Chapter Text
“New slang when you notice the stripes
The dirt in your fries
Hope it's right when you die, old and bony
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall
Never should have called
But my head's to the wall and I'm lonely.”
The Shins, “New Slang”
Draco stared at the train, that ugly and noisy machine that he used to like. Salazar, it felt like a lifetime ago, when he used to enjoy going to Hogwarts, to learn new things, chat with his friends, mess with Potter and try to get him in trouble.
Now he just stood there, on his own. Someone walked by and spat on his cloak, a muttered “bloody Death Eater”. He tried to ignore it, biting on his cheeks, clenching his fists. He waited for them to leave before getting his wand out to clean the mess and that’s when he noticed it.
He was used to people staring nowadays, but he could have felt those green eyes on him in a crowd. He turned and Potter was there, a few feet away from him, surrounded by a protective wall of Weasleys, who were shielding him from all his admirers and the first years who had never seen him before, trying to catch a glimpse of the saviour of the Wizarding World.
Potter lifted his chin up at him, the smallest greeting, the only one he would possibly get that day. And he nodded, turning straight away, grabbing his trunk and getting on the train, trying to find an empty carriage, hoping that no one would come and look for him.
He buried his nose in an old book, one of the few things he had managed to salvage from the Manor in that long summer spent clearing and scrubbing it clean, supervised by a team of Aurors, who barely said a word to him during those months of silence and loneliness. They took care of the magical artifacts and the mess the Dark Lord had left behind. He was simply asked to clean, making that massive house presentable again. The Ministry was hoping to find someone willing to buy it. Shacklebolt had told him that the money would be used for the War Fund, a charity that looked after the orphans and the families who had lost loved ones in the War.
He realised that he didn’t care as much as he should have. But that was the case with pretty much everything these days. With Father locked away in Azkaban, Mother under house arrest at Aunt Andromeda’s, unable to even see him before he left for his own forced year at Hogwarts. It was part of his sentence after the Trials. One year at Hogwarts and then the impossibility to leave the country for at least 5 years.
But none of it mattered.
What really carved a hole through him was one particular loss.
Not of his home. Not of his parents, nor of his freedom.
But the death of his soulmate, only that, was enough to make breathing hurt. To make him tear up as he looked outside, the English countryside zooming by, his chest tight and his hand gripping his wand.
He muttered the simple spell, the one he had been practising since he was little, one of the first ones he had begged Mother to teach him.
“Vinculum,” he whispered, and the emerald green thread appeared, still tied around his little finger, but lying limp and severed, hanging from his hand, still sparking and emitting a faint shimmering light, but irretrievably broken. Since the Battle of Hogwarts.
He had spent the war checking on it, every time he had a moment to himself, every time he could hide in the bathroom to cast that simple spell to make sure his bond was still pulsing, still stretching from his finger and fading into the distance, still alive.
After the Battle, when the Dark Lord had finally been defeated and everyone was suddenly just standing there, unsure of what to do, people started gathering in the Great Hall, where all the bodies had been taken. There were so many, crying wizards and witches crouching over them, young and old. And that’s when he started worrying, wondering if one of them was his soulmate. What if he was there? What if he was dead?
He had taken Mother’s wand from her hand, rushed to the toilet, locked himself behind closed doors and whispered the spell, trembling fingers holding the wand tight. And it was gone. The green thread was cut, no longer stretching taut, but lying limp from his little finger.
He didn’t even cry. The Aurors found him hyperventilating, his eyes open wide, when they forced the door open, put him in an Incarcerous and then took him to Azkaban. He had wanted to go back, to check the bodies one by one, to try to figure out which one of them was his soulmate. But it was too late and he was stuck in a dark cell, alone with his grief and loss.
His mother’s wand was taken. He couldn’t do any magic, not until after the Trials, not until Harry Potter came to see him at the Manor, at the end of that horrible summer, two days before he was due back at Hogwarts, to give him back his own wand. He had stood in the doorway, avoiding his eyes, until Draco had said: “well, are you coming in or what?”
“I’d rather not,” he had said, forcing him to take a walk in the gardens, their steps on the gravel loud and surreal, until Potter had come to a stop and had taken the wand out, handing it to him without a word.
“Th-thank you,” he had managed to say. Two simple words that took so much out of him. A curt nod was all he had got as reply, before Potter’s piercing eyes locked with his, so bright behind those ugly glasses of his. Then a loud crack had followed and he was left alone again.
