Chapter Text
Summer, 1998
It would have been the perfect summer, had it been any other year. Finally, there was no threat lurking overhead, no Dursleys to spit at him, no long lonely days missing friends. Harry was the freest he'd ever been. But alongside summer heat came grief too, a thick, swallowing smog. It settled over everything.
In the Burrow it was thickest; you could hear it in the whir of Fred's clock hand turning endlessly. He and Ginny escaped by flying circles over the wheat fields, sunrays hot against their backs as they spiraled higher and higher, until thin air stole away their voices. The house and everyone they loved shrank to only a speck on the ground, small enough to fit into a pocket. He'd stay up there forever if he could.
But the future loomed to a height he couldn’t outfly. Ron began inquiring about joining the Aurors. Everything was in order, but his brow would knit; in hushed tones, he'd mention: George hasn’t been keeping up with Diagon rent; George could use some help with the joke shop. Hermione was never seen without her sagging folder of bent-up pamphlets. They detailed everything from university programs to archaeological digs, muggle, magic—endless possibilities in every corner of the earth except for theirs.
Harry, still snagged on the inside, mostly listened. At the end of the night he’d trudge off to Bill’s old room and make a small effort with the amber sleeping draught jangling around in his trunk.
They expected one letter from Hogwarts and instead received four; McGonagall's offer of an Eighth Year quelled an anxiety lodged deep in Harry's chest. For one last time, he could return—home—to Hogwarts. Ginny squeezed his hand, ecstatic she wouldn’t be boarding the Express alone. Ron made his decision then, with the letter crushed in his fist. He promised to Floo-call often and visit on the weekends. Hermione sucked in her lip and shook her head; she’d already made commitments. Her sights were set far, far away.
The last few trials and funerals passed by quickly. Before he knew it, Hogwarts' silhouette was flying out from over the treeline, and the train window pressed coolly against his temple.
September, 1998
There was something off about Harry’s room. As McGonagall had outlined in her speech, the Eighth Years would live in doubles, each paired off with someone from a different House. He had been looking forward to meeting his new roommate, right up until he arrived at his door and noticed only his own initials stamped conspicuously on the right side of the plaque. The left side was empty.
He assessed the row of doors he’d just walked past. Everyone else's were filled out with a set of initials on either side.
His grip on the doorknob went tight with frustration, like the brass could be squeezed into a new shape. He hadn’t been expecting any trouble, not this year, but here he was—singled out, again. Sucking in a breath, he turned the doorknob and pushed.
The sight before him only intensified the uneasy feeling prickling under his skin.
In the room directly across from his, Dean Thomas and Anthony Goldstein were still settling in. Their space was modest; two beds and two desks sat opposite each other, one side furnished in linens lifted straight from the Gryffindor dormitories, while the other sported Ravenclaw blue. Mismatch of colors aside, it looked completely ordinary.
He looked back at his own, at the solitary bed and desk looking small in a half-hearted corner of red and gold. The rest of the room was uncannily blank, bleached of color and texture. It was like looking at an unfinished canvas. Warm brown flooring stretched out from under his feet and faded abruptly to featureless white. Without even a shadow to disrupt it, the emptiness felt like it could go on forever.
Harry shivered, thinking of a dream—of engulfing white and train tracks leading far away. A familiar cold hovered close to his shoulders.
He shook his head. No, it was just incomplete spellwork. Hogwarts was still healing; the rooms must have been hastily made. Someone had made a mistake.
At that moment, there was a quiet click of a lock. Harry noticed for the first time a door to his right. It looked odd—small, claustrophobic, and not quite matching up to size with the rest. The incongruency picked at his nerves. He was sure his room had been the last one in the hall. On the opposite side, next to Dean's room, there was no door to match.
Then he noticed the plaque. The initials DLM sat unassumingly in the center, with no space on either side for anyone else's.
--
McGonagall arrived at his door, waved her wand, and a lifetime of transfiguration expertise made the spell that filled his room with color seem effortless.
It didn’t matter; she still refused to tell him what was going on with Malfoy.
"As you have so astutely guessed, you and Mr. Malfoy were assigned roommates," she said, looking completely unapologetic. Then she waved her wand again, and Malfoy's door grew in size until it was the same as all the others—like it had always meant to be there. "By his request, he's been given his own room."
