Chapter Text
Out of all indignities that could possibly befall one disgraced Draco Lucius Malfoy, he had not expected this.
Kings Cross looked much the same as it always did, disturbingly full of muggles and great metal trains that had none of the comforting warmth of the Hogwarts steam train, little orange-and-white cards brandished by members of the muggle public who streamed past him like an endless river, surging and stopping with no pattern under Dracos gaze, and he hoped (pointlessly) that one of the blubbering simpletons would somehow dislodge the sturdy figure who held his arm in a vice-like grip.
Auror Robards seemed incredibly determined in his assignment of accompanying one Draco Malfoy to Hogwarts, as evidenced by the white-knuckled grip he sported on Dracos upper right arm as he led the ex-death eater through platforms one through seven. Draco didn’t know why he’d expected to be allowed to brave Kings Cross and platform 9 and ¾ alone, but any optimism he’d subconsciously held had been utterly dashed at the sight of the Head Auror at the entrance of Malfoy Manor, refusing his mother’s invitations inside and looking for all the world as if some sort of demon was waiting to spring at him from the interior of the massive countryside mansion. Which, Draco supposed grimly, would have been the case less a few months ago.
And so, here they were, Auror bloody Robards and his insulting ponytail hovering grimly by Dracos side as the hidden entrance of the magical platform waited in front of them, Dracos already searched luggage shrunken by magic in his trouser pocket as he awaited some sort of instruction to proceed through the magical barrier, but the grip on his arm remained, even as Draco looked questioningly over at the auror, head held high with a pride he did not feel.
“So?”, He asked, turning his head towards the auror with a protective mask of disdain pulled over his features. The auror dropped his arm with an expression like he’d rather like to wipe his hand on his robe, eyes heavy with suspicion and dislike before a professional exterior of indifference settled on his rather angular, lined face.
“I’m to watch you walk through, Mr. Malfoy. That’s as far as my duties extend here. The anti-apparition wards surrounding the platform negate the need for further accompaniment.”
The display of calm authority was somewhat disrupted by a sneer when enunciating Dracos title, but was otherwise dismissive. Not wanting to spend a second more under the oppressive gaze of the auror, who truthfully had all the reasons in the world to mistrust him, Draco Malfoy stepped through the barrier with not so much as a nod of acknowledgement.
The sight awaiting him on the other side of the barrier was overwhelming in a completely different way to when he was 11, entering the mass for the first time.
You have to do this, Draco reminded himself desperately. You are Draco Lucius Malfoy, you will suffer your consequences and you have to do this.
The platform was busier then ever before, with the returning eighth year students interspersed among the younger years, and seemed to hold the vibrancy of victory as a gleaming shield, and in response, the gloom surrounding Draco seeming to draw tighter around himself at the sight of the smiling, laughing faces, unaware of who’d just entered their midst, looking all for the world like the war was some distant memory. Maybe for some people it already was. Subconsciously, Draco's hand left his side to tug down his left sleeve.
It was with an air of extreme arsiness that he strode aboard the train, infinite affirmations playing on loop on his head as his feet carried him down to the very end of the train and into an empty carriage, purposefully ignoring any and all looks thrown his way by fellow students and adults alike as he repeated his mantra until safely in the confines of the plush compartment, drawing the blinds closed and leaning into his seat with the heavy sigh of a condemned man, pulling out his wand to aimlessly fidget with as the school year to come loomed before him, feeling him with the lead of anticipation.
He found himself wrapped in a blanket of self-pity, and chose to indugle in his selfish complaints within the safety of his compartment, which remained blissfully empty as the time drew closer and closer to 9AM.
An eighth year at Hogwarts? Draco didn’t think he’d heard anything more stupid in his life. And certainly, in the ministry administered room with one of the few lawyers willing to work his case, he’d shared the same sentiment when it was revealed he would have to return, on the terms of his probation. It was one of the few times indignation had broken through his public shell of cold pride, and it seemed to startle his (useless) lawyer just as much as it startled him.
Not only would he have to suffer through public speculation at the vicious hands of the Daily Prophets that would invariably be passed around every morning, he’d have to do it surrounded by people who wanted him dead, and likely would take a shot, given half a chance. Meanwhile, Potter could bask in his seemingly infinite hordes of admiration, surrounded by a school who viewed him like some walking legend, showered in gifts and flowers and presents and-
Yes, Draco was rather sure that somehow, Potter could be blamed for a good portion of what he was going through at this moment, and whether that was rational or not could simply be discussed some other time. Looking down at the wand he’d been twirling in his hands evoked a similar sentiment of anger at the Saviour of the Wizarding World, remembering the controlled, silent way Potter had handed him his wand, outside the trial he defended Draco at, striding off without so much as a by-your-leave, scruffy muggle clothes and his notoriously unkempt hair disappearing down the corridor before Draco even had the opportunity to consider some sort of parting statement.
