Chapter Text
“You'll leave extra space in your trunk for a couple of the hand-knitted jumpers Mrs Weasley sent, won't you?”
Harry glanced up from where his head had been hanging over the overflowing trunk sprawled across his bed. “'Course, Mum,” he said, levitating a large, toppling stack of shirts bearing the Hogwarts crest into his trunk.
“It’s such a sweet sentiment,” his mother said, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry's head and peering into his trunk. “And you know she’s quite keen on those knitting circles Hermione’s mother mentioned the last time we were all at the Three Broomsticks. Arthur was thrilled when he found out. He’s just as intrigued by Muggles as ever, of course.”
Harry glanced behind him and found his mother observing him, a strangely sentimental flicker in her eyes. It was an expression he had grown familiar to over the last couple of weeks, when the reality of his departure for Hogwarts had struck his family with a strange immediacy on the very morning that his list of school supplies had arrived by a meek-looking tawny owl.
With September the first to arrive the following morning, Harry reasoned that his mother’s sadness shouldn’t have been quite so unexpected. She held him at arm’s length, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips before pulling him into her embrace. Harry, needing to lean down slightly, rested his cheek against her shoulder and breathed in the familiar scent of his mother’s auburn hair—clary sage with a faint hint of tangerine. He didn’t consider that her hug might have had an ulterior motive until he noticed her lean around him and pluck out a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Skiving Snackbox Harry had hidden beneath his new school robes. Smiling wryly and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Just like your father” she wandered out of the room.
Harry sighed, stuffing two woollen, taupe jumpers into his trunk to placate his mother. He watched his black cat, Abrax, slink along his blanket and settle herself, curled up on one of the jumpers. He resumed his packing, a task that proved far more tedious than he had anticipated. He had dreamt about attending Hogwarts for as long as he could remember, but this year, aged seventeen, would be his first time going there. He had spent his summers prying details about the school from Ron, his best mate, and every September he watched with a heavy heart as Ron, his older brothers and, later, Ginny, climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express.
He understood the reason why he had never attended, and knew that his parents had his very best interests at heart. Lord Voldemort had set out to kill Harry when he was just a baby, believing it necessary to fulfil the terms of what become known as the Lost Prophesy. As Harry’s parents had told him, the person they had entrusted and considered their loyal friend, Peter Pettigrew, betrayed them and they were sought out by Voldemort. That night, however, the Potters had been visited by the late Albus Dumbledore mere moments before Voldemort. Dumbledore had arrived, distraught and fevered, insisting that Lily and James take their son somewhere—anywhere—and flee to safety.
It had been too late, however. The startling sound of the hinges of the Potters’ front door snapping open had alerted them before Dumbledore could fully explain the gravity of their predicament. Dumbledore had forced Lily and James upstairs and out of harm’s way before James could even have begun shouting his protests, his insistence that he be the one to fight alongside Dumbledore to protect his wife and young child. From behind the door of the uppermost bedroom, however, James and Lily could only watch as blue light snuck beneath the door and cast an ethereal glow, bathing the room in a horrifyingly deceptive light. What followed downstairs, in the very kitchen Harry had been fed his evening bottle and Lily had hummed to Celestina Warbeck’s newest song on the Wizarding Wireless just minutes previously, was what was rumoured to be one of the most legionary duels in modern wizarding history—one that could rival even that of Grindelwald and Dumbledore. That duel, however, was to be Albus Dumbledore’s last.
That fateful night, with the fabled Elder Wand in hand, Voldemort had ascended the stairs and managed to unlock the door Dumbledore had sealed the Potters behind. He had laughed, high and cruel at the sight of Lily and James protecting their son. Ignoring them both—Lily’s pleas for mercy to save but only their son, and James’s roar of ceaseless, desperately conjured curses—Voldemort had rounded on Harry. His parents’ joined protection over him, the kind of impenetrable barrier they had created around Harry, however, had produced what most had considered to never be possible; Harry’s parents had saved him from Voldemort’s Killing Curse and, in the process, ensured that it had rebounded on Voldemort himself.
Their joined protection, the love with which they regarded Harry to ensure both his safety and survival, however, had endowed Harry with a mark on his forehead in the shape of a thin bolt of lightning. His parents, however, were weakened to a point close to death. Their frailty had rendered it impossible for them to live a normal life for many years afterwards. Though the Healers at St. Mungo’s ensured that they made a near full recovery, Lily and James knew that they needed to hide themselves—and Harry—away. Never truly convinced that Voldemort was never to be seen again, they provided their quaint house in Godric’s Hollow with every means of protection imaginable and kept to themselves for many years. His mother knew of a special kind of protection that their house was provided, one that would only end upon Harry’s seventeenth birthday, and protect him until that time. Beyond that time, however, remaining inside his house would be just as dangerous as venturing outside.
His father taught him the Ancient Runes and Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabi from the confines of their basement, while his mother specialised in Potions and Arithmancy, brewing and concocting potions from her small laboratory in the attic where there was a permanent purple hue to the walls from a Sleeping Draught gone wrong years ago. They used practical spells around the house (Scourgify being one of Harry’s favourites) and his parents taught him both Charms and Transfiguration as well so that he ‘received an education that could parallel that taught at Hogwarts'—his mother’s words, not his own. Harry knew, deep down, that despite their efforts, his home-schooling could never quite compare with the experience that the witches and wizards his age had at Hogwarts.
Just over one month previously, Harry had sanguinely asked to attend Hogwarts for his final year. He knew, deep down, how protective his parents were, how deeply they regarded his safety and how much they set in store by keeping him close at all times. It was paranoia, his mother had once admitted to him, on a blustery night the previous year, and an unrivalled sense of responsibility, one that left her aching for reassurance that her son was alive and well, no matter the cost to her own liberty.
The answer Harry had received, however, was truly unexpected. Sitting around their rickety kitchen table and feasting on cottage pie and chips, Harry had watched as his parents exchanged a pointed look between them, before his father had launched into a long-winded explanation, one that had involved what Harry deemed his father’s ‘stern face’. As his father was—well, his father, such an expression did not often make an appearance. Usually James was the one encouraging Harry’s misbehaviour.
“Your Mum and I have discussed this a lot, Harry,” he had said. “We know how much going to Hogwarts would mean to you, and now that you’re seventeen and the protection you’ve had for so long has been… broken,” he said, wincing at his word choice, “we’ve decided that the choice is yours: you can choose whether you want to go to Hogwarts or not.”