A startling noise outside of his compartment shook him out of his memories. The door opened and Luna Lovegood stood there, a dreamy smile on her face.
“Hello Draco,” she said, “what are you doing here on your own?”
He shrugged, uneasy around her, after what had happened at the Manor. After all the times he had to bring her food and a kind word, when she was locked in their dungeons, worried he might have to dispose of her body like the others, praying that she would be safe.
“I’m going to join the other Ravenclaws, but this looks like a good spot to lie low,” she said, turning and staring into thin air. She was weird, that was no surprise. She stepped aside and waved goodbye, then shut the door and disappeared down the corridor. He huffed and stretched his legs. His trousers were too short. He had no money left to buy new robes, with his Gringotts vault frozen and the meagre allowance the Ministry had granted for his Hogwarts equipment. He was forced to buy second hand books in a hurried trip to Diagon Alley that had left him injured and covered in insults. The house elves had helped him sort out his uniform, making the sleeves longer, stretching his trousers and robes, but to no avail. He had managed to grow a few inches in the last couple of weeks and by then the elves were gone and he didn’t know any spells to tailor clothes.
The compartment door opened again and he turned, stiffening at the sight of the large group of students, all staring at him, suddenly quiet.
“It’s just the Death Eater,” a blonde girl said. He noticed hands going for their wands, his own fingers gripping his, hoping not to have to use it. His sentence had been clear. No improper use of magic, no attacks, no dark magic. Azkaban still had an empty cell with his name on it.
“Have you seen Harry Potter?” a little first year asked, clearly unfazed by the tense atmosphere his friend’s words had created.
“No, I haven’t,” he replied, hoping they would leave him alone, without hexing him.
“Strange, we’ve checked every single compartment!” a Hufflepuff said, shaking his head. They started leaving, but not before one of them threw a stinging hex at him and another one made his shoe laces disappear.
It could have been worse, he told himself.
The door was shut again and this time he locked it with a strong Colloportus. He didn’t have any money for the food trolley anyway. He had made himself a sandwich with some stale bread he had left, before leaving the Manor, probably for the last time.
He was trying in vain to focus on his book again, when his eyes suddenly noticed something. A flicker or light, an odd reflection, a sudden rustling of fabric.
Surely not.
He sat up straight and moved his legs, stretching them again, brushing against something and not seeing anything when he checked.
“How long have you been sitting there for, Potter?” he asked, looking in front of him, raising an eyebrow in defiance.
“Long enough to know that you’re not making much progress with that book,” came the reply from thin air.
“Are you hiding from your admirers in the pariah’s compartment?” he asked, closing the book and crossing his long legs.
“What if I am?” Potter replied, still hiding behind his invisibility cloak.
“The least you could do is show yourself,” he said, waving his hand in Potter’s direction, “if you’re going to spend the whole journey here.”
“Shut the blinds, will you?” came Potter’s reply. He felt like telling him to fuck off, but there wasn’t much fight left in him these days. What was the point anyway? At least he had some company, after all those months spent talking to house elves and to himself.
So he got up and shut the blinds and then jumped when Potter cast a locking spell so strong that it made the door rattle.
“Show-off,” he muttered, shaking his head and earning a smirk from Potter, who emerged from his cloak with ruffled hair (even worse than usual, surprisingly enough) and his bright green eyes. He was still short and skinny, his hair a dark mess on his head, but there were dark circles under his eyes, a tired look on his face. As if the end of the war didn’t quite agree with him.
“Are you planning on spending the year getting hexed by Hufflepuffs?” Potter asks, tilting his head.
“Are you planning on minding your own fucking business?” he replied, because at least his sentence didn’t say anything about using his tongue as a weapon.
“Suit yourself,” Potter shrugged, which made the anger surge in him, in spite of his best efforts to try to keep it at bay all the time.
“It’s not like I have any other choice, you know? It’s either take it or go to Azkaban. And I’ve spent a few weeks there, which was enough to last me for a lifetime.”
Potter just sat there in silence, long enough to make Draco regret his outburst and then he looked outside and straightened his glasses.
“I know,” he muttered, “but you can’t let them get away with it for too long.”
Draco huffed and looked outside too. The weather had turned for the worse, the rain making it nearly impossible to see the green fields and grey sky.
“Your hair is longer than it used to be,” Potter said.
“Yours is as shit as usual, I’m afraid,” he replied.