Although, he supposed, he had plenty of time to formulate something suitable to say now that he’d have a whole year with the prat.
He was interrupted from his brooding (which had honestly just been getting started) by the rattle of the train compartment door, unceremoniously dragged open to reveal none other then Blaise Zabini, who wordlessly flopped opposite Draco with a sense of absolute confidence and comfort in his decision to join a boy who was essentially a pariah, levitating his suitcase to fit neatly in the luggage rack above Dracos startled head in one fluid motion.
“Blaise?” Draco asked incredulously, sitting up a bit straighter, eyes widening marginally in disbelief.
And where Draco had been dramatic, Blaise had always been infuriatingly blasé, so of course he would respond, mockingly adopting the same shocked tone in a parody of Dracos response.
“Draco?”
“Why- What are you doing?” Draco demanded, leaning forward as the natural defence of anger coloured his pale features.
Of course he was angry. He was angry at a million and one things, and the pained, martyr-ish expression Blaises handsome features had adopted at Dracos questioning was not helping one iota.
He’s not entirely sure why he’d expected to be completely and utterly alone for his final year of schooling. Perhaps his mind chose to avoid the incredibly complicated feelings he held about his lifelong friends in light of the war, but he knew it would be less complicated to extract himself entirely. For one, it would be easier to contain himself and keep up the quiet, scholarly impression he wished to make in the eighth year if he could separate himself from socialisation. And secondly, he hadn’t expected any of his old friends (was that even accurate? could he really call them that?) to be desperate to reband their little Slytherin group with his seemingly endless fall from grace, not to mention their own societal shunning as a reflection of both their house and unique roles on the wrong side of the war.
“What does it look like i’m doing, Malfoy?” Blaise retorted, that infuriating, all-suffering expression still twisting his features as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, leaving Draco practically vibrating in his seat with irritation already at the show of infinite martyrdom.
“I don’t want your company.” Draco supplied in a valiant effort to be cutting, but even to his own ears he sounded ridiculous. What an unfortunate time to be blessed with the gifts of self-awareness, Draco thought bitterly, taking a breath to calm himself and leaning further back in his seat in an attempt to trick his fragile mind into a sense of confidence.
“Perhaps I want yours. I’m hardly going to be welcomed by the Hufflepuffs next door am I?” Blaise responded, raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes to meet Dracos stare with a strange expression of exasperation.
Draco found himself at a loss of what to say, but was spared by the train jerking forward, starting what was surely going to be an infinite journey to the Scottish Highlands. He wondered idly which of the other Slytherins would choose to return, bar Vince, and subsequently Greg, who he heard would be moving abroad. Shit, now was not the time to travel down that route of thought. He was drawn out of his own mind at the sight of Blaise reaching over to open the blinds again, now that they were free from the confines of the crowded station, and he was struck by the normalcy of the British countryside flitting past in a blur of green and blue, filling the carriage with adequate light to examine Blaise in.
All the changes were subtle, but undoubtably recognizable to an individual who had undergone similar changes himself. Blaise Zabini was still dressed in his smart, expensive way (Draco rather thought the world would end before he saw an untastefully untidy Blaise in the public sphere) but the clothes were more understated, sported by an individual who didn’t wish to stand out in a crowd. He was, unfortunately for his cause of anonymity in crowds, still rather handsome, hair trimmed short to show off an angular jawline, sharper then before, perhaps adding to the boys rogueish appeal, but to Draco it spoke of a stress-stifled appetite and the months of uncertainty he had surely faced in the summer.
“Have you seen the others?” Draco asked before he could stop himself, both dreading and oddly hopeful simultaneously, which the boy opposite him took as the olive branch of a conversation.
“Not yet. They should be here somewhere, though. I’m sure they’ll show up eventually. They must’ve come as late, if not later then I did. And on that note, where’s your luggage?”
“In my pocket.” Draco responded tersely, feeling a little annoyed at himself for the pathetic question that had escaped him before his better judgement could stifle it. Standing while pulling the miniature version of his luggage out of the depths of the pockets of his slacks, he set it on the luggage rack above Blaises head, uttering a simple Engorgio to restore his case to full size, subsequently making the rack groan under the sudden weight. Blaise shot a look up at it worriedly, clearly not feeling as compelled to be crushed by a falling luggage rack as Malfoy was at this moment.
