Chapter Text
The train to Hogwarts felt colder this year. Harry sat alone in a compartment, arms folded, forehead pressed to the glass. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the countryside into grey smears. Ron and Hermione were somewhere down the corridor, probably arguing about Prefect duties or homework schedules or whatever it was they cared about now. He didn’t care.
He hadn’t spoken much since the summer. Not after the nightmares. Not after the Ministry’s silence. Not after Dumbledore’s refusal to look him in the eye. Something was wrong. He could feel it. The air around him felt heavier. Like the world was holding its breath.
The compartment door slid open. Draco Malfoy stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Harry didn’t move. Draco didn’t speak. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. Harry stared after him, something twisting in his chest. He didn’t know what it was.
The Sorting Ceremony was a blur. McGonagall gave a speech about resilience. About rebuilding. About unity. Harry didn’t listen. He sat at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by familiar faces that felt unfamiliar now. Ron was laughing too loudly. Hermione was correcting someone’s pronunciation of “Leviosa.” Ginny kept glancing at him like she wanted to say something. He didn’t want to hear it.
His eyes drifted to the Slytherin table. Draco sat near the end, flanked by Blaise and Pansy, but not speaking. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable. Harry looked away.
Classes started. Harry didn’t speak unless spoken to. He snapped at Ron. Ignored Hermione. Skipped meals. Spent hours in the library, not reading, just… sitting. He started waking up earlier. Wandering the halls before sunrise. He found himself outside the Room of Requirement more than once, just standing there, waiting. It didn’t open. Not yet.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was a joke. Umbridge was a parasite in pink. Harry lasted ten minutes before storming out. Ron followed him, shouting.
“You can’t just walk out of class!”
Harry turned, eyes cold. “Watch me.”
Hermione caught up, breathless. “Harry, please—”
“Don’t,” he said, voice low. “Just don’t.”
They stared at him. He walked away.
That night, he found a book in the library. It wasn’t supposed to be there. It hummed when he touched it. The pages were handwritten. The ink shimmered. The spells were old. Forbidden. He read until dawn.
Draco passed him in the corridor the next day. Their eyes met. Draco didn’t smirk. Didn’t sneer. Just looked. Harry looked back. Something shifted. Neither of them spoke.
Ron cornered him after dinner.
“You’ve been acting like a bloody git.”
Harry didn’t respond.
“You think you’re better than us now? Too good for your friends?”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
Hermione stepped in. “Ron, stop—”
“No,” Ron snapped. “He needs to hear it. He’s not the only one who fought in the war. We all lost people. We all suffered. But he walks around like he’s the only one who matters.”
Harry’s voice was quiet. “You don’t understand.”
Ron laughed bitterly. “No, mate. I think I understand perfectly.”
Harry turned and walked away.
That night, the Room of Requirement opened. Inside was a single desk. A single chair. A single book. Harry sat. He opened it. He bled. He learned.