Harry clenched his jaw. “But, isn’t he—what about Azkaban?”
“He’s been given the same opportunity to return as everyone else.”
He rubbed a hand over his eyes, which had started to throb. “If anything, I'm the one who should be asking for him to be removed."
McGonagall raised a brow. "The matter is settled, Mr. Potter. Your new arrangements are more than satisfactory. You have the most space out of any of the other students in your year."
Harry didn’t care about space. He stared bitterly at Malfoy’s door and wished Ron and Hermione were beside him. "Why is he even here in the first place?"
"I'm afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. You’ll have to ask him himself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on the First Years."
--
He wasn’t the only one with questions. The next day when Malfoy turned up for breakfast in the Great Hall—alone, walking briskly to take a seat at the poorly-represented Slytherin table—the room lit up with exclamations. Malfoy avoided eye contact with everyone, but Harry could still sense a haughtiness to the lift of his chin. His trial had been the most controversial of the summer. He had been sentenced to Azkaban for a year. And yet, here he was, walking free, about to stick his pointy nose into the same breakfast as Harry’s.
“He’s gloating,” Harry muttered into his bacon. He felt the nearest eyes in the room swivel towards him.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “You were the one who fought for his sentence to be reduced. Stop pretending to be so upset about it.”
“That’s different. He’s just getting away with it now,” he said.
Malfoy’s original sentencing had been for five years. The day of the trial was memorably hot, the courtroom sweating with gawkers. Harry nursed a headache from a night of tossing and turning. It was tempting to bow out, and he almost did at several points throughout the day—he considered not getting out of bed, which would have been easy, not going to the Ministry, which would have been even easier. He considered never taking off his cloak, never walking up to the witness box, never opening his mouth. But he did it all anyway.
Because of Harry’s plea for lenience, Malfoy’s sentence was reduced down to a year.
A picture of Malfoy exiting along the front aisle of the courtroom, head-bowed past where Harry was seated, stayed on front pages for almost an entire week. In it, Malfoy's eyes flickered briefly to Harry's, and Harry stared back solemnly. The hollows in both of their faces flickered like candle fire. They gave each other a nod, and then the picture looped back to the beginning.
Ginny glanced from Harry to the end of his line of sight, where Malfoy was reaching for a second breakfast roll. “He’ll still have to serve his sentence once the year’s over, won’t he?”
The idea didn’t raise Harry’s spirits at all. “By that point, he’ll have figured out some other way to get out of it,” he said, and bit viciously into his own toast.
There was a commotion in the air as owls began to stream in over the tables. Harry wasn’t subscribed to any publications. Regardless, a large, tawny owl swerved overhead and dropped a colorful flutter of papers right on top of him.
“Sorry,” Dean said from across the table. “The Quibbler owls always miss.”
Harry pulled it off his head. He smoothed it out to put into Dean’s outstretched hand, but with a jolt his eyes snapped to the front page, which had an image of Malfoy at its center. It was an old picture, staged. Malfoy was in Slytherin robes, smirking sharply and looking incredibly young. Harry couldn’t remember Malfoy winning any trophies throughout his years at school, and yet Malfoy posed arrogantly in front of the trophy cabinet, as if all the prizes were his.
Malfoy Heir Gets Off Scot-Free! The headline read in bright, metallic lettering.
“You’re kidding me,” Ginny said, peering over his shoulder.
The subtitle beneath went on, Compassionate release motion wins unanimous approval by the Wizengamot.
Harry sat frozen, staring unblinkingly at the words. Eventually, Dean retracted his hand. “Well, go on. What does it say?”
He scanned the article. The pulse clambering in his ears dimmed the swell of chatter in the hall, but he could still hear sharp gasps and whispers cut through, peals of laughter here and there as well. He had no idea what everyone was talking about, but imagined that it all had to do with Malfoy.
The article didn’t say much. Three paragraphs down, and they were still describing who the Malfoys were. His eyes flitted back to that seat across the hall, but Malfoy was already nowhere to be seen.
“Harry?” Dean pressed.
“Compassionate release is a process by which an inmate petitions for immediate early release due to extraordinary circumstances,” he read aloud. There was, of course, no mention of what those extraordinary circumstances were.
