March 16th, 1993, Hospital Wing, 2:34 PM
Harry sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, his right arm still bandaged though the pain had faded to a dull ache. Madam Pomfrey had declared him well enough for visitors yesterday, and his friends had wasted no time descending upon his bed like a flock of particularly enthusiastic owls.
Ron occupied the chair closest to Harry, gesticulating wildly as he recounted his latest letter from home. "—and Mum says they're actually going to visit Bill in Egypt this summer! Egypt, Harry! With actual pyramids and curse-breakers and everything! Percy's already started making a list of historical sites he wants to see, which is typical Percy behaviour, but Fred and George are planning to buy Dungbombs from some Egyptian market—"
"That sounds brilliant," Harry said, though a small part of him felt the familiar pang of being left out. . Not that he minded—he loved spending time with his father—but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have siblings, to be part of that kind of noisy, chaotic family dynamic. 'Luna was different, well, as for Jasper and Osian, they don't really count'
Hermione sat cross-legged at the foot of Harry's bed, surrounded by what appeared to be half the library. Textbooks, parchment rolls, and reference materials formed precarious towers around her, and her quill moved with frantic speed across a lengthy essay.
"Hermione," Luna said from her perch on the windowsill, her voice carrying gentle concern, "you've been working for three hours straight. Perhaps a break?"
"Can't," Hermione muttered without looking up. "I missed nearly two weeks of classes being petrified. Do you know how far behind that puts me? Professor McGonagall says all the petrified students have extensions on our assignments, but I can't just hand in substandard work. I have my academic reputation to consider."
Draco, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Granger, you do realise the other petrified students are celebrating having extensions, right? Justin Finch-Fletchley told me he's not even starting his essays until next week."
"That's Justin's choice," Hermione said primly. "I prefer to maintain my standards."
Ron shook his head in bemusement. "You're mental, you know that? Brilliant, but then again, mental."
"Speaking of the aftermath," Draco said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike, "I thought you'd want to know what happened to the basilisk corpse."
Harry sat up straighter, wincing slightly at the pull in his wounded arm. "They moved it?"
"Had to. A fifty-foot serpent rotting in the Chamber of Secrets would've created quite the health hazard." Draco's mouth twitched. "Professor Snape was practically salivating at the prospect. Basilisk parts are incredibly valuable, venom, fangs, hide, eyes if they're intact, even the bones. The professors divided it up for various uses. Snape took the venom sack for potions ingredients, obviously. Professor Flitwick claimed several fangs for enchantment work. Professor Sprout wanted the hide for protective dragon-hide gloves. Even Lockhart tried to claim something before McGonagall reminded him he'd spent the entire crisis unconscious in a collapsed tunnel."
Harry couldn't help but grin at that. Lockhart had been quietly dismissed from his position, his memory still addled from the cave-in. The official story was that he'd heroically attempted to save students and been injured in the process. Only a select few knew the truth. Still, his reputation was done for, as Ethan slipped news to Harry that the Ministry was on his tail.
"What about the skeleton?" Luna asked, her grey eyes distant. "I heard Professor Dumbledore wanted to preserve it."
"He did," Draco confirmed. "It's being treated and articulated for display. Apparently, it'll be unveiled at the end-of-term feast as a sort of... memorial to the danger we survived."
What none of them knew—what Draco himself didn't know despite his father's involvement in the Board of Governors—was that Ethan Esther had visited the Chamber the night after Harry's rescue.
Moving with the silent efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he needed, Ethan had collected one pristine fang, a section of intact hide, one of the basilisk's ruined-but-salvageable eyes, and a carefully extracted sample from the venom sack before the professors could claim everything.
These items now rested in the Esther warded vault, waiting for future use in ways Ethan had seen but not yet shared.
Hermione had finally looked up from her essay, her expression thoughtful. "Do you think the Chamber will be sealed again? Or studied?"
"Dumbledore's having curse-breakers examine it," Draco said. "Making sure there aren't any other nasty surprises Slytherin left behind. After that, they'll probably seal it permanently. No point in having a massive basilisk lair beneath the school, even without the basilisk."
The door to the Hospital Wing burst open with enough force to make Harry flinch, his hand instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn't there. But it was only Colin Creevey, the tiny first-year practically vibrating with excitement, his camera bouncing against his chest.