Apon sitting again at his window seat, he was subjected to one of Blaises critical stares, his intelligent eyes scanning Dracos face and somehow catching the slight shimmer of a Glamour cast under Dracos eyes, an attempt to fix the evidence of a poor nights sleep.
“You would think,” Blaise began, suppressing a smirk, “Someone who spends so much time preening over his appearance in the mirror would cast better Glamours. Especially for his first major public appearance in two months. I wouldn't want to outshine you too drastically, Draco.”
Without a word of warning, Blaises wand was brandished in his face, silently removing the Glamours from under his eyes as Draco felt the sticky-honey feeling of a poorly cast glamour leave his face, just as the carriage door was unceremoniously thrust open once again, startling both the occupants inside.
“Draco you look awful, but Blaise that is truly no reason to hex him. You’re bound to make it worse.”
This was the opening remark of one Pansy Parkinson as she collapsed into the seat next to Blaise, seemingly unsurprised at the position the two boys had found themselves in, Blaise’s wand still held motionless at Dracos face from the shock of the intrusion, at serious risk of poking him in the eye at any moment. Blaise recovered in record speed, as was typical for him, and, with the dramatic sort of eye roll usually reserved for Theo, he cast the Glamours at his companions face, leaving a pleasant, cool sensation under Dracos eyes, drastically better then his own shoddy attempt this morning in the mirror of his bathroom. Pansy sat forward and tilted her head thoughtfully, eying Dracos face up with careful consideration as Draco sat still, irrationally expecting some sort of confrontation. About what, he wasn’t entirely sure.
“Yes, that’s much better. Blaise, Who knew you’d be so adept at Glamour charms?” Pansy mused, a playful glint in her eye.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying i’m not all natural?” Blaise gasped, a hand flying to his chest in mock horror as Pansy turned her body towards him, a retort ready on her razor sharp tongue.
The two of them readily entered some superficial argument, the likes of which they’d subjected their whole compartment to yearly, like some sort of irritating tradition, but it felt so out of place to Draco now that it shocked him derisively into silence.
In truth, Draco Malfoy felt he was going insane. At least Blaise had the grace to acknowledge the differing circumstances of the year, albeit incredibly annoyingly, but Pansy seemed to be unforthcoming on this front. His life had changed so drastically since the last time he’d seen his friends that this sudden push into normality had him feeling almost indignant. He’d expected awkwardness, silence, the disband of the self proclaimed group of ‘Slytherins Best’ out of shame and disgrace, but instead he was being confronted by the sight of Pansy, in all her showy, leggy glory, mouthing off at Blaise, as per (the old) usual.
It was so unnerving that Draco could do nothing but watch silently, lips twisted into a grim line as he tried to shake the feeling he was an imposter, not only at the school full of bloody courageous Gryffindors, but among his own friends, who seemed to be determinedly suppressing the War (assumedly for some sort of gain, they were Slytherins after all), while Draco was unable to escape the grip it had on his mind. As the squawks emanating from the two figures opposite of him began rivalling that of the albino peacocks back at the Manor, he turned his head decisively to the flash of countryside the train was cutting across.
He allowed himself to completely zone out at the scenery outside the window, occasionally switching to focus on the glass’ reflection of his friends and ensure neither was murdering the other. He doubted he could talk himself out of that hole in front of the Wizengamot, innocent or not.
“I can't believe you’d say that. You’re so wrong it’s embarrassing. Worrying, almost.”
“Stop that! I’m absolutely right. There’s a trick to it- next time you see her, look at the shadows in the light and you’ll see. There’s no Glamour I can’t spot.”
“She doesn’t use Glamours you priss, just makeup. You think I wouldn’t know? I've shared a dorm with her for seven years. You on the other hand are a more likely culprit for glamour abuse. How much of what i’m seeing now is even real?”
“All of it! Just because i know how to cast one from my mother doesn’t mean I use them, you great simpering horklump.”
The argument devolved into meaningless bickering, dawning a new theory in Dracos mind that his friends had been swapped with irritating first years. He was still moodily staring at the flashes of countryside when silence fell on the compartment as the final remaining member of the group made a much quieter entrance then both Blaise and Pansy, settling into his spot next to Draco uncomfortably. Draco turned his head in acknowledgment, observing Theo had already changed into his robes.
It seemed Draco wasn’t alone in his thoughts, as Theo responded to Pansy and Blaise’s greetings with a silent nod, settling into the thoughtful but not uncomfortable silence that seemed to extend from Theo wherever he went. He seemed quieter then ever now, and it struck Draco suddenly that his father had been imprisoned also following the fall of the Death Eaters as well.