Harry had stared at his father in utter disbelief, his fork suspended between his gaping mouth and his plate. Glancing at his mother, she had fiddled with the string wrapped loosely around a small parcel on her lap, adding, “Of course, if you want us to continue schooling you at home, we would really prefer you to be here with us, but we also understand that—oof!”
Harry had jumped into his mother’s arms, the pair of them collapsing backwards. His father had quickly conjured an overstuffed pillow on the floor to soften their fall, but Harry had paid little heed to such safety measures. Instead, he had pressed smothering kisses on his mother’s face, shouting his thanks and running wildly around the house in search of a spare piece of parchment to write a letter to Ron. Harry’s father had called him back soon after, however, and instructed Harry to sit back at the table, a proud, bemused smile reaching his dark eyes.
“For Merlin's sake, Harry, be careful!” his mother had laughed. “You’ll squash your present.” She had handed the parcel into Harry's eager clutches. “This is a little something we’ve compiled so that you won’t feel home-sick next year. Of course, September won’t arrive for over a month but, knowing you, you’ll probably begin shopping for your textbooks tomorrow.”
Harry had smiled, heart leaping in his chest as he untied the twine carefully before he had grown impatient and ripped open the package. An array of items had fallen into his lap: his mother’s recipe book which included her famous spiced mince pies, his father’s pocket watch that blared whenever he was particularly late, a self-refilling mug emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest, and a framed photograph of the three of them (‘Harry, aged five, on a proper broomstick for the first time’ was scrawled on the back). The picture showed his parents on either side of him, joyously shouting words of encouragement. Harry's cheeks had hurt as he smiled at the collection of items, fingers dancing over the edge of the photograph and the small scratches on his father’s beloved watch.
“Thank you,” he had said. His voice, thick with emotion at his mother’s ever good-willed conscientiousness, had betrayed him, cracking over the words.
That day seemed like an unbearably short time ago to Harry. A month had passed since then and, on the evening in question, Harry found himself packing the very same items into his trunk. He realised that these would be the mementos of his parents he would treasure the most at Hogwarts.
Harry’s father’s voice alerted him. “And make sure you give our regards to all of your professors,” he shouted from the kitchen. His father’s footsteps trotted up the stairs and Harry watched his smile as he laid eyes on Harry's half-full trunk sprawled out on his bed. “Moony—Professor Lupin, I should say, is teaching Defence. Merlin, it still sounds strange, doesn’t it, Lily? Professor Lupin.”
His mother, returning to Harry’s room with a tall pile of socks levitating in front of her, waved him off. “You’ll have to be good for Minerva too, Harry. You don’t want to get in her bad books, or you’ll never get out.” She raised her voice, smiling mischievously at Harry, and called “Isn’t that right, James?”
Harry grinned as he heard his father call out fruitless protests, taking feigned offence at his wife’s implicit accusation. He slumped back on his bed and watched as his mother raised her wand once again and the various quills and parchment from Harry’s small desk tucked in the corner of his bedroom began flying across into his trunk.
“I think that last time you saw Minerva was during the summer for dinner,” his mother said. “She was most impressed by how you transfigured the centrepiece into additional cutlery when the Weasleys arrived. I’m sure she’s ecstatic to teach you, sweetheart.”
“She doesn’t seem the type to get ecstatic about much,” Harry muttered.
Lily frowned, and assured Harry that he just needed to give her a chance; that there was more to people than met the eyes, often. “And your professors are all going to adore you,” she said kindly. “And you know that if the other students ever give you a hard time, you know that your father will march through the Hogwarts front gates and hex them into next Tuesday before Minerva can say ‘detention’.”
“I won’t need to, darling,” James said, entering the room and throwing Harry his broomstick. Judging from the state of his father’s windswept hair, Harry thought, it looked as though his father had been outside riding it. James marched across the room and pressed a gentle kiss to his wife’s cheek. “He may have inherited your eyes, Lily, but he’s got my fight.”
*
The morning of September the first dawned bright and early, the distant sounds of bells chiming from the local church rousing Harry from his unsettled sleep. He took a moment to smile into his pillow, allowing his competing feelings of dread, anticipation and excitement to fill him up until he jumped from his rickety bed, unable to contain himself. He pulled on his Muggle clothes—faded jeans and a red jumper—before joining his parents downstairs.
After refusing breakfast at the house because his stomach was in his throat, Harry used the Levitation Charm to topple his trunk into the Vauxhall Astra they had borrowed. Sirius had offered his motorcycle, insisting that Harry would have his choice of any boyfriend at Hogwarts if he arrived to King’s Cross riding it, but Lily had stepped in and insisted that they see Harry onto the train.
His mother handed him a slice of toast with a smear of raspberry jam and he munched on it without properly registering the taste. Harry climbed inside, pretending not to notice his parents’ whispering as he fidgeted with the stiff collar of his jacket. He slumped back in his seat with a sigh.
They set off for London soon afterwards. Passing the patchwork farms of the countryside before travelling through industrial areas, Harry watched the distance between the houses close and the traffic become more congested. Even the air in London seemed thicker, moist in the most uncomfortable of ways and so unlike the clean, fresh air of his own home. By the time they reached King’s Cross, it was almost quarter to eleven and Harry's parents were, predictably, frantic.
“Quick, quick!” his father urged, surreptitiously swishing his wand to place Harry's trunk and a sleeping Abrax onto a cart without attracting the attention of Muggle passers-by. Lily berated him half-heartedly for his rather blatant use of magic. “He can't miss the train after all this!”
“Well, I suppose you could,” his mother said, pulling Harry into a tight embrace. “At least then we’d have an excuse to keep you at home for another year.” She frowned to herself. “That sounded less strange in my head. I just mean that we’re going to miss you terribly, Harry.”
Harry rolled his eyes but he smiled despite himself. Taking his mother’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze, he guided her to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, vaguely wondering who was the parent and who was the child in their relationship. The early-morning commuters had long since left so the station was relatively empty, leaving them free to innocuously lean against the wall in turn. Harry pushed his trolley against the bricked wall and watched Abrax and the rest of the cart disappear before he followed.
Harry gaped at the sight before him, torn between wonder and anxiety. Abrax hissed at the smoke from the gleaming train billowing around them and obscuring the throngs of witches and wizards alike crowded there. Shouts and joyous laughter rang through the air. Harry heard calls of “good luck!” and promises to write daily above the thick steam. He heard his parents arrive behind them and spotted a familiar witch with bright-red hair rush over to them. As Harry predicted they would be, his parents, ever-loved by the entire wizarding community, were quickly engulfed by the crowd.