It was hard not to wonder what it could mean. They had been so resistant to the idea of letting Malfoy off. They had wanted to make an example of him. What could be so dire that they’d allow the equivalent of a complete pardon? The pieces didn’t add up.
He stood up. “Does anyone get the Prophet? Maybe Skeeter will have more details.”
“Rita Skeeter? You hate her guts,” Ginny exclaimed, mid-chew.
Harry looked down the table, but there was not a Prophet in sight. It had fallen out of favor during the war, especially amongst Gryffindors. One aisle over at the Ravenclaw table, a few students had it in hand, but Malfoy was nowhere to be found on the cover at all. The Quibbler had beaten them to the story.
Dean spoke around the food in his mouth, “Seems fishy if you ask me. Reckon the Malfoys still have the Wizengamot in their pockets?”
“Unlikely,” Ginny said cheerfully. “But we’ll see. His parents are still awaiting trial.”
Harry turned the pages again, searching for more clues. Dean and Ginny began to chatter about their summer. Apparently Dean had been called as a witness to Malfoy’s trial, but Harry couldn’t remember him being there, or even whether his testimony had worked in Malfoy’s favor.
He looked around; everyone nearby had put away their mail. Not for the first time, he wished Ron and Hermione were there. They’d humor him; Hermione would instantly deduce something insightful from the article, and Ron would never fail to mention several of Malfoy’s many flaws, which would all somehow turn out to be relevant.
By the end of breakfast Harry’s plate of food was still mostly untouched. Dean looked pointedly between his copy of the Quibbler, now stained with greasy fingerprints, and Harry, and decided not to ask for the publication back. Instead he offered, “Maybe Luna could tell you about their source.”
“Oh right,” Harry said. Luna was a returnee, though only for the first half of the year. Harry didn’t know what she could possibly benefit from learning here, but he had been glad to see her yesterday, perched on one of the dusty armchairs in the Eighth Year common room. “Yeah, good point.”
“You could ask Malfoy himself too.”
Harry frowned, considering.
"Do that one. I’m sure it will go well," Ginny said, smirking. "Oh, come on, Harry. You need to stop taking this Malfoy thing so personally."
--
The courtroom was empty except for Draco, who sat stock-still at its center, chains snaked around his torso. His back was turned. Harry was alone in the gallery. He stood to his feet, and a chorus of shadows sprang up against every surface. He looked around, and his shadows looked with him.
The torchlights were out. His vision was greyscale, fuzzy with static. Draco was dressed entirely in white, glowing softly despite only slits of feeble light trickling in. He illuminated the room. Slowly, Harry and his shadows walked round to the front, eyes glued to Draco.
As he turned, Draco turned. No matter what, Harry couldn’t see more than the back of his head. He circled the room three times, but there was only the slumped plane of Draco’s back and that shock of silver hair, long enough now that the ends went past the tips of his ears.
There was a mirror hanging forgotten on the other wall with a glint that beckoned. Harry understood the puzzle at once—if he could just position himself correctly, he’d be able to catch Draco’s face in its reflection. He stepped carefully. The reflection warped as he inched closer and closer—that pointy nose came into view; then came the mole under Draco’s chin. Only a little more, and—
His body began to resist. A cold sweat broke out across his back. Legs buzzed with numbness; lungs struggled to expand. By the last few steps, his heart was squirming.
But he couldn’t let it go. Closer still he went, only to find the mirror was too high, too slanted. His fingers tightened over hawthorn—if he could just, he thought, could just…!—and abruptly the light weakened, plunging the room into cold and wet. Magic splintered out from him—snap went the wand—and with one screech the whole room buckled inside-out, crushing itself into a new shape; the mirror thrashed, swinging, flashing; bile shot up his throat and yes—there, that’s right, the reflection began to unwarp, settling upon…
“—Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice was deafening.
He gasped for air. Struggled against the growing pressure in his chest. Dead muck filled his nose. The forest earth scraped hard and icy against his face.
Harry woke up.