"Harry! Harry, you won't believe—" Colin skidded to a stop beside the bed, his eyes wide behind his glasses, then seemed to realise he'd made a rather dramatic entrance. His enthusiasm dimmed slightly, replaced by shy uncertainty. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... I just heard the news and I thought you'd want to know—"
Luna slipped down from the windowsill and moved to Colin's side, her hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder. The first-year relaxed immediately under her calming presence, his nervous energy channelling into more coherent speech.
"It's alright, Colin," Luna said softly. "Take a breath. What news did you want to share?"
Colin beamed at her, then turned back to Harry. "It's about Draco's dad...I mean, Mr Malfoy... no offence, Draco—"
"None taken," Draco said, his voice carefully neutral. "What about my father?"
"He's been removed from the Board of Governors!" Colin announced triumphantly. "The other governors voted him out after they found out he'd been involved in some sort of scandal. My dad wrote to me about it, it's in the Prophet and everything. They're saying he used intimidation tactics to influence school policy and possibly had something to do with the Chamber incidents, though they can't prove that part."
The room fell silent.
Harry looked at Draco, whose expression had gone carefully blank—the mask he wore when processing something emotionally complicated. But there was something in his eyes, something that looked almost like... relief.
"Draco?" Hermione ventured carefully. "Are you alright?"
For a long moment, Draco didn't respond. Then, slowly, his shoulders lowered, tension Harry hadn't even noticed bleeding away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I'm... I'm actually alright."
Ron frowned. "Mate, your dad just got sacked from a prestigious position. You sure you're okay?"
"My father," Draco said, each word chosen with precision, "has spent my entire life using intimidation, manipulation, and carefully applied cruelty to control everyone around him. Including me. Especially me. Being removed from the Board of Governors means he has less power, less influence, less ability to make other people's lives miserable." He met their eyes, his grey gaze steady. "So yes, I'm alright. I'm better than alright."
Hermione's expression softened. "He hurt you."
It wasn't a question.
Draco's jaw tightened. "Not physically. Father's too clever for that. But there are other ways to hurt someone. Constant criticism. Impossible standards. Making sure you know that love is conditional on being exactly what he wants you to be." He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "I spent eleven years trying to be the perfect Malfoy heir. Cold, cunning, loyal to the pureblood cause. And it was killing something in me, something I didn't even know I had until mother introduced me to uncle Sam."
Draco eyes shimmered as if remembering his utmost pleasant memory. "Mother went to him because she was worried about father's influence on me. Thought maybe a different male role model might help. And uncle Sam..." He paused, something like wonder crossing his face. "Uncle Sam didn't care about blood status. Didn't care about Dark magic or Light magic or any of the rubbish Father spouted. He just... talked to me. Like I was a person, not a project. Asked what I wanted, not what I was supposed to want."
"What did you want?" Ron asked, his usual sarcasm absent.
"To help people," Draco said simply. "To use magic for healing instead of hurting. To be someone who made things better instead of worse. Father said Healing was beneath a Malfoy, that it was servant's work. Sam said it was one of the noblest applications of magic." He smiled slightly.
Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand. "We're glad you're here, Draco. The real you, not the one your father wanted."
"So am I," Draco admitted. "Though I'm fairly certain Father would disown me if he knew half of what I've been doing since enrolling Hogwarts. Befriending a half-blood, a Muggle-born, and a blood-traitor family? Studying Healing instead of Dark Arts? Actually caring about people?" He shook his head. "I'd be a disappointment on every front."
"Then he's an idiot," Ron said bluntly. "Because you're brilliant, and he doesn't deserve you."
Draco blinked, clearly taken aback by the compliment from an unexpected source. "Weasley, did you just say something nice about me?"
"Don't let it go to your head, Malfoy. I'm sure you'll do something git-like soon enough to balance it out."
"Undoubtedly."
They grinned at each other, and Harry felt warmth bloom in his chest. This—this right here—was what made everything worth it. Not defeating basilisks or destroying Horcruxes or living up to some destiny. But this, friendship, acceptance, people choosing to be better than the world expected them to be.
A sharp crack echoed through the Hospital Wing, and suddenly a house-elf stood at the foot of Harry's bed.
"Dobby!" Harry yelped, nearly upsetting Hermione's precarious stack of books.
The house-elf looked vastly different from their last meeting. His pillowcase toga had been replaced with a clean (if mismatched) assortment of clothing—a tea cosy for a hat, several scarves, and what appeared to be a tiny jumper. His tennis-ball eyes were bright with tears, and his ears quivered with emotion.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, bouncing on his toes. "Dobby has come to thank Harry Potter! Great and noble Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord's memory and saved Miss Weasley and saved all the Muggle-borns and freed Dobby from the bad Malfoys!"