Harry made his way along the platform, calling out apologies to oblivious onlookers as he wheeled his trolley through the crowd. He came to a stop at the nearest carriage, students spilling out compartments and calling to their parents on the platform. None of the students had noticed who he was yet—or, at least, they didn’t know that the boy with a mess of black hair covering the characteristic scar on his forehead, was the Harry Potter. Harry noticed a boy who looked about his age heaving his enormous trunk into the train with a strained expression.
“Want a hand, mate?” Harry asked.
The boy eyed him curiously, setting his trunk back on his trolley and blowing a loose strand of dark hair out of his eyes.
“I’ve always been a bit shit at charms. Tend to set most things on fire,” he muttered in a thick Irish accent, watching Harry levitate the trunk and his sleeping owl into the luggage compartment of the train. “Thanks.”
“I’m Harry, by the way. I’m new.”
“Seamus,” he offered. For a moment, he observed Harry, before his expression changed from one of mild curiosity to one of ecstatic shock. “Holy Merlin’s bollocks, you’re Harry Potter!”
Harry’s shoulders sagged and he smiled self-consciously despite himself. “Yeah,” he said with typical awkwardness. There was really no other way to confirm his identity. He sighed and held out his hand.
Seamus took it enthusiastically and shook it at least four-and-a-half times before dropping his head to smile at the scruffy platform in faint disbelief. “Does Ron know that you’re coming this year? He doesn’t shut up about you, by the way. I’m sure he’ll be over the fuckin’ moon when he finds out.”
Harry laughed, relieved at the mention of his best mate. “Yeah, he knows alright. He’s usually late for the train, though.”
Seamus opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the loud, blaring horn of the Hogwarts Express.
Harry grinned and thumbed over his shoulder, and Seamus nodded, calling that he would save Harry a seat on the train. Relieved, and keeping a watchful eye out for Ron, Harry rushed through the crowd to locate his parents, squeezing past doting witches and dodging a group of wizards he recognised from the dinner parties whose pipe smoke was adding to the fumes along the platform. He spotted his parents at last and his mother’s face lit up, as though it had not only been ten minutes since she had last seen him.
“Harry, sweetheart,” his mother exclaimed when he fell into her warm arms. She embraced him tightly, as though she didn’t want to let go, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Pulling back, she held him at arm’s length and look pointedly at him, giving him a stern look. “Now, if you need anything at all don’t hesitate to write to us.” She glanced at her husband with a doting smile, a hint of nostalgia seeping into her tone. “We simply can’t wait to hear the stories from Hogwarts, so make sure to keep us updated. And stay out of trouble. We don’t want to get any letters back from your professors unless they’re to sing your praises.”
Harry smiled into her shoulder, the fabric pressing a mark against his cheek, and felt her tuck a croissant into his shoulder bag. Harry pulled back and rounded on his father who pushed his glasses up his nose, grinning with the same smile Harry saw every morning in the bathroom mirror when they both shaved together, something that—more often than not—ended up in both of them seeing how much foam they could dangle from their chins without using magic. Harry felt a strange pang of sadness at the thought that he wouldn’t experience that daily, almost mundane aspect of life at home with his parents.
His father, it seemed, had become overcome by emotion. “Have a great year, Harry,” he said. He clapped Harry on the back and sniffed loudly. His eyes glimmered behind his spectacles, though that may have been because they were irritated from the thick smoke encircling them. Harry chose to think that he was, instead, feeling sentimental. Before Harry could turn around, his father pulled him into a tight, surprisingly soft embrace.
“Thanks, Dad,” he mumbled, despite the fact the his words were muffled against his father’s shoulder.
He nodded once, surveying Harry's expression before clapping him on the back once more. “Don’t do anything your mother wouldn’t do.”
“Which excludes just about everything fun,” Harry said with a grin.
“Exactly the point,” he countered, eyes twinkling.
The horn blared a second time and Harry sent one final wave over his shoulder before rushing through the crowds and clambering onto the train. He scrambled past a group of sixth years inconspicuously eyeing him. He smiled at them nervously and found Seamus in a compartment with a second boy, with dark skin and tight, cropped hair, pressed against his side. Seamus’s eyes lit up and he motioned for Harry to join them through the compartment window.
“Hi mate,” the second boy said with a quiet, reserved kind of voice. “Dean Thomas.”
Harry shook his hand and sat opposite them both.
“Seamus mentioned that he’d seen you on the platform,” Dean said with a wry smile. “I’m sure that won’t be the first of your crazy fan encounters.”
“Oi!” Seamus said indignantly, pinching Dean’s shoulder. “It wasn’t a crazy fan experience, was it, Harry?”
Harry smiled in slight amusement and shook his head. He tried not to stare, but Dean’s teasing tone, the way their bodies were so comfortably intertwined and the twinkle in Seamus’s eye as he tickled Dean above his—admittedly, very well put-together—Muggle outfit, made Harry’s heart thud more quickly in his chest.
The train jolted forwards then, the final shouts of farewell heard as the train journeyed north. They passed the bustling London streets and followed the winding tracks through the countryside, leaving only thick steam in their wake.
“So, how come you’re only joining Hogwarts now?” Seamus asked.
“Seamus,” Dean chastised.
“I only mean that there had been rumours for years,” Seamus said. “Harry deserves a chance to say whether they have as much truth as a Rita Skeeter article or not.”
Harry shook his head in dismissal at Dean’s apologetic glance. “It’s alright. Er—my parents said that, once I turned seventeen, I could make the decision to go to Hogwarts for myself. I didn’t go when I was eleven for safety reasons, but, being seventeen means that any added protections end, so it doesn’t really matter where I go.”
Dean nodded, surveying Harry with a fascination that was a mere fraction of that of Seamus.
“I didn’t know anything about the wizarding world, or you, until I got my letter,” Dean admitted. “It’s probably why I seem a little less… star-struck than him.”
“So you’re a Muggle-born, then?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed briefly, and Harry realised how that might have come across.
“Didn’t mean that in a bad way at all,” Harry said hastily.
Dean smiled, easily placated by his response. “S’fine, mate. Didn’t think you were one of those anyway,” he said. “You just can’t be sure nowadays.”