--
It was difficult to sleep. His nightmares grew sharper with each passing day. Whole mouthfuls of sleeping draught only brought them to him quicker. And then he was down to the last drop. His new room was airy and silent, a far cry from the safe smells of the Gryffindor Boys’ Dormitory. Charmed moonlight spread with uncanny smoothness across its walls. There were a few places the light skipped over, rough patches where the magic hadn’t set quite right. Harry spent a few nights counting them.
He found Luna early in the morning in the common room. The sun had not yet fully risen. She sat on one of the armchairs overlooking the window, slowly stirring her tea.
"Is this about Draco?" Luna said knowingly, in that tone of hers that always sounded like she was giving him more patience than he deserved. “Dean mentioned you were upset he returned.”
Harry grimaced. “Did he now.”
“Did that come as a surprise to you?”
“Er, yeah. Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask. Do you know the story behind his pardon?”
She looked at him, sort of. There was a period of silence. Harry saw her lips move, as if she was counting, before she took a careful sip of her tea. "It came as a surprise to me, too. He had such a horrible time last year. Of course, the Carrows didn't make it easy for any of us, but we had each other. Draco was very lonely. I didn’t think he’d want to be back."
"Lonely," Harry repeated incredulously. Malfoy had won Luna’s pity somehow, despite jailing her in his dungeon. His temple twinged. "How'd you tell, were there an odd number of Wrackspurts flying about?"
She peered at him over the top of her mug, through long lashes. “Not quite. Though there is an odd number about you right now.”
Reproach from Luna was rare. He winced. "Sorry. I’m just—didn’t get much sleep is all."
"It's alright," she said easily, though the instant forgiveness only made Harry feel worse. "Unfortunately, I can't tell you more about his compassionate release. It's not for me to say. Besides, Draco is a very good conversationalist. He’d probably explain it better than me."
"So I should just ask him," Harry said, sighing. “Yeah, alright. He’s been avoiding everyone ever since the article came out, though.”
Luna gave him a pleasant smile, one that was a little too wide for her mouth. "We both know that's never stopped you before."
--
People began to talk. Harry didn’t lend much credence to rumors, considering how much they got wrong about him over the years. But Malfoy’s presence at Hogwarts sent the mill spinning out of control. The consensus was it was wholly unacceptable for Malfoy to be sitting in classes instead of a prison cell. This blend of outrage and mystique transmuted into an insatiable need for the truth. Everyone wanted to know how Malfoy had gotten away with it.
They ran through the usual contenders. Bribery in its many forms—money, renown, favors, sexual favors. Blackmail, Imperius, Polyjuice. Obscure laws, hired assassins. Secret marriage to Kingsley. Harry prickled at every mention, but it became his tether nonetheless; without it, he could hardly keep his eyes open. The sharp whisper of Malfoy’s name was as effective as cold water over his head. It didn't matter what rubbish was circulating. He might as well have been a fly circling spoilt meat.
Half of it didn’t make sense. If even Harry’s argument—his public plea—had only managed a reduction, what could secure a full pardon? The Malfoys didn’t have the influence anymore.
He had his own theories. Sickness was still the most likely explanation. But even lycanthropy wasn’t exempt—Greyback’s pack had been caught and thrown behind cell bars without a second thought—and Harry had trouble thinking of a more life-altering disease.
No, it had to be deadly—a blood disease, a soul curse, some horrible fucked up pureblood thing, chewing up Malfoy’s lifespan. Maybe he was—
“Dying from a broken heart,” a student whispered conspiratorially. Harry jerked awake. Malfoy was late for class. “Love-me-not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
Midway through Slughorn’s lecture, Malfoy took the seat at the very back of the room. Several people cast sympathetic looks towards him. There was a faint smirk on his face. Harry’s eyes burned from the effort it took to glare that far behind him. Malfoy looked a bit gaunt about his cheeks, but was otherwise every bit the healthy git the last time Harry checked.
For a brief flash their eyes met. Or had Harry imagined it? He blinked. Malfoy had dropped his head to his textbook. One corner of his mouth was quirked up. He licked his finger and turned the page.
For the remainder of class, a phantom feeling rested against Harry’s nape—the weight of a stare, tempting him to touch. He itched the spot until it was red and burning.
--
After the fourth straight night of fitful sleep, Ginny caught Harry nearly dozing off face first into his breakfast beans. He managed to laugh it off. She mimed the motion and everyone smiled into their toast.