He had let it grow, just past his shoulders, unable to care anymore about such trivial things. His mother wasn’t there to tell him what was appropriate or not for a young Malfoy and anyway, what difference did it make? He had no one to seduce, no one to spend the rest of his life with.
His soulmate was dead.
“It looks…” Potter continued, ignoring Draco’s snarky comment, “good on you. You look less fake.”
“Well, thanks for sharing your insight into the disgrace that is my life, Potter. I won’t have to cry myself to sleep anymore, now that I know you approve of my current hairstyle.”
Potter simply sat there and stared at him, unfazed, then he opened his bag and started getting food out.
“Are you planning on feeding the whole Hogwarts Express?” Draco asked, feeling incredibly hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper meal. Probably the night before the house elves were taken away.
“Help yourself,” Potter said, “Mrs Weasley gave me enough food to last me for the first month at Hogwarts.”
“No, thank you,” he said haughtily, raising an eyebrow and regretting it immediately, when his stomach started rumbling really loudly. Potter laughed and handed him a pork pie. He grabbed it, but refused to thank him.
“Where’s the rest of the Golden Trio anyway?” he asked, wondering why Granger and Weasley had disappeared. Potter stared at him.
“What?” he asked, before filling his mouth with the delicious pie.
“Do you not read the papers?” was Potter’s reply.
“I’ve stopped reading them. Too many articles on how I should be rotting in Azkaban with my father,” he said, avoiding Potter’s gaze.
“I see,” he said, “well, Ron is helping George run the shop and Hermione’s still in Australia.”
“What on earth is Granger doing in Australia? Did she ditch Weasley for an Aussie?”
Potter nearly spat out his food and started choking. Draco offered him some water, suddenly worried at the thought of being found with an unconscious Boy Who Lived Twice in his carriage.
“Merlin, you really don’t read the papers. The Prophet spent weeks covering the story.”
“I told you,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ve stopped reading them.”
“She had to erase her parents’ memories during the war, to protect them. She went back to Australia to look for them as soon as the war was over, which she’s managed to do last week. But it’s taking her ages to restore their memories properly.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled, “what about your girlfriend?”
Potter lowered his gaze and then put the pasty he was holding on the seat, getting it all dirty. Draco felt like telling him that he had no manners, but he sensed the tension in Potter and he preferred shutting up for once and letting him answer his question.
“She’s playing for the Harpies,” Potter finally said, “she won’t be returning to Hogwarts.”
They spent the rest of the journey in relative silence, munching on Potter’s food, making the occasional comment on Draco’s book or on who was returning for their eighth year (not a single Slytherin, except for Draco, and a handful of students from the other houses).
“Why are you all dressed in black?” was Potter’s last question, when it was time for him to change into his school uniform and get rid of those faded jeans of his, “you were wearing black robes when I came to the Manor too.”
“Ever heard of minding your own business, Potter?”
He shrugged and continued looking at him, waiting for an answer. Draco sighed.
“When someone close to you dies, you’re supposed to don black clothing for at least three months.”
“Who died?” Potter asked, then horrified “please tell me you’re not doing it for him.”
“What?” Draco said, revolted by the thought, “Potter, I’m as relieved as you are by the Dark Lord’s death, believe it or not. It’s for…someone else.”
It was clear that Potter wanted to ask more, intrigued as always by anything that smelled like a secret, but the train came to a halt and the other students started moving, so Potter had to hide again under his cloak.
As soon as they got off the train, Potter took his cloak off and disappeared into Hagrid’s massive embrace.
“Harry!” the man shouted, tears at his eyes, “so glad yer back!”
Draco shivered, looking at the Thestrals, wondering why on earth Lovegood looked like she was giving one of them a cuddle. Weirdo.
He tried to keep to himself during the ride to the castle and then McGonagall was there, asking everyone to line up and telling the eighth year students to enter the Great Hall for last. And he was standing there, looking at the familiar faces, seeing hatred on most of them, as Potter chatted to Longbottom and Abbott, until the doors opened for them and he felt like a cold shower washing over his back.
He hadn’t thought about it. Refused to think about it. About all the bodies laid out for the mourners, some nearly unrecognisable, his soulmate one of them. It didn’t help that the room looked the same as before the war, that the Hall was packed with cheerful students and candles were lighting it up in a festive way.
All he could see were the bodies.
