The train whistle screamed like a memory.
It pierced the soft buzz of the crowd on Platform 9¾, slicing through the summer air with a note that sounded too much like a warning. Hogwarts Express stood gleaming red and full of ghosts—polished and proud, as if it hadn't once carried children to a war they hadn't been ready for.
Harry Potter stood still for a moment, just at the edge of the platform. His fingers curled around the strap of his worn bag, his other hand stuffed in his coat pocket. He didn't want to look up and see the families waving goodbye. Not when he knew so many others were gone forever.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Ron's voice broke through the haze.
Harry blinked, then turned slightly. Ron was beside him, hands shoved into his own pockets, Hermione at his side. She had a brave smile stretched across her face, but even that smile had lost the brightness it used to carry.
"Like going back to a dream that turned into a nightmare," Harry murmured.
Hermione reached for his hand and squeezed. "It's different now. We're different now. But Hogwarts deserves a second chance too."
So they boarded the train.
No laughter filled the compartments this time. No exploding sweets or shrieking owls. The train was quieter—older students talking in low voices, many of them survivors, all of them scarred in ways even magic couldn't heal. New first-years darted about nervously, and Harry could only stare at them and wonder how it felt to enter a world like this without knowing how close it had come to crumbling.
He, Ron, and Hermione shared a compartment toward the back. As the train chugged forward, Hermione read a book in silence while Ron dozed with his head against the glass. Harry didn't sleep. He couldn't. He watched the countryside blur by, feeling the ghosts follow along the edges.
There was no sign of him.
Not that Harry expected Malfoy to show up on the train. Someone would have mentioned it. And there hadn't been so much as a flicker of platinum-blond hair in the crowd.
Still… he kept checking every corridor. Just in case.
The arrival at Hogwarts was like walking into a half-finished memory.
The castle stood against the dusky sky, tall and proud, but the signs of war lingered in the smallest details. Some windows were new. Some stones gleamed with recent enchantments. The front gates creaked open slower than before, as if they too were still deciding whether to welcome everyone back.
Hagrid was waiting, of course. He looked older, a little sadder, but his booming voice still shook the ground as he called for the first-years.
The rest of them followed the carriages silently, the thestrals pulling them now fully visible to more than just Harry. He caught Neville Longbottom's eye across the way—Neville gave him a nod, tired but steady, and Harry nodded back.
It wasn't a celebration. It was a return.
Inside the Great Hall, everything felt… suspended.
The candles floated again. The ceiling showed a clear night sky, stars blinking down as if nothing had happened beneath them. But the house banners were gone. Instead, soft golden drapes hung from the walls—neutral, gentle, quiet.
McGonagall stood at the front, flanked by professors both old and new. She looked more formidable than ever, despite the streaks of silver now more prominent in her hair. When she stepped forward, the hall fell utterly silent.
"Welcome back," she began, voice ringing clear. "To those of you returning, and to those beginning your journey—this is your home. For many of us, this castle has been a place of joy, of learning, and for some… a battlefield. We do not erase what happened here. We honor it. And we move forward together."
Harry swallowed hard.
He could feel the weight of every name not spoken aloud.
After a brief sorting ceremony—the smallest in decades—the students clapped politely and quietly as the first-years joined their tables. No cheering, no rowdy celebrations. Just quiet acceptance.
And then McGonagall continued, "To accommodate our new structure this year, students from the eighth-year cohort will reside in a separate wing of the castle. You'll receive your housing assignments and key charms after the feast."
Hermione perked up at that, nudging Ron. Harry stayed quiet.
Still no Malfoy. Still that strange itch at the back of his mind.
Dinner passed in muted conversation. Lavender Brown waved from across the hall, her once-glamorous presence dimmed by the attack she'd barely survived. Dean and Seamus sat together, closer than ever. Ginny gave Harry a soft smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. They had long since broken up—amicably, quietly, like two people who had seen too much to pretend anymore.
As plates vanished and desserts arrived, McGonagall stood once more.
"Eighth-years, please remain after the meal for your welcome instructions. Everyone else, you are dismissed to your dormitories."
Slowly, the hall emptied out. Harry stood with Ron and Hermione, watching the seventh-years file out, followed by the new prefects.
That's when McGonagall's assistant, Professor Penwell—a younger witch with soft curls and stern eyes—stepped forward with a clipboard.
"Eighth-years, you'll be living in the East Tower this year. The rooms have been paired based on magical compatibility and personality assessments."
"Bet they just threw darts at a board," Ron muttered.
"Your names and room numbers will be called out now," Penwell said, lifting her wand and unfurling the parchment.
Students leaned in, some nervously.
"Hermione Granger and Padma Patil, Room 2C."
Hermione looked pleased enough.
"Ron Weasley and Terry Boot, Room 3A."
"Boot?" Ron said, horrified. "What the hell's a Boot?"