Then her grin vanished. Harry hated how she could turn it on and off like that. "When's the last time you got any sleep?"
"A couple hours last night," he said, not exactly lying. Being awake and being asleep was almost the same when he was laying as still as a stone in the dark. There was no point in checking the time; it wasn’t as if counting up all the minutes wasted would help. Sometimes, the Tempus didn’t even fire.
"Well, you can forget about flying later today. You’ll fall off your broom as it is."
Harry bristled. "Give me a break—that's not going to happen."
"Skip your classes then," she pressed. "No point in going if you're just going to pass out the moment Slughorn opens his mouth."
“I’m fine.”
She looked at him then without a shred of pity. “What you are,” she said, “is a liar. Go ask Pomfrey for more sleeping potions. I got some yesterday, and they help. But don’t overdo it. It can make you reliant.”
He gave a non-committal grunt, and took a large bite of food even though he wasn’t hungry.
By the time he made it to the Advanced Potions II classroom, the desire to sleep had closed over his head like a vice. Every step he took drove a nail up the side of his head. The ringing in his ears was so loud he could feel it grate against his teeth. He rubbed desperately at his eyes. Several people shuffled by him before he noticed he was at a dead stop in the doorway.
He wanted to collapse. Any seat would do. But as soon as he brought his gaze up to consider the chairs and desks in front of him, a nonsensical worry gripped his whole being—that if he gave in now, that would be the end of it. Something crucially running would fail. He’d fall apart right on the spot, and when they tried to put him together again, there’d be whole pieces missing.
Overcome, he fumbled a few steps backwards. The bones in his chest, hollow and brittle, shook with every thud of his heart.
"Harry?" Slughorn's voice sounded like it was coming from under the Great Lake. "You alright there?"
He took a fortifying breath. "I need to—"
Then he saw it. There was a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, behind Slughorn’s podium. Silver flashed in its reflection before Harry turned away.
He needed to get out of there. With a gesture that he hoped communicated enough meaning, he stumbled blindly back out the door. The students' waterlogged murmurs and Slughorn's distant, warbly sound of concern cut off abruptly when the classroom door creaked shut behind him. Finally, silence. He walked unsteadily, looking at his hands, at the ground, then up at the light glowing strangely through the windows. Ginny was right, there was no way he could make it through a lecture.
He had started back down the set of stairs towards the Eighth Year common room, focusing mostly on putting one foot in front of the other, when he saw Malfoy coming up the other side, pale hair a curtain over his eyes. Instantly he knew there was something wrong. Harry stared, blinking, trying to conjure back what it was he needed to ask Malfoy. He had the distant notion that it was important.
Malfoy was short of breath. He slowed to a stop a bit before Harry, grip on the railing knuckle-white. Harry didn’t dare move. Malfoy held one hand to his chest, his thumb moving in soothing circular motions over his own sternum. Rattling breaths quieted down to a wheeze. Malfoy’s forehead glistened with sweat.
Compassionate release, Harry suddenly recalled, and a rush of blood thrummed around the tightness in his skull. He moved to the opposite side of the stairs, blocking Malfoy's path. Malfoy finally saw him then. He tried to move past, but Harry stepped in place with him. His pale face flickered quickly from shock to fury.
"Malfoy," Harry said, swaying.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Malfoy whispered. "Get out of my way!"
"No—Calm down," he said, frowning, and reached out to grab at Malfoy's shirt. "I just—I've got to ask you something."
Malfoy moved smoothly out of reach, just a single step back down. Harry's fingers swiped at nothing. A hot indignation spread through Harry's chest. He clenched his fist. It was infuriating, really, the effortless manner in which Malfoy could become scared. His body tensed like he was about to bolt.
"Would you just—" And Harry reached out again to grip Malfoy's arm—to hold the flighty bastard in place, was the idea. Malfoy took another step back. Just like that, Harry's stomach swooped. His reflexes were as dead as his legs. With a helpless lurch he began to plummet head-on towards the look of utter bewilderment on Malfoy's face. It was a slow fall; he even had enough time to find the whole thing extremely funny, to be accidentally dropping into Malfoy's rigid, unwelcoming arms, of all things.
Then Malfoy took one additional step back, and Harry hit the stone.