“To be honest, I don’t think anyone who truly believes in pure-blood superiority is going to go around screaming it from the top of their lungs. Especially after... everything.”
Dean nodded gravely. Harry heard Seamus make a strange noise that sounded close to a derisive, but slightly amused snort.
“You’d be surprised,” Seamus said darkly. “I’m half and half, but my Ma’s side of the family is pure-blood so most of my relatives were on You Know Who’s side during the War. My Ma and her sister had to break off ties with basically our entire family. Think some of them still think they can re-start the War without Voldemort.”
“There are people who think like that at Hogwarts?” Harry asked incredulously.
“’Course,” Seamus sighed, “but you won’t have to put up with them outside of classes.”
“Or unless you’re forced to share a dormitory with a Slytherin.”
Seamus winced. “I forgot about that. Merlin’s pants, I couldn’t imagine anything worse.”
Harry looked between them in question. “Why would you have to share a dorm with a Slytherin if you’re not one too?”
“Last year, the old lioness—that’s McGonagall for you—decided to change things up a bit,” Seamus said. Harry glanced at the way Seamus was fiddling absentmindedly with the soft fabric of Dean’s jumper, tracing nonsensical patterns. He smiled and sat back to listen.
“She said that the division between Slytherin and the other houses had become ‘untenable’—whatever that means—and started spewing some of that inter-house unity bollocks. Apparently, some snakes were feeling targeted after a small group of them started leaving idiotic threats about opening the Chamber of Secrets.” Seamus rolled his eyes. “Basically, McGonagall told us all that she’d had the brilliant idea of pairing every sixth and seventh-year student together with someone from a different house, instead of the separate house dormitories we used to have.
“Reckon she thought that we’d be old and mature enough to handle a change like that, and that this would be the perfect moment ‘to start forming better relationships with each other’.” Seamus grimaced as he made some air-quotes. “Said we wouldn’t have a choice when we start working at the Ministry or wherever we end up after Hogwarts so we might as well start pretending we’re all best friends now.”
Harry shook his head in disbelief. He had heard countless stories from Ron about the sense of pride of being in house dormitories, sharing with close friends and decorating the walls with banners of your house. “Won’t that make things even more divided, though? Nobody's going to want to be forced to make friends. It’ll just make the whole situation worse, right?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, mate,” Seamus said. He smoothed the front of his jeans before grinning at Harry. “So, what’s going to happen when you arrive? Are you going to get sorted with all the firsties or do you think McGonagall will let you choose a house?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. Both my parents are Gryffindors so I suppose it's quite likely I’ll be one too.”
“Dean and I are both Gryffindors too. Given that you’ll probably be in her house, I doubt McGonagall would be cruel enough to line you up with the first years to be sorted.” He gave Harry an unabashed once-over that made Harry’s insides squirm. “You might stand out a bit.”
Dean sighed. “Ignore him. Being a Muggle-born changes things for me, but he’s just acting like a hippogriff ‘cause he grew up hearing stories about you. Any of the students who grew up hearing stories about you too, though, will probably have the same reaction as him.”
Harry smiled crookedly. “Sounds terrible but you sort of… get used to it after a while. What I mean is, I still don’t much know how to react. To my parents and Ron and everyone I’m just Harry, really.”
“Alright, 'just Harry’. What about saying hello to your best mate, then?”
Harry whipped around at the sound of Ron’s familiar voice and leaped up from his seat, tackling him into a hug and knocking into the partially open compartment door. Harry glanced behind Ron to find Hermione Granger, Ron’s girlfriend whom he had met a handful of times over summer holidays and Christmases spent at the Burrow, worrying her lip.
“Hermione!” he exclaimed, pulling her into a significantly gentler hug.
“Hi Harry,” she said against his shoulder as he got a mouthful of extremely bushy hair. “How are you?”
He nodded and pulled them both into the compartment, watching as a chorus of greetings were exchanged between them and Seamus and Dean.
They spent the remainder of the journey exchanging stories about their experiences at Hogwarts, warning Harry about what to expect from certain professors and lessons, which classes were easiest to skive off and which dark corridors were best for some of the more unsolicited activities the older students tended to get up to. Harry tried not to blush at any mentions of those. He wasn’t prudish, but growing up with his parents as his primary source of company seemed to place a certain restriction on Harry's love life.
After that, Hermione gladly filled Harry in on the N.E.W.T courses they had begun the previous year to make sure that he wouldn’t need to lag behind the rest of the class. His parents had taught him material beyond the core coursework and he was quite sure he’d adjust to the school work quickly—it was the idea of having to fit in with the students outside Ron and Hermione that made him nervous.
Harry glanced outside as the surroundings changed outside once again. The train crossed mounted bridges over rivers and streams, travelling at a comfortable speed. The sun, which had shone high in the sky when they departed, was slowly setting. A gentle blend of orange and pink hues coloured the sky, farmhouses casting long shadows over the country fields they passed.
Just as Harry was about to ask what their arrival time would be, a cheerful voice called for them to change into their Hogwarts robes and announced that they would soon be arriving. Harry found that he was immediately singled out when he pulled on his plain black robes, the same type worn by the first years who had not yet been sorted. Dean, Seamus, Ron and Hermione both had the Gryffindor crest embroidered on their chest pockets.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Ron said, noticing Harry fidget with the cuffs of his sleeves. “You’ll be sorted before you know it.”
The train jolted to a stop a mere half-hour later, sending the five of them tumbling into a pile of limbs, Dean groaning beneath Seamus as he collapsed into a fit of laughter. They disembarked from the train, assured that their pets and trunks would be sent to their respective rooms, and landed on the narrow platform at Hogsmeade Station.
“Firs’ Years this way! Come along now! Firs’ Years over here with me!” a thunderous voice called.
“That’ll be Hagrid, the gamekeeper,” Ron said. He pulled Harry in the opposite direction, past crowds of anxious first years shuffling around an enormous man clad in a moleskin overcoat, to join a larger group at the perimeter of the station. “There it is.”
Harry turned around and gasped at the sight. In the distance, surrounded by steep mountains in the Scottish Highlands with the Great Lake gleaming below, stood Hogwarts. The vast castle boasted of turrets and towers, the small lights of the windows flickering and casting light across the expansive grounds. Though Dean and Seamus climbed up a small hill ahead of him, no longer quite as enraptured by the sight, Harry was unable to tear his eyes off the castle. They arrived at a gathering where Thestrals, their skeletal bodies and leather wings invisible to most students, pulled the carriages. They scrambled to find a carriage and, from a distance, heard a voice ordering students into each carriage.
