Chapter Text
It seemed the steady shift to Autumn had halted temporarily just to celebrate the second weekend at Hogwarts, rays of sunlight piercing through periodic clouds to shine down on the group of friends, all of which were sprawled out in various states of comfort on the rolling green grass of the Hogwarts grounds. It was serene, completely at odds to the violent battle that had raged on across these very stretches of ground just a couple months ago, but as Harry Potter idly watched the banners of the repaired Quidditch stands flutter in a gentle breeze, he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on that on a pleasant afternoon such as this, when it haunted his dreams every night regardless.
Lying around him, most of them in similar states of relaxation and thought, were the remains of Dumbledores Army, the defacto defenders of Hogwarts now reduced once again to ambling students. Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were lying next to each other on the bank, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan had thrown an arm over their eyes and seemed to be napping, light snores coming from the latter’s mouth as he lounged in the sun. The only person who wasn’t relaxing, it seemed, was Hermione Granger, who despite having her head propped up on Ron Weasleys stomach, was flipping idly through a book. Though, Harry supposed, that probably was how Hermione let off steam. Ron was acting as some sort of pillow for his two closest friends, Harry’s head resting his head on his legs, the redheaded boy contentedly watching clouds pass by. Despite the smell of freshly cut grass, and the tweeting of birds coming from the very outskirts of the forest a few dozen meters away, Harry couldn’t tear his mind from a singular name; Draco Malfoy.
And so, it was with that blasted name on his lips that he rolled over, making eye contact with Hermione.
“Somethings up with Malfoy.” Said Harry, and Hermione slid her book shut, closing her eyes for a split second as if gathering strength before turning back to Harry with the sort of expression you would hold when indulging a child. Harry, picking up on this, shot her a scowl, crossing his arms from his horizontal position, making a smile tug the corner of Hermione’s mouth upwards.
“I’m serious!” Harry muttered, expression a little cloudy, before it cleared again at Hermione’s now earnestly attentive expression. “I’ve seen him walking around, whispering stuff in Nott and Zabini’s ears with this little smug smile. And, on Monday, Zabini lied about shooting that water at Malfoy, when we got out of the carriages, and that night I saw him creeping out of my dorm room, looking all weird and thoughtful.”
Ron let out a little groan while sitting up, unceremoniously pushing his two wild-haired bestfriends onto the grass as he shifted into a sitting position to better see Harry. Hermione adjusted accordingly, and the golden trio sat in a circle, one blazing with suspicion, the other two thoughtful. After a moment of silence, Harry turned to his best mate.
“I mean, you room with him Ron. Wouldn’t you say he’s been acting… suspicious?” Harry said, turning to face the redhead, who had adopted a slight deer-in-headlights expression.
“Dunno… If by suspicious you mean eternally about to curse Zabini, then yeah.” Was Ron's hesitant answer, and Harry looked triumphant, nodding absently as if that information made a world of sense.
“Zabini! I knew it!” Harry crowed, and Ron shot him a mildly concerned look.
“Harry, mate… not that I like Malfoy, but you’re not about to have a repeat of sixth year are you? Following him under the cloak and that?” Ron said cautiously, holding his hands up in defense at the look Harry shot him. “I get it, I get it, you were right last time I haven’t forgotten! It’s just, Malfoys been surprisingly decent about the dorm situation, and if you get my bollocks hexed off in the middle of the night, you’ll have Hermione to answer to.”
The last sentence was met by a squawk from Hermione, and a light shove from the blushing girl with an angry “Ronald!”, causing Ron to grin sheepishly. Harry flashed a brief half smile at the antics before placing his hand under his chin, not particularly reassured by Ron’s wisdom- something his two friends noticed, shooting each other glances. Ron thought for a moment, hard, hand idly tearing at the grass to his left, head cocked to the side.
“He did come back the other day, just in time for curfew, and he looked awfully pleased about something. Laughing, and all that.” Ron mused, offering the tidbit of information which Harry took with renewed gusto, pulled out of his rejected slump by some form of evidence supporting his theory.
“See! That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about!” Harry supplied, eyes alight as he tried to make sense of the scraps of information he’d gathered. Hermione, who’d just about recovered from her fit of Ron-induced embarrassment, looked dubious at that, and spoke for the first time in the conversation.