"Freed... what?" Ron looked confused.
But Draco had gone very still, his eyes fixed on the house-elf with sudden, shocked recognition. "Dobby? Our house-elf Dobby?"
Dobby's ears drooped. "Young Master Draco. Dobby is sorry for leaving without permission, but Dobby had to help Harry Potter—"
"Wait, wait," Harry interrupted, his mind working quickly. "Draco, this is your family's house-elf?"
"Was," Draco said, his voice odd. "Father reported him missing months ago. Said he'd run away, which is virtually impossible for a house-elf bound to a family. How did you—" His eyes widened.
Dobby said miserably. "Dobby tried to save Harry Potter. Dobby knew terrible things would happen at Hogwarts because Master Lucius had given the bad diary to Miss Weasley. Dobby tried to make Harry Potter go home where he would be safe, but Harry Potter is too brave and good and wouldn't leave—"
"Hold on," Hermione said sharply. "Lucius Malfoy gave Ginny the diary? He's the one who started all this?"
Luna, who'd been quiet through Dobby's revelation, spoke up in her dreamy voice. "I saw him do it, so was Teacher. At Flourish and Blotts, when the fight happened. He slipped something into Ginny's cauldron. I didn't know what it was at the time..."
"Teacher?" Ron asked.
"Ethan," Luna clarified. "He was with me. He saw too."
A complicated expression crossed Draco's face—anger, shame, and something that might have been relief all tangled together. "Of course Father was behind it. Of course. Using an eleven-year-old girl as a tool for his schemes, not caring if she died in the process." He looked at Dobby. "I'm sorry. For whatever my father did to you, for the way he treated you, I'm sorry."
Dobby's eyes went even wider. "Young Master Draco is apologising to Dobby?"
"You don't belong to my family anymore," Draco said firmly. "And you shouldn't have. House-elves aren't property, no matter what Father says."
"But Dobby isn't freed," the elf said sadly. "Dobby is still bound to the Malfoy family, even though Dobby ran away. Dobby cannot take wages or choose a new master whilst bound."
Harry and Draco exchanged glances. An entire conversation passed between them in a matter of seconds—a plan forming with the kind of synchronicity that came from months of working together.
"Dobby," Harry said carefully, "if a member of the Malfoy family gave you clothing, you'd be freed, right?"
"Yes, Harry Potter, sir! If Master or Mistress or Young Master were to give Dobby clothes, Dobby would be free!"
Draco stood smoothly and began removing his left shoe. The Italian leather dragon-hide shoe came off, followed by a sock—silver-grey silk, expensive and unmistakably Malfoy.
"Dobby," Draco said formally, holding out the sock. "I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, present you with this clothing and release you from service. You're free."
Dobby took the sock with trembling hands. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a wave of magic rippled outward from the elf, visible even to non-magical eyes. The invisible chains binding him to the Malfoy family shattered, and Dobby gasped as though breathing freely for the first time in his life.
"Free," Dobby whispered. "Dobby is free. Dobby is a free elf!" He clutched the sock to his chest and burst into noisy tears. "Young Master Draco is too good! Too kind! Dobby will never forget!"
"You don't owe me anything," Draco said, though his voice was gentler than Harry had ever heard it. "But if you're looking for paid employment...and you should be paid for your work...there are organisations that hire free house-elves."
"Actually," Harry said, an idea crystallising in his mind, "I know someone who might be interested. Dobby, have you heard of Atid Stella?"
June 20th, 1993, Hogwarts Great Hall, 8:47 PM
The end-of-term feast was unlike any Harry had experienced before.
For one thing, everyone was in their pyjamas.
It had been Dumbledore's idea, announced at dinner earlier in the week. After the trauma of the year—the attacks, the fear, the petrifications—he felt the students deserved one night of pure, uninhibited celebration. So the dress code was officially "nightclothes and house pride," resulting in a glorious chaos of colours and patterns.
Harry wore simple blue pyjamas that Ethan had bought him for Christmas, comfortable flannel that reminded him of home. Ron sported pyjamas covered in dancing Cannons logos, a gift from his brothers. Hermione had chosen sensible striped pyjamas in burgundy and gold. Luna wore a nightgown embroidered with moons and stars that seemed to shift position when no one was looking directly at them. Even Draco had abandoned his usual elegance for dark green silk pyjamas that probably cost more than most people's entire wardrobes but were undeniably comfortable.