“MacMillan!” Seamus called. Harry watched as the boy—Ernie, Ron supplied—banged his head against the roof of the carriage as he was climbing inside before whipping around. He turned expectantly as Seamus and Dean, followed by Harry and Ron, and Hermione—who, with her nose in a book, kept veering slightly too far to the left so that Ron had to gently tug her by the arm—made their way towards him.
Seamus pointed at Ernie’s chest and made a low, whistling sound. “I see you’ve been bestowed with the title of Head Boy. Should I bow down before you? Or should I kiss your hand, perhaps?”
Ron, in an impressively hushed voice, relayed the basics of Ernie’s link with Seamus. Apparently they had dated for a brief period in fourth year, but broke up on amicable terms. Then, Ron, with a supreme lack of subtlety, informed Harry that Ernie was gay, single and down to fuck. Hermione heard this and swatted Ron with the sharp corner of his book, leaving Harry to roll his eyes and smile at the couple in amusement. Merlin, it seemed as though Hogwarts was already teeming with relationships.
“Congrats Ernie,” Ron said cheerily, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not that anyone wasn’t expecting it, though. You were obviously McGonagall’s first choice. And besides, it’s not like they were going to make Malfoy Head Boy.”
All of them—excluding Hermione and Harry—guffawed at the proposition
“Think she’d sooner Gryffindor lose the Quidditch Cup for the next hundred years,” Ron said.
Some of the carriages rolled in the direction of the castle, bypassing the smattering of trees and away from the village of Hogsmeade.
“Come on then, lads,” Seamus said, clambering into the carriage. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we get to the feast and the sooner I can dig into all the delicacies that Hogwarts has to offer. Three months is too longer to suffer without treacle tart.”
They arrived at the castle shortly after that and Ron immediately dragged Harry through the corridors to see McGonagall, rambling about the fact that they needed to request that Harry be sorted separately from the first years. He matched them to the top of the Great Hall, Harry marvelling at the ceiling imitating the night sky in tow.
They spotted McGonagall immediately and she seemed to anticipate them, turning to greet them both, lips pursed. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr Potter,” she said primly. “I’m certainly looking forward to ascertain the material your parents have taught you. Knowing your mother, I’m sure she has you very well versed in Potions at the very least.”
“Thank you,” Harry said faintly. Under her close scrutiny, he felt every piece of information he ever learned disappear as though someone had cast a highly effective Obliviate on him.
“Now, I quite agree that it would be unnecessary to put you through the first-year Sorting Ceremony but rules are rules and you still need to be assigned your house.” She flicked her wand and the Sorting Hat, worn and frayed, soared into her outstretched hand. “The first years will be arriving any moment—assuming Hagrid hasn’t toppled into the lake again—so it would be best to do so now.” She pointed to the small stool at the very top of the Great Hall.
“Right now?” Harry exclaimed, suddenly feeling very hot beneath his robes.
“Yes, now, Mr Potter,” she said impatiently. “Unless you would prefer Mr Weasley to leave?”
“No,” he said, glancing up at Ron, smiling as he clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. He sat on the wobbly stool. “That’s alright. He can stay here.”
Harry closed his eyes and inhaled sharply when he felt Professor McGonagall lower the Sorting Hat on his head.
“Well,” a small, rough voice whispered, “aren’t you an intriguing one. You’re quite daring, I see; very little regard for rules or boundaries. You certainly have a temper on you, haven’t you? And you’ll go to great lengths to get your way. There’s a nobility in your pursuits, though, that’s for sure. And I don’t think Slytherin quite fits with your values, though it would be fascinating to see how well you’d bode there. I suppose, all things considered, it’ll have to be... GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry sighed with relief, his thundering heart slowing down to a less alarming pace. He blinked rapidly in the bright lights when he felt the hat lift from his eyes. He saw Professor McGonagall nod at him approvingly as Ron engulfed him in yet another a tight embrace.
“You will join the rest of your house for the start of term banquet,” she said before her lips drew into a small smile, her eyes alight behind her spectacles. “I certainly hope you’re good at Quidditch, Mr Potter. Welcome to Gryffindor House.”
The Great Hall soon filled with students and he spotted Seamus and Dean too. Hermione, who had arrived chatting with a girl with a long plait, sat next to Ron.
After the chatter in the Great Hall began to quieten down, the doors to the Great Hall swung open to reveal Professor McGonagall followed by a long line of petrified first years. She turned around at the top and faced the entire hall with a tight, but not unwelcoming smile. “Good evening to you all and welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We’re going to begin with the Sorting Ceremony now, and then you shall be able to enjoy your feast.”
The first years exchanged looks of horror, scrambling to hide themselves in the group. Harry leaned forwards to get a proper view of the Sorting Hat. The very second Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on the stool, it burst into song.
Welcome, young first years, you’re new to the show,
I’m the Sorting Hat, you see, I reveal what you know
And the house I assign you will cultivate your talents, allow you to grow.
In wisdom you’ll blossom, in bravery you’ll soar,
By the end of your journey I’ve no doubt some of you will return for more.
In Gryffindor you’ll find the fiercely brave and noble-hearted,
Ravenclaw is where your wisdom will expand and venture into the uncharted,
Why, in Slytherin lie the ambitious and shrewd,
And the dear Hufflepuffs value patience and try to make peace, dissolve feuds.
In your houses you’ll learn far more than just skills,
You’ll form friends, share laughter, tell stories with your quills,
You’ll discover where your talents and allegiances truly lie,
Though I must warn some of you not to allow prejudices to blind your eye.
The Great Hall erupted in applause, a couple of Gryffindor students seated behind Harry standing on their bench to whoop loudly, chanting something very rude.
“Quiet down, now,” Professor McGonagall called sternly, eyes narrowing at the sight of the two Gryffindors. She flicked her wand in their direction and they promptly sat on the benches once again, looking mildly perturbed by her lack of reaction. “When I call your name, you must step forward and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head.”
Harry watched as the list trickled down until the final three students were called. Elizabeth Waters, Penelope Worcester and Kenneth Zebley were sorted into Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively and cheers from each of the houses sounded as they were bestowed with a new member.