“Harry, you don’t suppose you’re making new problems, just to fix them? None of us like Malfoy, especially you two,” She made a half gesture towards Ron and Harry, before lifting the hand to absently tuck a stray strand of curly hair behind her ear, “But it doesn’t seem fair to go around accusing him of things when he’s not provoking us. Him and his friends have been doing a good job of ignoring us. Even if they are up to something,” She said, with a half nod towards Harry, “We have to trust the teachers will sort it out. That’s not our responsibility anymore.”
There was a hidden plea in the words, a wish of peace for her wild-haired friend. The Chosen One grew up eternally caught in War, and now that it had passed, the remnants of it raged on inside him, this shining sense of duty and responsibility carving a vigilance in the orphaned boy that made his angry eyes shine all the more brightly as he turned them on Hermione, forest green meeting hazel brown.
“I can’t believe this, ‘Mione.” Harry spoke hotly, but without aggression. “You don’t trust my gut.”
Hermione sighed, leaning forward to rest a hand on Harry’s own, willing the care she felt to show in her eyes. “Of course I do. It’s just, I know your mind too. And really, after 7 years and a War, you might start trusting my judgement a little too.” The last sentence was muttered, a hint of her bossiness breaking a smile across the doubtful planes of Harrys face, finally caving to the warmth of his friends. After a pause, Ron leaned forward, freckley hands clasped in his lap as he looked side to side conspiratorially.
“I think if we should be concerned about anyone, Harry, it’s Neville.” Ron murmured, mindful of the nearby figures sprawled across the ground. He elaborated, a look of disbelief laced with mild disgust crossing his pale features. “Just the other day, he was telling me Zabini’s ‘alright.’ He’s clearly gone loopy.”
“Zabini?” Harry responded, crinkling his nose as if smelling something unpleasant. Hermione cocked her head, seeming far more open to discussing this new topic, book forgotten in the grass next to her.
“Yeah. There we were, typical Thursday night, having a piss about in Nev’s bed when Zabini walks in, complaining about the air quality of the grounds or some nonsense. When the tosser finally deigns to leave, Nev starts agreeing with him, going on about how the excess oxygen is awful for the Fangy German Aliens or some bollocks.” Ron shared, actions becoming gradually more animated as he spoke.
“Fanged Germanium’s.” Hermione supplied, amusement and a suppressed smile crinkling the corners of her brown eyes.
“Right, right, those.” Rom amended, placing a hand on Hermiones knee with a quick smile. “And when I asked if he didn’t find it a little smarmy to come storming in talking to yourself while changing and banging draws about, Nev goes all pink ‘n quiet and starts mumbling about Blessed Zabini’s herbological gifts and his supposedly friendly disposition and Professor bloody Sprout. I reckon he’s more of a threat then Malfoy, mate, he’s converting our friends to the enemy!”
Harry’s newly placid expression seemed to darken at that, and he sighed, a little wanly. “Nev’s a lost cause for anything herbology, no doubt something Zabini’s weaselled out of someone to use to his advantage. How’s Parkinson, ‘Mione?” The mention of Hermione’s dormmate seemed to catch the attention of Ron as well, who despite previously voicing the fear of a nighttime revenge assualt on his genitalia, would have been willing to take the risk against a pack of snakes (if not quite spiders) to come to his girlfriends aid at any time.
“She’s… very her. It’s a wonder all her clothes fit into her wardrobe, and she gets a bit snappy if her hair or outfit aren’t coming along quite as she wants it to, but otherwise she’s alright. Maybe a little quiet.” Hermione commented, her even and calm voice showing her disproval of the tactical arsenal of evidence the two Gryffindor boys were attempting to scrape together against the Slytherin eighth years. “I still think they’re all a bit rattled and flighty- you know, out of place. And if you don’t mind me saying, Harry,” - from the look on her face, Harry could already tell he very much would - “I think you should stop cornering them all the time. If you leave well enough alone, it’ll be easier to see if they really are doing something, or if you’re just a little… keyed up.”
That was more then enough to put that dreaded moody look back on his tan complexion, and with a huff, Harry laid back on the grass, late summer pollen settling like fireflies in the dark strand as he flicked them out with minor irritation.
