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Dumbledore’s driver stops the car, and squirms out of the vehicle with great difficulty, almost too big for it. Harry watches him get out blankly, fiddling with a rip in his jeans.
“Alright, this is your home, Harry,” says Dumbledore with the frail quality of old people.
Harry tries not to look as bitter as he feels at the idea. He nods and gets out of the car, slinging his backpack on his shoulder. His entire life rattles inside.
Fuck Dumbledore for waking up fifteen years too late and deciding that the Dursleys weren’t fit for the education of their nephew. Fuck Dumbledore for not allowing him to stay with Hermione and Ron. And fuck Dumbledore for sending him off to the poshest school he could find this side of the equator.
Harry hates Hogwarts College on sight. It stands tall and unyielding in the dark night, a block of obsidian on the black sky. He scowls up at it, his sneakers whining on the damp grass, his bag digging uncomfortably into his shoulder.
“Well, Harry, this is where I leave you,” says Dumbledore. “Minerva is waiting for you.”
Harry looks to the building entrance and finds an outlined figure in the lit doorway.
“Alright, thanks,” he says and it falls flat between them.
“Of course,” says Dumbledore and Harry doesn’t turn to see him go. He shoulders his dread along with his backpack and drags it inside.
Minerva —Professor McGonagall— is a tall and pinched woman who leads Harry through darkened corridors and steep stairs.
“So late in the semester there aren’t many rooms available. We put you with a student named Draco Malfoy.” She pauses mid-step and pulls Harry to a stop; there’s a new tightness to her lips. Her hand is light on his shoulder. “Mr. Malfoy has a tendency to bend the rules to his advantage. So you would do well to be careful and stay out of trouble.”
Harry looks back at her and shrugs.
“Sure.”
Professor McGonagall looks at him for a long moment, searching his face. She finally nods and continues on walking. The door in front of which she stops lets filter through whispers of conversations. Professor McGonagall lets out a long-suffering sigh and knocks.
Harry hears the clatters and hushed instructions of those who have something to hide and the door opens.
“Professor, what a good surprise!” says a tall boy, large smile stretching his face with delight.
“Mr. Zabini. May I ask what you are doing here so late?”
“Studying, of course, Professor!” he answers with the sort of cheekiness Harry is used to see in Ginny.
McGonagall purses her lips.
“Then might I advise that the brain needs its sleep for a productive learning experience?”
“Obviously. We’re going to bed immediately,” he says and pushes past her with two other boys in tow, stockier and broad-shouldered. The three of them look back at Harry curiously
She enters the room and asks Harry to follow.
“Mr. Malfoy, let me introduce you to your new roommate.”
Malfoy is sprawled on his bed, blond-white hair falling over his forehead, looking up at his phone. He drops it when Harry enters the room, sits on his elbows to stare at him.
“What does that mean?” He asks, rising further, posh accent following. “I thought I had the room to myself.”
“Certainly. That was the case until Mr. Potter transferred here.”
Malfoy opens his mouth to complain; McGonagall raises a hand to stop him in his tracks.
“You’re free to protest in the morning, after everyone’s got a good night of sleep.”
Malfoy sneers; it looks very ugly on his face. “Yes, because I’ll sleep like a baby with a stranger in the room.”
“You’re grown boys, I’m sure you’ll manage to introduce yourselves to each other. Good night, gentlemen. Mr. Potter, your uniform will be delivered in the morning.”
Harry nods and watches her get out. The door closes and with it his desire to look remotely interested in what is going to happen to him come morning.
“So who are you?” asks Malfoy.
Harry snorts and throws his backpack on the free bed, feeling exhausted. “Harry Potter.”
“That doesn’t ring a bell,” says Malfoy thoughtfully. “You might want to look under the pillow before you settle down.”
Harry does. He fishes out a half-empty bottle of vodka. He looks back at Malfoy and gets a disgusted face in answer.
“You can keep it. It’s vile.”
Harry looks at the bottle, shrugs and uncaps it to sniff at the liquid. It smells like vodka. He takes a swallow and winces, fire curling in his stomach.
“Cheers,” he grunts and pushes the bottle under his bed.
Malfoy keeps silent as Harry undresses, tapping away at his smartphone —slick and expensive, like everything in this school. Harry puts his sleep clothes on and stands there in the middle of the room for a long moment.
“Can I turn the light off?” he asks finally.
“Sure,” Malfoy says and doesn’t move.
Harry does so and settles into bed. A weird loneliness presses on him. He vaguely thinks about taking out his own phone, the thin monstrosity Dumbledore got him, but he’s not sure how to operate it smoothly enough to send a message to Hermione without arousing her worries.
Harry turns his back to the room and sleeps. At least, tries to.
Harry wakes up to pounding on the door and copious swearing. He opens his eyes just in time to see Malfoy smack him with a bag.
Harry makes a noise of outrage and sits up in bed, ready to hit back when he realises that he holds a laundry bag. Further investigation teaches him that he is holding his uniform in hand.
“Thanks,” he croaks out.
Malfoy, back in bed, flips him off.
“Sod off, Potter.”