He felt a wave of nausea at the back of his throat, cold sweat on his back, and he started shaking his head, taking a step back and then another, until he found himself running down the corridor, opening the door to the same toilet where he had hidden so many weeks ago, nearly a lifetime ago. And he emptied his stomach, until he felt tears running down his cheeks, holding his own hair back. He collapsed on the cold floor, catching his breath, a little whimper escaping his lips. And then he heard it.
The door opened again, someone panting, short breaths caught in their throat, the click of the lock and then the distinctive noise of knees hitting the floor.
Draco cast a cleaning spell on his mouth, stood up on shaky legs and slowly opened the door of his cubicle, only to find Harry Potter, his eyes shut as he rested his head against the wall and tried to breathe.
“Potter…”
The other boy opened his eyes, a frantic glint in them, and just stared at him. He then covered his face with his trembling hands and continued wheezing, his fingers shaking over his eyes.
He didn’t even know why he did it, but it just came naturally, for some unknown reason.
“Respira,” he said. It was a spell his Mother had used on him countless times over the War and the years that led to it. When it all got too much and Draco had panic attacks that left him breathless and useless. Potter’s shoulders slumped and he inhaled and exhaled normally, casting him a curious glance as the colour returned to his face.
“Thank you,” he whispered and then the door opened with a bang and McGonagall appeared.
“If you think it’s acceptable to have a fight the first minute you’re back here,” she started saying, but then she noticed Harry shaking his head and Draco’s panicked expression and stopped.
“I was having a panic attack and Malfoy helped me,” Potter explained and McGonagall looked at him, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I…” he swallowed loudly, “I was sick…”
She studied them for what felt like endless minutes, until she gestured to follow her.
The sorting ceremony had already started, the hat was shouting out the different houses the little first years were being assigned to. Draco sat down among his fellow Slytherins and tried to relax, tried not to think, to breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth, his fingers tapping nervously against his thumb, one at a time. He cast a glance towards the Gryffindor table and found Potter staring back at him, an unreadable expression on his face, so he looked away.
When the food appeared, Draco felt his stomach turning, a wave of nausea threatening to make him sick again, so he just sipped on some water, closing his eyes, ignoring the stares from the other students. He used to feel safe sitting at this table, but now he didn’t know how to feel safe anywhere anymore.
When dinner was finally over, McGonagall asked the eight-year students to stay behind and once the Hall was empty, she made them all stand up and gather up near the teacher’s table. There were only a handful of them, ten boys and five girls.
“I would like to welcome you all back to Hogwarts,” the Headmistress started, “it fills me with joy to have you all back to complete your N.E.W.T.s and the rest of the staff is equally enthusiastic about your return. Now, I know some of you have completed part of your seventh year and might just need to fill the gaps in your knowledge.”
Her eyes lingered on Draco and Longbottom, but there didn’t seem to be malice in them.
“That’s why I am going to give you the freedom to study independently and attend the lessons that you need in order to complete your studies,” she continued, “you are all eighteen and old enough to be responsible.”
A few students seemed surprised and enthusiastic at the idea of being able to skip lessons and study independently. Draco knew he would still be expected to attend every single one of them. The terms of his probation were clear.
“I am not, however, going to put you in your respective Houses,” McGonagall said, “you will be paired up with another student and you will share a room with your own bathroom and commodities.”
Draco’s back stiffened. He was counting on being back amongst his fellow Slytherins as the only consolation of this shitty predicament. With his luck he was going to be paired up with a complete wanker who was going to make this year even more miserable. As if she were reading his mind, McGonagall started telling them who they were going to share a room with, ladies first. He immediately noticed that she had mixed houses and everyone looked confused and uncomfortable.
“Potter, you’re going to share a room with O’Mallen, near the kitchens,” she said pointing at a Ravenclaw boy who immediately smiled like Christmas had come early. Another fan of the Boy Who Lived. Potter looked like he was going to be sick. “Malfoy and Smith will share a room in the Astronomy Tower.”
“I’m not sharing a room with that,” shouted Smith, affronted, pointing a finger at him. Draco rolled his eyes, whishing that he could say the feeling was mutual. Everyone knew that Zacharias Smith was an utter knob.
“Excuse me?” McGonagall said, raising an eyebrow and fixing a glacial glare on Smith that made even Draco feel uncomfortable, but apparently didn’t work on the blonde Hufflepuff.
“I don’t feel safe sharing a room with a Death Eater,” everyone seemed to flinch and stared at him, “my parents won’t allow it. I haven’t come back to Hogwarts just to be murdered in my sleep.”
“Don’t be ridic-“ started McGonagall, but she was interrupted by a raised hand.