-- -- --
The letter from Draco’s mother arrived with greater haste then that of the Ministry’s, only taking a week before it was swooped in and neatly deposited on his lap during a particularly dreary breakfast in the Great Hall half-way into the first term. It had seemed a couple second years had done Fred and George unknown due diligence and dropped a couple dozen stink bombs into the library, the stench of which infiltrated the nearby Bell Tower with ease and woke half the dormitory occupants with streaming eyes and short gasps for untainted air. Headmistress (Draco had got the hang of that now) McGonagall was pointedly absent from the high table, and a rumour had been spreading that a devastated Madame Pince had been rushed to the infirmary in fits of tears and hysteria, calling to the heavens above for protection on her most prized hard-covers that had been in the direct line of fire. While the lower school seemed to find this catastrophic early morning intensely hilarious, random fits of giggles startling passing ghosts as they ambled between tables, the bleary eyed eighth years were struggling to find the humour in being awoken to a truly ungodly smell before sunrise- and as such it was in a total, absolute mood that Draco gently petted the head of Auriga, his mothers owl, before peeling the wax Malfoy seal from the heavy white paper envelope.
Once he freed the paper and discarded it’s cover and stamp alike onto his now empty plate, he scanned it without much enthusiasm. It was as he expected- his mother had received no word from the Ministry in regards to his heirship or proxy-ship, and despite her incredibly delicate tone, he picked up on more then a hint of surprise at his line of inquiry. He read on to her pleasantries, asking how school was going, if he was happy to be back, how Pansy was (‘Nice try, Mother’ thought Draco)- and ultimately, it contained very little of anything at all. It was nice, he would admit, to hear from her. He had been a little worried how she would be fairing alone in the huge mansion with both the male heirs absent, although his mother had never been one to let adverse circumstance kill her spirit. In the time he took to read the letter, Theo had taken up a rather annoying tap-tap-tap motion on his shoulder, each poke harder then the last- inciting Draco to take a moment to consider whether or not his best friends Patronus was in fact a woodpecker- until Draco eventually handed the letter over.
“Nothing useful.” Draco spoke gloomily, one of his hands absently smoothing down silky, alabaster hair as he glanced lazily around the hall with a yawn. It truly was a dreary one today, clouds hovering ominously above the eating students and the smell of damp leaves and robes permeating the air even through the smell of cooked breakfast in a way that had him rather tempted to trail away to the dorms and climb back into bed, even with the allure of potions next. It truly was one of his better subjects- even if it was Slughorn bumbling around at the blackboard and slipping business cards surreptitiously under tables to choice students in place of his late godfathers formidable command of the classroom. Potions was a class in high demand among the eighth years, and as such there were multiple classes- potions was one he shared with Theo and Blaise, and not many others of particular interest, although when he was feeling glum he could always count on the also present Longbottom butchering a potion in a delightfully ridiculous and improbable way to cheer him up. Why he’d kept the class Draco had no idea- but it was fair to assume it wasn’t by choice from the chagrined look he entered and left the dungeon with after every hour-and-a-half period. In fact, Draco had a suspicion the boy was starting to miss Snape’s icy remarks in face of Slughorn’s constant fawning that left him red faced and flustered (‘Now, to behead a snake like that is no small feat, dear boy! I know just the man who could put that talent to lucrative use, oh yes-’), something with catastrophic results on his already tentative potion making competency.
And indeed, Draco was satisfied an hour later as he gently stirred at a simmering potion, with Blaise precariously perched on the edge of the desk as Theo scribbled notes for the practical, as Longbottom had managed to make the crystal blue concoction an aggressive, steaming grey that was shouting profanity at both a blushing Neville and a frowning Slughorn. Draco was distracted when Blaise leaned over to conspiratorially speak with the two boys in his group.
“Pansy’s quite fit, isn’t she?” Spoke Blaise, and Draco’s cool grey eyes slid over to the handsome eighth year as Theo made a grumbling noise under his breath as the scratching of his quill sped up.
“I suppose.” Came Draco’s reply, a slow drawl not unlike the tone he’d perfected prior to the War, an eyebrow cocked in an elegant, dismissive fashion. Blaise, as always, was not deterred.
“I’m thinking of putting my moves on her. That alright with you?” Blaise asked, leaning a little further forward with his elbows on his knees, looking the very picture of a schoolboy heartthrob, dark skin glowing and glossy in the lanterns hanging from the dungeon-turned-potion-lab’s ceiling. Theo’s quill had stopped scratching at the question, and Draco shot him a chastising look as the nosy little bugger peeked up from behind his parchment to observe the conversation.
“Why wouldn’t it be alright?” Draco wondered aloud, that same cool tone in his voice. It wasn’t that he minded- Pansy was far more likely to give him a severe migraine then a raging hard on- but more that Blaise seemed to think he would mind. He could hazard a guess at why, but it was old, old news, and he was unpleasantly surprised by Blaise confirming Draco’s suspected thoughts.
