were going to have a happy life despite everything. When he saw them like this, he almost believed that he could too.
The next day, he woke up screaming. Nightmares and panic attacks were old friends by now. He tried to calm himself down, and it got easier when someone—Ron, probably—grabbed his arm and said,
"Shhh, Harry, I’m here. It’s all over. It was just a bad dream."
He struggled to breathe properly for some time, but he managed. He always did. After five minutes or so, he opened his eyes and cooled off again. He tried for a long time to fall back asleep after that.
He didn’t. Instead, he opened his suitcase and read Malfoy’s letter. Once. Twice. Thrice. It gave him hope, in a way. He felt seen through those words written on paper. When he finally fell asleep again later, he didn’t have any nightmares.
The first class he had on Monday was Transfiguration. He entered the classroom and looked around for a place to sit. Neither Ron nor Hermione shared this class with him, and even though he wasn’t exactly shy, he still felt anxious.
"Hey, Harry, come sit here," he heard a voice from behind him.
Relieved, he turned around and saw Dean and Seamus, along with Ginny and her girlfriends, Rebecca and Hannah. They shared classes now because the eighth years were repeating seventh year, but not enough students had returned to form separate classes for them. He sat down next to Dean, and they talked about Muggle football, which Dean had gotten interested in over the summer.
It surprised him how well they got along. They had never really been close over the years, despite sharing a dorm. It had always been two separate groups—him and Ron being one, and Dean and Seamus the other. The thought of them growing closer now made him happy, and he decided to invite them both for a Butterbeer at the next Hogsmeade weekend.
They reviewed many of the hexes from previous years—a gentle start, for which Harry was grateful.
A few days passed. It was Thursday now, and Harry was on his way to his least favorite subject of all time: Potions. He was about five minutes late because Hermione’s cat had decided that the common room sofa needed a more "personal" (or rather, ripped) style.
He knocked, and seconds later, Horace Slughorn’s voice called across the room:
"Come on in, dear boy! You’re lucky today—we haven’t started just yet! Hmm, let me see... Do we need more tables? Oh, perfect! Exactly one seat left. Please have a seat over there, Mr. Potter!"
He looked around and found that the last seat was next to Draco Malfoy himself. He noticed that the boy sat by himself in almost every class they shared. It seemed no one wanted to sit next to him—the former Death Eater. It made Harry feel sad. Everyone deserved a second chance.
To show Malfoy—and everyone else—that he didn’t mind sitting next to him at all, Harry tried to not show any hesitatance as he walked over to his seat. He offered Malfoy a small smile in greeting. Everyone stared. The Boy Who Lived, their hero, sitting next to a Death Eater? If he put it like that, he kinda understood their confusion. But it wasn’t like that. It was just two boys—Draco and Harry.
Malfoy had been a Death Eater, yes, but he was also the boy who had written the letter Harry read every time his own thoughts felt too heavy to carry. Somehow a letter written by his "former enemy" gave him hope. So Harry didn’t just pretend he didn’t mind sitting next to him—he genuinely didn’t. If Harry was beeing honest, he was rather curios about Malfoy.
They didn’t talk for the first part of the lesson, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt natural rather than forced.
At one point, Harry got a little lost in thought and missed the page number they were supposed to read. Awkwardly, he flipped through his book, pretending to know what he was doing.
"Page 245," he heard a soft mumble to his left.
He looked at Malfoy, surprised that he’d noticed his distress.
"Th- Thanks."
The change in Malfoy’s voice was another thing Harry noticed. Once it had been a voice close to a snarl. Drippimg with arrogance and narcism. Now it was softer and steadier, as if he thought carefully before speaking. Harry decided he liked that.
After the lesson, before he could change his mind, he quickly said: "Bye, Malfoy"
It was the right thing to do, right? From one classmate to another. Anything else would have been weird, would'nt it?
Luckily Malfoy didnt seem to feel too akward. He turned to face him and the slightest hint of surprise flickered in his eyes.
It could have just been his imagination though, as he got an easy "goodbye Potter" back instantly.
Two days later,iweekend had finally arrived!
"Come on, guys, let’s go for a swim!" Hermione said excitedly.
So they packed their things and headed down to the lake. It was a wonderful day—sunny and warm—and all his friends were there. He had even thought to invite Dean and Seamus to join them, and just like that, they were all sitting by the lake, enjoying themselves.
Hermione and Ginny were having a water fight, Ron, Dean, and Luna were playing something that vaguely reminded Harry of Muggle beach volleyball, and Luna and Seamus were reading books.
So peaceful. So happy. So normal.
It was in moments like this that Harry thought he was getting better—that he was slowly overcoming the trauma.
"Come on, Harry, get in here! Don’t be boring!" Hermione called from the water. "I bet I’m a faster swimmer than you are."
She must have seen something in his eyes. She must have noticed he wasn’t really present in the moment. And so she called out to him, anchoring him back from the sea of thoughts.
He definitely wasn’t about to let that accusation stand, so he got up and waded into the water.
"Last one to reach the other beach pays for the next Hogsmeade trip!" he declared cheerfully, giving himself a head start.
"Wait! That’s unfair!" she yelled, already catching up.
She won. They laughed and swam back, grinning from ear to ear.
Yes, Harry thought. He could go back to normal again. He would.
What he didn’t know was that Draco Malfoy was watching them from far above, through a library window, a sad smile on his lips.