The Great Hall had been transformed. The house banners still hung—Gryffindor had won the House Cup again, much to Percy's visible pride—but they shared space with twinkling fairy lights, conjured fireworks that exploded silently overhead in showers of coloured sparks, and floating lanterns that drifted lazily through the air.
And there, suspended from the ceiling in magnificent and terrible glory, was the skeleton of the basilisk.
Fifty feet of articulated bone, cleaned and treated and positioned to show the serpent in mid-strike. Its massive skull gaped with empty eye sockets, its fangs gleaming even in death. The professors had mounted it on near-invisible wires, making it appear to swim through the air above the students' heads.
"Wicked," Ron breathed, staring up at it. "That's what you killed, mate. That enormous thing."
"We killed," Harry corrected. "You, me, and Draco. Team effort."
"You stabbed it through the brain," Draco pointed out. "I just provided medical assistance after the fact."
"You saved Ron's life," Harry said firmly. "That counts."
The feast itself was spectacular—all of the students' favourite foods appearing on golden platters, desserts that defied conventional baking, and enough pumpkin juice and Butterbeer to float a small ship. The house-elves had outdone themselves, and Harry made a mental note to thank them properly. Perhaps Dobby, who'd been thrilled to accept a position with Atid Stella, could help him learn the proper protocol for showing appreciation to house-elves without offending them.
Professor McGonagall stood to make a speech, her usual stern expression softened by genuine warmth. "Students of Hogwarts, we have faced darkness this year. We have known fear. Some of you were directly affected by the attacks, others lived in terror of becoming victims. But through it all, you showed resilience, courage, and loyalty to one another."
She paused, her eyes finding Harry's table. "Particular recognition must go to those students who risked everything to end the threat. Who descended into danger when they could have remained safe. Who proved that heroism is not the absence of fear, but the choice to act despite it."
Applause erupted, and Harry felt his cheeks burn, subconsciously lowering head. Ron looked equally embarrassed, and even Draco seemed uncomfortable with the attention.
"Additionally," McGonagall continued once the applause died down, "I'm pleased to announce that Miss Hermione Granger has achieved the highest marks in every subject this term, despite missing two weeks of instruction. Fifty points to Gryffindor for academic excellence."
Hermione went scarlet as the Gryffindor table cheered. Harry grinned, feeling her happiness radiate outward.
The feast stretched on for hours. Students migrated between tables, house divisions temporarily forgotten in the spirit of celebration. Even the Slytherins who'd spent the year whispering about Harry being the Heir seemed willing to let bygones be bygones, though Harry suspected that had more to do with the skeleton hanging overhead reminding everyone what Harry had actually fought.
At some point, the Weird Sisters began playing—not in person, but via magical projection that made their music fill the Great Hall with perfect clarity. Students danced between the tables, laughed themselves sick over jokes that wouldn't be funny in the morning, and created memories that would last far longer than any academic lesson.
Harry found himself pulled into a spontaneous dance with Luna, her hand light in his as they twirled clumsily to a fast-paced melody. She laughed, the sound like silver bells, and Harry thought that if he could bottle this moment—this perfect, joyful moment of safety and friendship and hope—he'd keep it forever.
"You're thinking very loudly," Luna observed as the song ended. "Happy thoughts, though. Those are nice."
"Just... grateful," Harry admitted. "For all of this. For surviving. For friends. For..." He gestured vaguely at the Hall, the celebration, the skeleton overhead, everything.
"For being alive," Luna finished. "Yes. That's worth celebrating."
They stood there for a moment, hands still loosely clasped, whilst chaos whirled around them. Then Ron appeared with three bottles of Butterbeer, Hermione materialized with Draco in tow arguing about something Transfiguration-related, and the moment expanded to include all of them—this strange, wonderful group of people who'd somehow become Harry's family.
The party didn't end until well past midnight, when even Professor McGonagall admitted defeat and began herding students toward their dormitories with fond exasperation.
June 21st, 1993, Hogwarts Express, Platform 9¾, King's Cross Station, 11:47 AM
The Hogwarts Express pulled into King's Cross Station with its usual billow of steam and screech of brakes. Students poured from the carriages in a flood of trunks, owls, cats, and excited chatter about summer plans.
Harry emerged into the familiar chaos of Platform 9¾ with his trunk floating beside him—a bit of magic Ethan had taught him for convenience—and Hedwig perched contentedly in her cage. Ron was already being smothered by Mrs Weasley, who alternated between hugging him and scolding him for getting himself nearly killed. Again.