Without a moment’s notice, delectable food appeared along each of the house tables. Rosemary roasted potatoes, buttery peas, roast beef drowning in gravy, and spicy chicken wings piled into tall pyramids lined the tables. The students dived forward to fill their plates and Harry followed suit, suddenly reminded of how hungry he really was. He was reaching for a bowl of basil and tomato soup when the double doors of the Great Hall swung open.
Harry craned his neck and followed the source of the sound. A tall, slender boy with white blonde hair and a sharp jaw sauntered inside, flicking his wand to extinguish every candle suspended above the Slytherin table. He fell dramatically, yet with an unnerving grace, onto one of the benches before tucking his wand into the pocket of his dark green robes. He glared at the students gaping at him, others sharing incredulous looks.
“Well, what are you staring at?” he demanded.
His voice was clear and he spoke slowly, articulate despite his sneering tone. It carried across the Great Hall and, apparently, quite a few students were listening to him.
Harry heard whispers and exasperated sighs from Ron and the Gryffindors around him. He watched Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes narrow as she hushed the first years to sit with their houses. She marched down the centre of the Great Hall until she came to a stop beside the boy, who was chewing moodily on a slice of steak and kidney pie.
Most of the students were staring at him; some with awe, others with poorly disguised admiration, and a couple with something close to fear. Harry wasn’t quite sure what was so enrapturing about him; he certainly didn’t recognise his face from any of the photographs Ron showed him of his friends from Hogwarts. Harry noticed a girl beside the blonde-haired boy nudge his side when she saw McGonagall approaching. The boy smirked at the sight of her and raised an eyebrow.
“And why might you be late, Mr Malfoy? This is no way to start a new term. I thought you might have learned by now.”
“Did you really think that, Professor? Or were you just humouring yourself?”
The Slytherins around him chortled, others shaking their heads while the boy opposite Malfoy, wearing a nasty smirk, merely looked entertained.
Her eyebrows shot together. “Ten points from Slytherin House,” she announced loudly, prompting one of the Slytherins beside the boy to groan. “You need to discipline yourself, Mr Malfoy, or I can very well promise you that you’ll be out of this school before the Quidditch season begins.”
The students in the Great Hall were soon distracted by the arrival of a soaking wet Hagrid who fell into his chair, which promptly collapsed into a pile of wood beneath him. Horace Slughorn, an old portly man and Head of Slytherin, sighed and raised his wand. Hagrid’s overcoat and beard dried instantly, though he still looked dishevelled, his skin a clammy grey colour.
Harry, however, had to tear his eyes from where McGonagall was muttering into the boy’s ear. He looked completely unbothered and she left soon thereafter, sighing to herself. As she took her seat at the head of the Great Hall, she leaned down to whisper into Professor Flitwick’s ear. Harry was about to ask who the arrogant and, frankly, rude boy was, when he was interrupted.
“So, Harry,” Lavender Brown, a fellow Gryffindor, said. “How do you think you’re going to fare with all this coursework? N.E.W.T.s are this year, you know.”
"Oh, don't start, Lav," bemoaned Parvati Patil. "I haven't even started my pudding yet. I don't want to think about exams this early."
Harry was promptly distracted and launched into a conversation with Lavender about the particular demands of Charms and the merits of individualism in Potions, a topic that quickly coaxed Hermione from the book she had been enraptured by. After Harry had chatted to some of the other Gryffindors in his year and had his fill of delicious food, the plates were soon replaced by trays of desserts. Profiteroles overflowing with fresh cream, treacle tart, and pumpkin spice pudding sprang up on the long tables. Harry cut himself a slice of white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake just as Professor Flitwick stood up behind the table, clapping his hands rather loudly to garner the students’ attention.
“While you’re all enjoying the magnificent array of desserts the house-elves have prepared—in particular our Head Chef, Nina—on behalf of Professor McGonagall I have a few announcements to make, one of which I’m sure many of you will be very excited about,” he called.
Harry glanced around and noticed that Professor McGonagall was absent from the table and that she was, instead, marching the blonde-haired Slytherin from before back to his seat at the table.
“Firstly, along with our first years, we have a new seventh-year Gryffindor student to welcome: Harry Potter.”
Harry felt his entire face flush as the entire student body was given a valid excuse to crane their necks to get a good look at him. He looked awkwardly at his hands before changing his mind and glancing at where Ron was clapping enthusiastically and periodically clapping him on the back. By the end of the day, he was sure that there would be bruises there.
“I hope you’ll all make him feel welcome and have regard to the fact that, despite his age, he too will need help adjusting to life at Hogwarts. On behalf on Ravenclaw House, we would absolutely be—”
“That’s perfectly fine, Filius,” Professor McGonagall interrupted, resuming her seat at the top of the Great Hall with an exasperated sigh. “Now along with this, I would like to remind you all, as always, that the Forbidden Forest is strictly out of bounds and any student found there without accompaniment by a professor will have his or her house docked one hundred points and will be subject to three months of detention with me.” Her eyes lingered on the Malfoy boy.
“Next, and as I mentioned at the conclusion of last term, we have decided to adjust the living arrangements for sixth and seventh-year students. You will each have your own house common rooms to socialise, of course, but we hope that this new initiative will tackle the inter-house tension of late, especially among our older students who should be setting good examples. Boys and girls will be separated but each student will be placed with someone from a different house to cultivate co-operation and unity in the student body.”
She whipped out her wand and from it sprang a long piece of parchment. “I will assign each of you with a roommate from the same year but from a different house, and the location of each of your living quarters. There will be absolutely no exceptions. If I hear of any misconduct or bullying, the student or students involved will be severely punished.”
Professor McGonagall proceeded to listlessly read names from the list. The students each had varying reactions; some visibly winced while others seemed genuinely delighted by the prospect of sharing a room with one of their friends. Harry heard Ron and Ernie’s names called together and spotted Ernie darting over to the Gryffindor table to vigorously shake a reluctant-but-relieved Ron's hand. Hermione’s name was called alongside a Slytherin by the name of Pansy Parkinson, and they were assigned the best dormitory in the castle, overlooking the tallest mountain peak behind Hogwarts. That didn’t seem to matter to either Hermione or Pansy, however, as both of them looked as though they would rather share a bed with a Blast Ended Skrewt than spend the next year as roommates.
As Professor McGonagall called out yet more unfamiliar names—though some surnames he recognised—Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of anxiety settle on his shoulders. They were rigid beneath his clothes. As his stomach twisted and coiled into uncomfortable knots, he suddenly regretted the enormous dinner he had eaten. Ron placed a consoling hand on his arm.
