Chapter Text
“I’m pretty sure I can make friends with Isobelle MacDougal,”
A sharp exhale escaped him. Draco pressed his head harder against the cool windowpane, attentively observing the mist appearing on the glass. A desperate attempt to maintain his attention on the outside, in the hope it will distract him from the irritating shrill voices that have been piercing his ears for the past five hours.
“I’m telling you, Pancy. There is no way Ravenclaws are giving us the time of the day. Our only chance of surviving the year is sticking to the Slytherins. We are less than outcasts at this point.”
“Blaise, do you even understand what you are saying? We are eighteen now. At this age any respectable witch is supposed to be looking for a suitable match. Who do we have left in our house that can even be considered an acceptable option? Goyle? Flint? Bole?”
As Pansy’s aggravating tone turned more and more ear-spitting at each word, Draco, still trying to keep from rolling his eyes at his so-called friends, curled himself further in his seat, picturing how his body could just step into the same fog that was covering the English countryside, disappearing into the whiteness. But he did not need to fantasise about escaping. Thanks to his family and his darling Aunt Bella, he learned the solution to all of his problems was easily reached through the bleakness of Occlumency.
Even though Draco doubted anything could really save him from the vexing background chatter of the Hogwarts Express.
“Bole is not that bad. Decent looking bloke, if you ask me,” Theo teased flatly, increasingly bored by the turn the conversation was taking.
Pancy scoffed. “Right. If his family hadn't lost all the gold, maybe. But the Bole family vault has started to look less like a proper Pureblood estate, and more like a Weasley’s storage place.”
A collective burst of laughter filled the train compartment. The only one who wasn’t cackling at Pansy’s brilliant joke was Draco, seemingly more murderous than amused. Sudden sounds made his skin crawl these days. It triggered him to the point he abruptly pried his body off the window, catching the eyes of his poor excuse of a friend.
Blaise smiled widely. “But Pansy, darling, why would you need to go searching other houses when the answer is right in front of you,” he drawled. “What do you think, Drakey? Would you just take our girl out of her misery or has the Ministry raided your vaults too?”
“As you can imagine, Malfoy’s vaults can survive much more than a single breach,” Draco replied flatly. “What the Ministry took in reparation is not even a dent of our wealth. I’m not sure you can say the same, Blaise. How is the winery business going?”
“Ah no need to ask that,” Theo cut in, “The Zabinis didn’t even go to trial this summer. Blaise’s a lucky bastard not to be as involved in the whole war affair."
Draco couldn’t help his face distorting into an expression of unmistakable disdain. After all, all of his friends turned out to be disloyal cowards. Blaise didn’t even step foot into Hogwarts the previous year. Time to take a hold on the family’s establishment, he said.
But Draco knew the truth — knew how quickly he ran to Italy to hide under his mother’s skirt, and didn't look back once. All while Draco was pushed by the Dark Lord left and right, forced to carry out assignments like a brainless lackey, as if he was some lowly bred wizard of poor standing.
At least the insignificance of his tasks made it such that he was able to avoid Azkaban and be sent off on probation at Hogwarts. Draco almost preferred prison to another year in that den of lunatics.
Since Potter had somehow managed to put an end to the war, most wizarding institutions were now pullulating with low-life vermin, vulgar Mudbloods, and all sorts of other half-breeds.
This was of course nothing new to the school, considering the type of company the previous Headmaster liked to keep. Actually, remembering the way McGonagall had always favored the Gryffindors, she probably wouldn’t object to seeing his head on a spike as a crowd of Dumbledore-fanatic buffoons chanted about poetic justice.
It was all so disgustingly performative. The ridiculous reconstruction efforts, the swift trials, the way all students were being forced to attend this circus— this Eight year at Hogwarts was set to be his undoing.
Not that there was much left to unravel, of course. Draco hasn't slept more than four hours straight in two years. Still skin and bones from the war, he was a shell of his previous self.