Harry snorted.
Penwell continued down the list, assigning rooms. Then she paused. Her eyes flicked briefly up.
"Harry Potter…" she began. "And—"
She stopped. A small frown creased her brow. Then she looked again at the list, confirmed something under her breath, and read, louder this time:
"Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Room 1D."
The silence in the hall was instant. Heavy. Even the candles seemed to flicker lower.
Harry's breath caught.
So he was here.
McGonagall cleared her throat delicately. "Mr. Malfoy's arrival was delayed. He'll be joining us tomorrow morning."
Harry could feel dozens of eyes on him. Ron's jaw had dropped.
"I—they can't be serious," Ron whispered. "Tell them you object. Tell them you'll sleep on a broomstick!"
Hermione winced. "They probably thought it would help both of you grow."
"Grow?" Harry said, stunned. "What am I, a potted plant?"
But there was no escaping it.
His name was there, next to Malfoy's, etched in magic on the floating scroll as the assignments solidified. Room 1D. Two beds. One history full of fire.
Harry closed his eyes for a second.
The train. The silence. The ghosts.
And now—this.
He didn't know what was coming. But he knew one thing:
Peace was supposed to be simple.
Draco Malfoy was anything but.
The corridors of the East Tower were different from the rest of Hogwarts.
Quieter. Narrower. Lit with blue-toned lanterns instead of warm golden sconces. The walls had recently been enchanted—fresh charmwork buzzed under the stone, subtle enough that only a few, like Harry, noticed. Wards for safety. Maybe even anti-dueling measures.
"Lovely," Ron muttered, glancing around. "Feels like the beginning of a horror story. One of those ghost-filled portraits is going to whisper 'traitor' at me any second."
Harry gave a half-laugh, but it didn't reach his chest. His hand was tight on the key McGonagall had handed him. A small enchanted silver disk with '1D' inscribed in tiny runes, cool against his skin.
Hermione had her arms folded, walking just behind him. "It's not that bad. The tower's meant for peacekeeping, that's all. Neutral ground. Fresh start."
He didn't say it, but the irony of putting him and Malfoy in a so-called peacekeeping wing wasn't lost on him.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Room 1D.
Harry stared at the door for a second longer than necessary.
"Do you want me to—?" Hermione offered gently.
"No," he said. Voice quiet. "I've got it."
The key slid in. The lock clicked open.
And just like that, they stepped inside.
The room was… spacious. Not luxurious, but neat. Two beds. Two desks. A shared wardrobe that politely separated itself down the center. Even the shelves had been spelled to mirror each other—one side still empty, the other already claimed by the Ministry's standard issue eighth-year welcome packet and Harry's own knapsack.
The air smelled faintly of old wood and lavender cleaning charms.
Harry crossed the room and dropped his bag onto the bed furthest from the window.
Ron looked around, unimpressed. "Looks like Azkaban's cousin."
"I think it's clean," Hermione countered. "Functional. Cozy."
"It's missing a personality," Harry mumbled, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He didn't look up. "Though I guess Malfoy will bring plenty of that."
Hermione and Ron shared a glance.
"You can go to McGonagall," Ron said, walking over. "Tell her it's ridiculous. Tell her it'll—blow up. Literally. You and him in one room?"
Harry didn't answer.
Because part of him had wanted to go straight to her office, storm in, and refuse. He wanted to say no, loudly, with every bit of reason behind him—after all, Malfoy had tried to kill him. Or stood by while others did. Or at least made his life hell for six years.
But that same part of him also remembered standing in the Room of Requirement, staring at Malfoy's pale, blood-smeared face. He remembered dragging him out of fire. Saving his life. Twice.
He remembered how, in the end, Malfoy hadn't fought for Voldemort.
He hadn't fought for anyone.
"I think I'm just… tired of fighting," Harry said finally. Voice low, almost ashamed. "Even him."
Ron dropped into the desk chair. "Well, that's terribly noble of you."
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Tell that to the part of me that already regrets this."
Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder. "If it's too much, we'll figure something out. But maybe… maybe it won't be as bad as we think."
Harry snorted.
Even she didn't believe that.
They stayed for a while, helping him unpack. Not that there was much—Harry had never been one for things. A few books. A few shirts. The photograph of the original Dumbledore's Army taken after the final battle, with too many gaps in the line.
When it got late, Hermione checked her watch. "We should go. Let you settle."
Ron looked reluctant to leave. "You sure?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. He's not coming until morning anyway, right? I'll be fine."
But as the door shut behind them, and Harry was left alone, the silence crept in thick like fog.
He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the other bed—still neat, still untouched.
Malfoy's bed.
Harry let out a long breath, rubbed his eyes, and finally collapsed onto his own mattress. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, not moving.
Then he whispered aloud to the empty room:
"This was a bloody terrible idea."