Hermione's parents waited near the barrier, their Muggle clothing standing out slightly amongst the witches and wizards. Hermione rushed to them with a brilliant smile, immediately launching into a rapid explanation of everything that had happened, likely leaving out the more dangerous bits to spare them worry.
Draco moved with his usual grace toward his mother, who waited with cool elegance near the platform's edge. Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful in the way of ice sculptures—cold, perfect, untouchable. But Harry saw the way her expression softened when Draco reached her, saw genuine love beneath the aristocratic mask. No Lucius in sight, he noted with satisfaction.
"Harry!"
He turned at the familiar voice, and there was Luna, weaving through the crowd with her trunk floating behind her and her father following at a more sedate pace. Xenophilius Lovegood looked exactly as Harry remembered—eccentric, kind, slightly dishevelled, with the same dreamy quality Luna possessed.
"Mr Lovegood," Harry said politely.
"Harry, my boy! Luna's written so much about you. Quite the adventure you've had this year, from what I understand." Xenophilius beamed at him. "Though Luna says you were very brave, which doesn't surprise me at all. You have excellent energy, you know. Very resistant to Wrackspurts."
"Er, thank you?"
Luna's hand slipped into Harry's, her fingers cool and small. The gesture was so natural, so casual, that Harry didn't even think to question it. He just squeezed gently and felt her squeeze back.
"There's Teacher," Luna said, pointing with her free hand.
Ethan stood slightly apart from the crowd, his dark robes immaculate as always, his expression one of carefully controlled relief. When his eyes found Harry, something in his face relaxed—a tension Harry hadn't even noticed bleeding away.
Harry and Luna made their way through the crowd together, hands still linked, Luna's trunk bobbing along behind them whilst Harry's followed at a respectful distance.
"Dad!"
Harry released Luna's hand only to crash into his father's embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment and expensive cologne that meant home and safety. Ethan's arms wrapped around him immediately, one hand coming up to cup the back of Harry's head.
"Hello, Harry," Ethan said softly. "Eventful year?"
"You already know."
Ethan pulled back slightly to look at him, and Harry could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile. "I may have had some... advance notice. But you exceeded every expectation, as usual."
"Teacher," Luna said, and Ethan turned to her with genuine warmth.
"Luna" Ethan's voice was gentler with her than with most people.
"Noticing things is perhaps the most valuable skill in magic," Ethan stressed. "Don't underestimate it."
Xenophilius joined them, shaking Ethan's hand with enthusiasm. "Ethan! Good to see you. We must arrange that chess game we discussed... though I warn you, Luna's been teaching me some rather unconventional strategies."
"I look forward to it," Ethan said, and Harry could tell he meant it. The two men had developed an odd friendship over the year, bonding over their shared love of obscure magical theory and their respective daughters'—well, Luna wasn't Ethan's daughter, but he treated her with the same protective fondness he showed Harry.
The crowd around them began to thin as families departed through the barrier. Harry saw Ron disappearing with his family, the youngest Weasley siblings already arguing about something. Hermione waved from across the platform before stepping through with her parents. Draco offered a subtle nod before following his mother toward the exit, his posture straight but somehow lighter than it had been at the start of term.
"Ready to go home?" Ethan asked, his hand coming to rest on Harry's shoulder.
Harry looked around Platform 9¾ one last time—at the scarlet steam engine that had carried them to and from adventure, at the lingering students saying their goodbyes, at Luna who stood beside him with her serene smile, at the barrier that separated the magical world from the mundane.
"Yeah," Harry said, smiling up at his father. "Ready."
They walked toward the barrier together—Ethan and Harry, Luna and Xenophilius—and Harry found himself thinking about the summer ahead. No basilisks, no Dark Lords' memories, no mysteries to solve. Just quiet days at the Manor, training with Ethan, visits from friends, and the slow, peaceful passing of summer months. Maybe another travel?
Though knowing his life, Harry thought with wry amusement, something would probably try to kill him before September arrived.
But that was future-Harry's problem.
Present-Harry was going home.
They stepped through the barrier, the magic tingling against Harry's skin like a fond farewell, and emerged into King's Cross Station proper. Muggles rushed past, oblivious to the magical families in their midst, and somewhere a train whistle blew.
"Same time next year?" Luna asked, her grey eyes twinkling.
"Same time next year," Harry confirmed.
And with hands briefly clasped in goodbye, the families parted ways—the Lovegoods toward their eccentric home filled with impossible creatures and Luna's boundless imagination, the Esthers toward their Manor with its extensive library and Ethan's careful plans.