Fear had a way of eroding humanity from oneself—it simply cannot be helped. The precariousness has rendered everything utterly irrelevant, and the aftermath of it all had left him with a sense of nothingness that was strangely comforting. Not caring might just be the key for any door.
“Look at your face, Pans. Aw, is that a blush? Does that mean Malfoy’s rich enough for you?” Theo, who has apparently retrieved interest for the conversation, asked maliciously, nudging the knee of the witch sitting besides him.
“Well, gold surely does help a wizard to catch a lady’s attention,” Pansy replied sheepishly, descending in an unbearable fit of giggles.
Draco glanced at her, quickly taking in the faint blush on her cheeks and the poorly hidden smirk. His head briskly snapped back to press on the windowpane. All this talk about marriage seemed ridiculous to him, after everything they have been through. And while he couldn't blame them—the only thing left to do was move on, after all— the topic only added weight to his already endless annoyance, just another expectation he will fail to meet, like he failed to kill the Headmaster a little over a year ago. Failed his mission and his duty. Failed to protect his parents.
His pale hand instinctively moved to claw at the Dark Mark hidden below his black robes and school uniforms. But no matter how many layers were there to cover it, everyone already knew he was a Death Eater.
No, there will be no redemption for him. Not this year, nor ever.
Draco returned to tune out his treacherous friends, focusing on the sting biting his arm, pulling him away from entertaining ridiculous thoughts or participating in this equally ridiculous discussion.
He watched a purple-black sky fall to swallow the forest, signaling that Hogsmeade station was not far away.
The train came to a stop with a harsh pull, the sharp movement flattening his back against the seat.
Engrossed in the depths of his Occlumency, Draco barely noticed Pansy reaching for his shoulder, shaking him lightly. “We’re in Hogsmeade.”
Draco didn’t even bother looking away from the window, announcing with a raspy murmur he was going to reach them later in the Great Hall. He had no intention of walking through a staring crowd of young students, gaping at him like he was some reincarnation of the devil.
He waited by the vacant compartment until the train fell into silence, a distant buzzing from the engine was the sole sound that could be heard. Only then he raised to exit the waggon, finding himself on the dark platform, now emptied by other students.
The quietness of this desolate road would have been almost comforting, if it wasn’t for the mane of bushy hair that welcomed him in front of the Thestral carriage.
The Mudblood was standing there immobile, across from the scrawny winged creature bound to the last carriage, since every other student had already departed.
Draco had of course already taken into account he would have to tolerate her filthy presence at Hogwarts, yet he was hoping Kingsley had made an exception for her, putting her on some advanced program to become a good little Ministry pet.
The sight of her alone, just daring to exist in his presence, made him feel deranged and out of balance.
A shot of adrenaline ran through his body. The Mudblood was going to ruin everything. Any scrap of chance left to have a future would be policed and carefully examined by the Swot-In-Charge.
She was probably Head Girl too. On top of being now a beloved war hero, of course. But not everyone would be willing to kiss the ground she walked on. No, Draco had it in good order, there was a decent crowd that remembered who she really was. What she was. Nothing more than a bookworm with dirty blood. Nothing could change that. Nothing could take away the mud running through her veins.
Draco wasn’t even sure Mudbloods had the same anatomical veins as normal wizards, even though her blood staining his family’s drawing room looked normal enough.
The thought of her screeching on the floor as she was being tortured finally snapped him out of his silence.
“Did you get lost, Mudblood? Is that why you’re standing there like a creep?”
Granger’s head stayed fixed on the creature before them, paying him no attention whatsoever.
“I’m just observing the Thestral. This is the first year I can see them.”
Draco scoffed. Of course the know-it-all would seize the opportunity to scrutinise the beast. She probably had a few tomes on the topic stuffed in her trunk.
He wasted no further time acknowledging the Mudblood, briskly walking past her to sit in the carriage, his gaze pointedly fixed on the bony wings in front of him, silently wishing the beast to carry on already and leave the witch behind.
Granger seemed to perceive his impatience.
“It won’t leave until we are both on,” she said dryly, running her hand through the Thestral’s sparse dark hair.