Draco resumed his silent staring out the window, internally expecting the train to be stopped like last year, but instead of being searched for one Harry Potter, he anticipated any number of Aurors to come wielding wands and superior, pinched expressions and drag him to Azkaban. Eventually, he excused himself to change into his school robes, casting an accio to liberate the black garments from his bag and stalking off with them in hand, leaving the mutterings of Blaise behind him. He took a moment to be grateful for the empty passage of the train corridor as he passed door after door, striding too quickly past to catch any glimpses at the occupants.
That is, until one of the doors opens wide, directly in front of him, making him almost face plant into the frosted glass of the door-window, coming to a shocked halt just in time to save his nose from a rather macabre fate.
Swiftly he found himself wishing the door had gone right on ahead and smashed him unconscious, when he saw a flash of green eyes and a shock of black hair appear in the corridor from behind the door, and realised he was about to encounter the one person he was adamant to avoid at all costs. And, even worse, he’d made a complete fool of himself by almost walking into Harry Potters compartment door, like some blundering hippogriff.
And, just like a blundering hippogriff, Draco stood silent and still with his wand at his side as Harry Potter began to close the door and peeked past it with a look on his face that suggested he was both shocked and apologetic for nearly whacking someone unconscious with his murder weapon of choice; a door from the Hogwarts Express.
It was almost comedic to watch the expression melt right off Potters tanned skin and morph into the sort of frown that looked like it should come with thunder clouds floating around his head when he caught sight of the unmistakeable white-blonde hair of a Malfoy.
No longer did Potter seem very sorry for the near miss- in fact, if the way he was eyeing Draco up and down with distaste was anything to go off of, it was very probable he was about to try for a second hit and swing the door right back out again into Dracos waiting face. It seemed both the Wizengamot trial and his non-conversation with Potter afterwards lent no change to their sentiments towards each other, something that brought both intense relief and dread flooding through Dracos mind in the span of a single second. Some things never change, thought Draco, rather philosophically given his current predicament.
And, as Potter glared at him with a lurid green glare that was bordering radioactive, Draco did a very good job of straightening his face into less of a petrified expression and more of a sneer. This seemed to tip Potter over the edge of the spontaneous staring competition they’d involved themselves in, as he turned on his heel back into the compartment, slamming the door behind him with a thud. Draco stared at the space Potter had occupied a few seconds before, and determined it was safe to continue his descent of the train when he heard angry muttering from inside the carriage. And Draco, being the nosy git he was, leaned in a little closer to listen.
The muttering sounded suspiciously like Potter saying “Bellend.” , which had Draco’s skin prickling in indignation and an urge to storm into the compartment with his wand brandished. He would have, had it not been for his stern reminder to himself that Potter was what got you away from Azkaban, he could just as easily put you back in.
As Draco continued his journey past Potter’s carriage door, he hoped internally that Potter wouldn’t choose this moment to aggressively stalk back out, properly flooring Draco with the heavy wood. In fairness, Draco rather suspected the impact and subsequent injury would add to Potters heroic deeds in the eyes of many, as oppose to detract.
Successfully clearing his estimated ‘Potter Door Whacking Radius’ without incident, he made his way down to the train bathrooms, which while small, provided more modesty then he would be granted stripping down with Blaise in the carriage, in full view of anyone who could happen to wander past. Most the cubicles were unoccupied, and he slipped into the last one, locking it behind him.
Once fully dressed in his green Slytherin robes, he re-emerged into the corridor outside, returning without event to his own carriage, which he could hear several meters off by the ravings of Blaise Zabini about some topic or another (“You wouldn’t believe it Theo, you really wouldn’t!” came the enthusiastic shout) , and he almost felt guilty for leaving Theo in there with him. Blaise had obviously chosen the less noble course of irritating Theo to death, as oppose to slicing him with endless wit.
Upon entering and casting a considerate Muffliato at the door, Draco settled in his spot by the window again, choosing to make an effort engaging with the conversation. He may be wrapped up so tight in his sorrows and mistakes that he resembles more of a knot of string then a human at this point in time, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hold any hope for the year ahead. And at that very moment, lounging against the seats upholstery, looking for all the world an unapologetic, snobbish asshole (Maybe Potter wasn’t so far off with the bellend comment after all ) Draco decided if he was going to be carted off to Azkaban for some offense or another in the near future, he may as well enjoy what he could out of the year, even if he went about it in his own tortured way. He could be a sociable human ball of knots if it came down to it, and with his reserve firmly set, he launched into the conversation, or rather, the horrific onslaught Blaise was delivering Theo. Pansy was inspecting her nails, an apparently essential activity that took up about forty percent of her waking hours. A pile of empty chocolate frogs lay next to them, evidencing the Trolley Lady had come and gone in the time it took Malfoy to change.