“Draco Malfoy,” McGonagall called, tone laced with distaste. She glanced at the list and sighed regretfully. “Will be paired with Harry Potter in the uppermost dormitory in the Right Tower.”
Harry felt the breath knocked out of him. Draco Malfoy? The very boy who seemed to possess the ability to captivate and instil fear into an entire hall of students was Harry’s new roommate. Suddenly, the prospect of making new friends seemed like a wild fantasy. He glanced at Ron helplessly, feeling the entirely of Gryffindor table grimace and exchange sympathetic murmurs. He heard whispers, some outraged on his behalf, others shocked by his assignment.
“...imagine being the new boy and having to share with Malfoy. That’s fucking rough.”
“ ...can’t believe McGonagall would do that to him. He should be given his own dormitory for everyone’s safety.”
“...how does she expect Harry Potter to share with Malfoy of all people? He should be the exception, I say. Malfoy should be put with one of the Slytherins. They all worship the ground he walks on, anyway.”
Ron looked just about as furious as when he had found out that the Chudley Cannons’ only decent player—Jane Shaquif—had been seriously injured that previous season.
“But— no,” he insisted to nobody in particular. “That can’t happen. Harry will be murdered in his sleep!”
Once McGonagall had finished reading the list of roommates, she called for silence. Harry slumped against Ron and watched as she rose from her chair, commanding the students’ attention despite her unformidable stature.
“Now, as Professor Flitwick mentioned, we have a rather exciting piece of information that, for some of you whose parents are in the Ministry, will not come as surprise.” She cast her gaze over the four long tables, before extracting her wand from the pocket of her robes. She waved it in a circular motion and an enormous banner reading ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry welcomes Beauxbatons and Durmstrang schools for the Triwizard Tournament’.
The Great Hall broke into gasps and chatter, a couple of students who had already been told about the Triwizard Tournament talking smugly over the cheers.
“Settle down!” she called. “Now, as you’re aware, the last time the Triwizard Tournament was held was ten years ago. We spent most of last year negotiating with the Ministry of Magic to secure Hogwarts as the designated school to host, assured as we were that here would be—relatively—the safest choice.”
A mini firework coloured in yellow and red shot into the air reading ‘Hogwarts to win the Triwizard Cup!’ from the Ravenclaw table.
Professor McGonagall suppressed a smile. “Yes, Miss McLennan, we’re all anticipating Hogwarts to win in this tournament but before we get ahead of ourselves, I must lay down the new rules and regulations decided between the three schools. We came to the following arrangements after some… testing negotiations.”
Professor Flitwick charmed the banner hanging above the long table to depict the badges of each of the houses in the four corners. Professor McGonagall nodded curtly before reading from a piece of parchment.
“Firstly, all eligible competitors must have reached the age of seventeen by the deadline for submission into the Goblet of Fire. Submissions, once made, cannot be rescinded. The Goblet selects the students and those candidates have no choice but to take part, so consider carefully what is at stake before you enter your name. It will be located in the Great Hall for any such students to enter their name tomorrow morning.
"Secondly, the candidates are not to receive any external help, including professors or other students. They are to prepare by themselves. Finally, and most importantly, in accordance with attempts to improve health and safety measures, each of the three schools will propose two candidates. That is, two Hogwarts students will be chosen to work as a team to overcome the Triwizard tasks.” She raised her hand to silence the chatter along the tables. “Students must submit their names individually and the Goblet will choose the best candidates for the Tournament. Best of luck to you all.”
Students from each of the tables stood in unison and battled their way to the double doors at the back of the Great Hall. Harry tentatively watched Hermione—who had insisted that she be the one to convince McGonagall as, in Ron’s words, “McGonagall treats you like you’re her long lost child, ‘Mione.” McGonagall shook her head before Hermione could even speak.
“I’m fully aware that the situation is unfavourable, Ms Granger, but at least he has the benefit of trying to get along with someone new," she said pointedly. "That would never be possible with any of the students from other houses—the students he already knows. At least give Mr Malfoy the benefit of the doubt.”
“But Professor, Harry can hardly be expected to get along with—”
“I won’t hear of excuses, Ms Granger. As you very well know, rules are rules and if word gets out that I made an exception for one boy then everyone will want to swap.” She nodded once before sweeping past them both and out of the Great Hall.
“Thanks for trying, Hermione,” Harry muttered.
“Don’t worry about it,” she sighed. Her mouth twisted into the closest thing to a grimace that his face could manage.
“Just don’t take any shit from Malfoy. He takes real pleasure in walking all over people,” Ron said.
“But do try to stay out of trouble, Harry," Hermione said.
Ron nodded vehemently. "He’s a sneaky little bastard that’ll blame anyone to get away without punishment.”
“You know me, Ron," Harry said, shouldering him. "I’ll always stand up for myself.”
“I know, Harry but you don't have to be heroic either. Malfoy's going to try to wind you up, so you have to learn to ignore him sometimes.”
They trundled up one of the tall staircases towards the Right Tower, passing stained-glass windows and portraits depicting everything from fighting scenes between giants, to plump, powdered ladies gossiping about the likely candidates for the Triwizard Tournament.
“Think you’ll put your name in the Goblet, then?” Harry asked as they rounded a dark corridor lined with dim lamps.
“I think so, yeah,” Ron said. “Be a great thing to try out for at least. I reckon it would be alright. If I got picked, that is. I’m good with the physical tasks and duelling aspects so having a partner with me can only help matters for solving all the riddles and clues, you know? Could be you, y’know, Hermione.”
Harry hummed. “I’m going to think about it tonight but I probably will, too.”
Hermione pursed her lips and eyed them both. “You two really should give this serious consideration before you do anything. And for Merlin’s sake, if you’re chosen, don’t let the time your parents find out be when you’re on the front page of the Daily Prophet, Harry.”
Harry smiled at her concern. “Don’t worry about me, Hermione.” They came to a stop outside Harry's assigned dormitory in the Right Tower and climbed up winding staircases (avoiding the step at the very top). “Now go and do your Head Girl duties.”
Ron smiled proudly at Hermione before they both bid Harry a good night and waved him off. Harry slumped against the wall, taking a moment of reverie to glance out of the window beside the door to his dormitory. The magnificent view spoke of the Great Lake and the mountains encompassing it. The twinkling lights from the downstairs classrooms shone across the sloping hills leading down to the lake. They had climbed up the hills leading to the castle that very evening but, to Harry, it felt like a lifetime ago.