“Then hurry up, Granger. For how much it pains me to share the carriage with you, we are already missing the house sorting. Or did you become a bad girl through the summer?”
It would seem a simple allusion to her alleged disregard for rules was enough to offend Granger, because she stopped caressing the Thestral’s side to step inside and take the seat opposite to his own.
“Don’t touch me, Mudblood,” Draco sneered, moving his legs to the side to avoid being in contact with hers.
Granger didn’t look at him once, her head tilted to the road to stare into the darkness.
From here, Draco could take in her prominent cheekbones and hollowed cheeks, her expression tight but distant, like her mind was miles away.
She looked gaunt.
How ironic. One would think they kept war heroes well fed in this country, but apparently the English Ministry couldn’t even manage to do that.
He studied the dark curls falling on her torso like an aura of smoke clinging to her sickly skin, engrossed by the way the unruly locks bounced rhythmically on her shoulders as the carriage departed. Draco had never seen her so pale in six years of school.
“Stop staring at me,” she snapped, turning her head to finally meet his eyes. Hers were brimmed with tears, even though her tone didn’t betray any emotion.
While the knowledge she had been crying in itself didn’t bring him any satisfaction, becoming the cause of her sorrow would maybe improve his mood.
“You look skeletal, Granger. I could almost confuse you with the Thestral.”
Her teary eyes widened in surprise.
“So you can see it too? Well I guess the war changed that for a lot of people.”
“Of course I can see it,” Draco snarled. “Unlike most wizards on your side, I didn’t spend the year hiding and crying while tucked in the comfort of a safe house.”
“Oh right. Poor little Death Eater, was your master mean to you?” Granger asked, faking a sweet voice that in contrast to her hard, judgmental expression, sounded almost uncanny. “Or are you upset he’s gone? Too bad for you, Death Eater. Your side has lost. I am here. Muggle-Borns are still here—where they belong. And there is nothing you can do about it.”
Draco smiled widely, his dry skin cracking at the almost unknown movement. “Are you sure about that Mudblood? You’d be surprised at the kind of curses I’ve learned, and I am not against some practice. Filth like yourself has very few uses, and one of them is training dummy,” he said, swirling the Hawthorn wand between his fingers. Not quite a threat—yet— just a cue on what happens to scum when they keep running their dirty mouth.
Granger seemed unaffected at his attempts at intimidation. “You belong in Azkaban. A single misstep from you or your friends, and that’s where you’re going to end up. I am waiting, Malfoy,” she leaned closer, “give me one reason.”
“Don’t get too bold, Granger. Azkaban is almost preferable to having to share the same air as you. It may be worth it, if I get to wipe that know-it-all expression out of your face. Permanently.”
“Miss your daddy dearest, do you? I am sure Minister Shacklebolt has already prepared a cell next to him just for your benefit.”
“How dare you, you filth,” Draco snarled. “You are not worth even thinking about a man like Father.” The Mudblood’s eyes lowered to look at his white knuckle grip tightening on the wand.
“I learned a few curses too. Or are you scared of losing to a Muggle-Born?”
Draco scoffed. “I wouldn’t duel you, Granger. Wizard and witches duel. You are neither.”
She leaned forward, planting her boots steady on the wiggling wagon’s floor, loathing spilling through her eyes with an intensity he only ever saw in other Death Eaters or dark wizards. For a suspended second, Draco really thought the Mudblood was going to attack him. An Expelliarmus was already set on the tip of his tongue, when Granger averted her face instead, returning to stare at the changing forest. “There’s no point even talking to you. You are a lost cause. Just stay away from me,” she growled almost wildly.
A lost cause was a good summary of how Draco actually felt. He leaned into his seat, trying to pry his gaze off the strained line of her profile.
A sigh of relief escaped him at the sight of the dark frame outlining Hogwarts' imponent towers, signaling that this unbearable journey had almost come to an end.
With any luck, Draco would never have to travel in this stupid wagon again, and most importantly, this would be the last time he had to communicate with the Mudblood.