“I’ll share with Malfoy,” Potter said calmly, “Smith can swap with me.”
Draco stared at him, as did everyone else and an uncomfortable silence followed.
“Are you sure, Harry?” the Headmistress asked, studying him and then looking at Draco when Potter nodded and then shrugged. “Mr Malfoy?”
Draco felt all the eyes land on him, wondering if they all thought he was going to try to murder the saviour of the wizarding world in his sleep.
“It doesn’t make any difference for me,” he finally answered and then crossed his arms in front of his chest and tried to look casual, probably failing miserably.
“Very well, then. The Prefects should be back any minute and they will escort you to your rooms. They have been set up to magically match your needs as soon as you set foot in them. I will see you tomorrow morning, when we’ll discuss your timetables.
Something to look forward to, thought Draco bitterly. He had no idea what kind of career he could hope for now, so he was at loss when it came to choosing which subjects to take. He used to have plans. He used to have hopes and dreams. Now he had a sentence and apparently Harry Potter as a roommate.
He followed the Ravenclaw Prefect up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, which had been badly damaged during the Battle. Potter was quiet, trailing behind him and looking relaxed when Draco cast a glance in his direction.
Once they found the room, the Prefect waved her farewell and it was just the two of them. Draco let Potter open the door and just stood there, realising that not in a million years he would have thought he could end up sharing living quarters with Harry Potter. For a whole year.
He finally got in and he looked around, whilst taking his shoes off. Potter just kicked his trainers off and they flew into a messy pile near the door, the barbarian. There was a small kitchen with a sink and a hob; Draco even spotted an oven and an assortment of pots and pans hanging from the wall. Not that he knew how to cook. He saw a comfy looking white sofa tucked in a corner and two chairs around a small square table. A door led to the bedroom, which was fairly big and contained the two four-poster beds, one in Gryffindor and one in Slytherin colours, two desks on the side with a matching pair of bookshelves and wardrobes. A door in between the beds led to the en suite bathroom.
“At least it looks nice,” were the first words Potter uttered since their arrival, while he sat ungracefully on the bed.
“You didn’t have to swap with Smith,” was Draco’s reply, “I don’t need your pity, Potter.”
Green eyes met his and stared at him in confusion.
“Pity?” Potter asked, “You think I did that out of pity?”
Draco nodded, refusing to stare back at him, feeling ashamed and like he just wanted to lie in bed, close the curtains and disappear.
“Malfoy, I don’t pity you. I think you’ve been punished enough,” started Potter, his eyes still fixed on Draco, “you’re under house arrest for the next two years. You can’t meet your mum in the meantime and you won’t be able to see your dad for at least 15 years. You can’t even leave the country.”
“Thanks for reminding me of how shitty my life is,” he said, shaking his head, keeping his hands busy unpacking his belongings.
“I think you got what you deserved and I don’t pity you,” his words cut like a blade, but Draco couldn’t really argue back. Potter was right. And his sentence was actually lighter than expected only because Potter and his friends had testified in his favour, saving him and his mother from Azkaban. “I didn’t want to share a room with that Ravenclaw lunatic anyway. And Smith is a knob; everyone knows that. At least you will avoid getting hexed and I won’t have to wake up in the middle of the night with a crazy fan taking pictures of me while I sleep. So it’s a win-win situation for both of us, don’t you think?”
A win-win situation.
Draco wouldn’t have exactly used these words to describe his life.
“You also seem to know a useful spell for when I have my panic attacks,” added Potter, taking his cloak off. Draco suddenly realised that Potter was going to undress in front of him and felt like he might start hyperventilating himself any minute.
“I’m not your personal Mediwizard, Potter,” he said, heading for the en suite as he noticed Potter unbuttoning his shirt. Because he was a healthy gay young man and he had eyes. And Potter was…well, he was not exactly a scrawny git anymore. And Draco was not going to get a boner the first evening in his new room. Nope, he absolutely refused to be turned on by Harry bloody Potter and his lack of boundaries. He cast a glance at his roommate as he shut the door behind him and stopped for a second, noticing the lean body and the gentle curve of Potter’s back as the shirt slid down his shoulders. Draco’s eyes roamed on smooth skin, noticing a few scars on his arms and trousers hugging that breath-taking backside in such a delicious way. Potter turned and caught his gaze, and Draco shut the door, feeling his cheeks catching fire.
Marvellous, now he was hard.
Fucking brilliant.