“What d’you reckon the Quidditch scene’ll be like this year?” Draco asked squarely, turning towards Blaise and successfully cutting a non-quidditch playing Theo out the conversation. With a grateful glance, Theo reached for the book at his side, pulling out the bookmark he’d placed in it (when he caught Blaise dog-earing his cover of ‘Hogwarts, a History’ he’d thrown a fit that rivalled even Dracos own tantrums) and swiftly started to read. Drooping slightly at the loss of his victim, Blaise seemed to genuinely consider the question, supplying Draco with a surprisingly insightful answer.
“I suppose it depends if we still even have houses. Maybe McGonagalls sacked them all off so no poor first years are sorted into big bad Slytherin.” Blaise mused aloud.
“She wouldn’t, would she? And have no more Gryfindor trophy in her office? She’d rather eat the sorting hat.” The image sent a surprising shock of humour through Draco, who’d festered a dislike for it the moment he set eyes on the scruffy, dirty hat, and he found himself smiling, an unexpected positive as far as he was concerned.
“Do you think you’d be Captain?” Pansy asks Draco with utmost reverence, and the absolute implausibility of the question drew out a laugh at Pansy’s expense, her pale complexion flushing indignantly as Draco absently wondered what other privileges would be stripped from him. Not that he wasn’t aware he deserved it.
“Pans,” Blaise said brightly, “I think one more year of school will do you immeasurable good.”
Pansy, still moderately red faced, took to swatting Blaise with a nail file, while Draco and Theo struck up easy conversation about the annotated Magical Creatures A-Z guide open on his lap, easy as breathing.
——————
The train ground to a stop with a final plume of steam dispersing into the velvety ropes of the night, and Draco lazily turns his head to gaze out the window. Of course, as it’s now dark out, he sees a lot more of his luminous pale face reflected back at him then anything of interest. With an ever-suffering sigh, himself and the other Slytherin boys cast the obligatory featherlight charms, Blaise levitating both his and Pansy’s cases out with a look of grim countenance as she flounced out behind him, looking extremely pleased of herself. Draco suspected some sort of bet was in play.
The corridor of the train, as it turns out, was complete and utter chaos. People were chest to chest, levitating suitcases and bags precariously over the heads of the crowd, older years ducking as Third Years levitated a suitcase the size of a cupboard mere centimetres over their heads. Not to mention the sort of mob reaction Draco Bloody Malfoy might inspire in this already frantic mass. He darkly wondered if he was about to have another choice encounter with The Chosen One, and attempted to survey the crowd for scrawny, wild haired bits before attempting to brave the throng.
“Merlins warty bollocks.” Theo stated, his head having ducked imbetween the gap of Malfoy body standing in the doorway and the confines of the doorway itself, and with haste he retracted himself firmly back into the compartment, leaving Blaise to fend for himself with the two massive suitcases.
“Absolutely not.” Draco agreed calmly, Pansy and himself lingering in the doorframe, reluctant to give up any personal space to snivelling, snot nosed First Years.
Blaise finally broke through the crowd to an exit, but not without several glares shot back at the compartment occasionally driving a child to tears in the crossfire, and gestured impatiently over at the group still huddled in the safety of the compartment.
With unfathomable reluctance, Pansy and Theo stepped out, immediately lurching forward in the direction of the crowd out of Dracos vision. It’s at this moment he comes to think that perhaps he had looked upon his previous occupation as Death Eater too severely (surely nothing could be as bad as this), his dramatic instinct overwhelming him with the urge to run as he feels himself compressed on all sides in the corridor. Merlin, it really was overflowing with people.
He battles through the bodies for a few minutes, grateful none of them seem to look at him long enough to figure out who he is, before his arm is being unceremoniously tugged and he almost collapsed onto Pansy as she pulled him out of the train and down a foot onto slippery cobble.
“Sorry,” She says, resoundingly unapologetically, “But now we get first dibs to the carriages!”
“I’m massively unconvinced that was worth it.” Draco says bluntly, especially as the astoundingly eerie sight of the Thestrals swim into sight in front of him, standing out like some hellish variety of horse, eyes unfocused and unseeing as they wait for the carriages to fill. Draco leaps up to claim a good seat, hoping to have the Thestrals as far out of his eyesight as possible while riding through a remote path at night. The others climb dubiously in afterwards, or rather, totter, given Pansy’s ever-unfortunate choice of shoes, and the carriage jolts with a start and begins its slow, winding pace to the Castle, resting ominously at the top of a formidable hill.