He took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door, expecting Malfoy to open the door. There was no response, however, so he pushed the door and entered the room, muttering “Lumos” to ignite the lanterns on the two bedside lockers.
Two overstuffed chairs, one upholstered in scarlet and gold, the other in silver and emerald green, overlooked a tall window peering over the edge of the lake. Copper lamps cast a warm glow, bathing the room in a soft light. Patchwork quilts covered the two four-poster beds and each of their trunks were set adjacent to the beds. Abrax slinked over to him, purring softly when Harry rubbed between her ears.
“I guess this is home now, right Abrax?”
Harry noticed a second black cat, almost identical to Abrax. She had a distinctive white patch at the end of her tail, however, and her eyes were noticeably darker. She was perched on the bed with the thick, green quilt—Malfoy's bed—eyeing Harry suspiciously. Harry approached her, sitting on the edge of Malfoy's bed to pet her gently. Despite her initial tentativeness, the cat instantly curled against his side, purring into his robes. Abrax leaped onto the bed, jealous of the attention Harry was paying the other cat, and Harry laughed at his antics, rubbing them both behind the ears. Harry watched them both preen under his attention and felt relieved that the second cat and Abrax tolerated each other. He desperately wanted to fall back on the emerald bedsheets, limbs aching from the long journey cramped in the train carriage and sated after the feast. He knew, however, that Malfoy was likely to arrive back any minute.
Harry extracted himself from the two cats and changed into the plaid pyjamas folded on his bed. He brushed his teeth and tucked himself under the bedsheets, Abrax and the second cat joining him curled up on his pillow. Although he was exhausted, eyelids heavy and movements languid, he felt it necessary to stay up until Malfoy arrived back to the dormitory. He didn’t want to leave a bad first impression by falling asleep before he could properly introduce himself, even if it seemed that Malfoy was an arrogant Slytherin. Though he wasn’t sure Malfoy could even recognise, let alone appreciate, common courtesy, it felt like the decent thing to do.
In the end, Harry forced himself to write a letter to his parents to keep himself awake. He reached over Abrax and the white-tailed cat and found a blank piece of parchment and black ink. His neat scrawl informed them of his initial thoughts on the castle and the teachers, his place in Gryffindor and the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament. He carefully avoided addressing whether or not he planned to enter his name. Thoughts of being chosen for the tournament flooded his thoughts and sent a thrill of excitement through him. It would be a chance for him to leave his mark at the school, prove himself and show his capabilities, not to mention the thousand Galleons prize.
He signed off his name and folded up his parchment, making a mental note to ask Ron where the Owlery was.
The door swung open with a sharp bang. Harry started and his gaze shot to the rickety door. Malfoy strutted inside, eyes following the intricacies of the dormitory before they landed on Harry.
“Hullo,” Harry said, pulling back the bedsheets and clambering out of bed with less grace than he had intended. He held out his hand, ignoring Malfoy's upturned lip. “I’m Harry.”
“Malfoy,” he muttered, “Draco Malfoy.” His gaze was trained on the inky sky through the window. Harry dropped his outstretched hand.
“Appallingly typical that the Boy Who Lived would be in Gryffindor,” he said, sauntering over to his bed, tracing the Slytherin crest adorning his pyjamas. “Although you are a Potter, so your blood status would dictate that you should be in my house.” He smiled, though his eyes remained unnervingly vacant.
Harry’s shoulders tensed and he tightened his jaw. He took his wand from the bedside table but didn't raise it. He glared. “If you have an issue with wizards who aren't pure-bloods then I'll be happy to correct you.”
Malfoy laughed obnoxiously. “I see why you’re in with the rest of those pointless heroics, then. All too sanctimonious for your own good.” He glanced at where Harry stood with his hands crossed over his chest. “I’m not opposed to non-pure-bloods, I just happened to hear wind that the Sorting Hat may have… lost its touch when it comes to you.”
"The Sorting Hat didn't make a mistake. I belong in Gryffindor."
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment but didn't reply.
Harry nodded tersely, eyeing Malfoy as he crossed the room to return to his bed. He noticed two copper bed warmers hanging on the wall and cast an Incedaguia, a charm that produced hot water into both of the bed warmers. He handed one to Malfoy who nodded at him, tucking it beneath his pillow with his left hand.
“How did you do that?” he asked suddenly. Harry immediately wheeled around to follow Malfoy's line of sight, landing on his own pillow.
“Cassiopeia—she never goes near anyone except me,” he whispered. Malfoy approached the two cats cautiously, as though afraid to interrupt their sleeping. “How did you do that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, really, I guess she just liked Abrax and then—”
“If you hexed my cat, I’ll fucking kill you,” Malfoy whispered darkly.
Harry gaped at him, his heart leaping into his throat. “Fuck, no! I swear I didn’t,” he startled. “Why would you even think that?”
He frowned at Harry, eyes scanning his face before nodding, albeit unwillingly. “Abrax, you said? Like the winged horse?”
“Yeah,” Harry breathed. Harry stepped closer to him, relieved that that Malfoy was opening up to him. “You see, my godfather got me the cat when I turned fourteen because he was so delighted that I was able to conjure a Patronus and said that—”
“I really couldn’t care less.”
Harry’s mouth snapped shut. His fists clenched but he stopped himself from retorting as Malfoy stepped closer to the two cats. He rubbed his knuckles on Abrax’s head before gently picking Cassiopeia up from the bed with his left hand. She immediately curved her body into Malfoy's touch, who was stroking along her back and head.
Malfoy glanced up to find Harry staring at him, open-mouthed at his gentle demeanour. “What the fuck are you staring at?” he hissed, voice low as if he was unwilling to wake the cat cradled in his arm. He sauntered over to his bed and placed her at the end of it.
Harry glowered at him, and tried to busy himself with his belongings on his bedside table before getting into bed and turning on his side. Five minutes later, he heard bedsheets rumpling and a heavy sigh. Harry muttered “Nox” and the lights were extinguished.
In the pitch darkness, Harry suddenly felt immensely lonely. Thoughts of his mother's parting words and final goodbye replayed like a broken Wizarding Wireless record. He stared at the faint outline of the bathroom door, trying to will himself to fall asleep. His mind, however, was consumed with thoughts of the confusing, infuriating boy who was muttering in his sleep across the room.