“Well-” Blaise began, shifting uncomfortably for a moment before regaining his composure with a twitch of his legs and a stretch of his arms. “I know you two had a bit of a thing, a few years back. And I don’t want to piss off your mother if she has her hopes on rekindling.” The thought had Draco completely stilling, as if Blaise’s words had been a direct threat. As if Draco would ever allow that to happen. Mother could sulk and stare wistfully and pointedly at all the little children dashing around with their grandmothers as she pleased- he had no intention any time soon of finding someone, not that anyone would be interested on kissing him at present moment. Perhaps hexing him, and he wasn’t particularly into that scene, thank you very much.
“Yes, a few years back. You can do as you like, I have no more feelings on it then Theo.” Replied Draco after a pause to swallow his disgust, which was perhaps a poor comparison, as Theo did seem rather interested in the whole affair. For a boy who was supposedly such an introvert, he really could be incredibly nosy when it came down to it. Blaise seemed satisfied at that answer, before looking down in an alarmed fashion at the potion Draco had absently stopped stirring, which was beginning to mutter under it’s breath (steam?) in a vaguely threatening manner. Theo came to the rescue almost immediately, snatching up the ladle from Draco and stirring it complacently until it soothed and silenced, returning to the unclouded blue the textbook had specified. And, much to Draco’s chagrin, Blaise was now looking over at Longbottom with raised eyebrows, who had noticed the start of his own conundrum brewing in their own potion, and was sending a mildly companionable look to the handsome ex-Slytherin boy while his potion continued to curse and bubble under Slughorn’s attempts to salvage it. Draco made like Theo and returned to actual participation in the practical, deciding he’d been disturbed enough for one potions lesson, thank you very much, and as per usual Blaise was the reason for his torment. How the boy had made so much progress in befriending Longbottom in four weeks was a complete mystery, and Draco was more then happy to sit this particular one out.
--- --- ---
Later that next evening, while Draco was scrawling a response to his mother in elegant script when the signature, a hollow sounding tapping of an owl at the window disturbed him. He rose to his feet, casting the snoring Weasley in his bed sprawled unbecomingly with the curtains wide open no more then a cursory glance before discarding his quill beside the half-empty sheet of paper he had been working on, unlatching the circular window to allow the owl in. Once it had hopped in and flown to sit right on his letter, smudging the still drying ink, it deposited it’s letter with perhaps the dirtiest look Draco had ever encountered from an owl. With no treats to offer the temperamental creature, Draco gingerly picked up the yellow parchment, leaving the window open for when the owl chose to depart. It had the ministry’s official seal, a cursive double ‘M’ with intricate outer patterns, and suddenly the ex-death eater was filled with dread at the prospects of opening it. ‘This is a task far better quipped for Theo’ was the resounding conclusion in Draco’s mind, and as such he departed the dorm filled with a certain ginger’s snores to venture over to Dorm 3, neglecting to knock before entering with a perturbed expression. Theo’s bed was empty, curtains wide, but the same could not be said for the bed of one Harry Potter, which held the wild haired boy working his way through a ‘Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans’ assortment. It was a rare moment to catch the hero of Wizard kind out of sorts, and he managed to inelegantly gawp at Draco through whatever flavour was gracing his tastebuds at given moment, shifting the carton from it’s precarious position on his chest to his side as he sat up on his elbows on the double postered bed.
'“Whaddyou want?” Spoke Potter, and Draco grimaced at the sheer inetiquette of speaking through blue flecks of what could only be the toothpaste-or-blueberry flavoured variety of the sweets. Draco performed a particularly demeaning Severus-like swish of his cloak, and a rather impressive scowl before responding in a haughty tone.
“Have you seen Theo?” Draco asked snidely, glancing around the dorm as if the Nott boy would materialise in one of the corners at summon. Potter slowly shook his head, and his alarmingly intense green eyes drifted from Draco’s face to the letter clutched in his grasp before narrowing. As much progress in pleasantries as Blaise seemed to have made with Longbottom, the same could not be said for Draco and Potter, unless it was spoken by a madman, who’s opinion surely would merit no more then a complacent nod and a gentle escort back to his Mungo’s room. It was at that very moment the Nott in question walked in with several books in hand, expression brightening at the sight of his friend, and Draco shot him a relieved half-smile that was observed keenly by the still bedbound Potter. The silence was a little off-putting, and as such Draco chose to break it with the unnecessary statement of- “Letter, Theo.”- before he was ushered into Theo’s own bed, the curtains closed and warded with a quick flick of the brunettes wand, obscuring Potters squinting face and decidedly peppermint aroma from view for good.