Chapter Text
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The flash of green light tears Harry's world into pieces, blinding, shooting pain. Wasn't this supposed to be painless?
When the world goes dark, Harry falls falls falls. This is not Platform 9¾. No, it's... Oh, god. Light yellow walls, basked in the blue moonlight. A knocked over rocking chair. Toys scattered across the floor. Broken glass, a torn book, a dark stain on the floor, a withered lily growing out of it. No. No no no no no no no.
"This is all your fault." The voice is a false gentleness, a deadly snake in a bed of flowers. "You killed them all."
Harry turns to face him, Voldemorts face more sinister, demonic, in the darkness of the night. "No. You're lying. This isn't real. This isn't real!"
"Is it?" He laughs, an ugly, rattling sound. "I'll destroy your soul just like you destroyed mine. If I die, you die, Harry."
A grin. A flash. "AVADA-"
Harry wakes up with a jolt. His head is spinning from the motion, or maybe it's the nausea caused by the nightmare. Harry doesn't even have time to leave the sweat-soaked bed before he throws up. Tears well up again, threatening to choke his already constricted throat. He's too tired to clean up the sick. He just cries, rocking back and forth until sunrise.
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
Harry doesn't want to go back to Hogwarts, but what's the alternative? Rotting in his bed, hiding away from press, and the Ministry calls, the whole world, praying it would somehow get better?
"We'll be there with you." Hermione squeezes his hand, passing him a steaming cup of tea.
Another reason Harry's going back - he's too weak to make it on his own. What a sad fate would it be, for the boy who faced Death twice to be found a skeleton in his rotten sheets?
Harry hates to be a burden, not when Ron and Hermione survived the war too, when they deserve happiness, not more reasons to worry. But Harry doesn't want to wither away. He came back to life, not a mindless existence. He wants to get better. He just... doesn't know how. Not yet, not on his own.
"And think about it, we'll be allowed to go anywhere. A weekly trip to Honeydukes?" Ron grins at the thought. "We'll never run out of sweets."
If I manage to get out of bed, Harry doesn't say. Instead, he musters up a smile, a weak attempt at returning the excitement. At least being at Hogwarts is a better excuse to avoid all the press conferences and Ministry events than feigning sickness for three months straight.
Maybe returning to a past haven will help him figure out his future. Right now, the only thing he knows for certain is that he doesn't want to be an Auror.
Harry doesn't remember when the dream fell apart - was it when the magic stopped being a marvel, and became more of a chore? When he walked into the Forbidden Forest, like a convict walking to the gallows? Or maybe when he realised that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't save everyone. The death toll spoke for itself. He still hasn't mustered up the energy to visit Teddy, despite all the invitations Andromeda extended his way. Harry doesn't know if he'll ever be able to face the child. The innocent little baby, orphaned by his parents' sacrifice. So much like him.
What's the point in saving the world when you can't save those who matter the most?
What's the point in surviving when it all feels dull and bleak?
What's the point in coming home when it no longer feels yours?
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
The regret of coming back to Hogwarts slams into Harry like a tidal wave exactly twenty minutes after he first stepped into the castle. Or, more accurately, it's McGonagalls' announcement that makes him want to bolt.
"The war changed all of us, irrevocably, for better or for worse. But it also taught us the importance of cooperation. Over the years, we noticed the flaws in our current housing system - instead of bringing together like-minded individuals, it drew lines between you, created unnecessary rivalries."
Harry, until now content to let the speech wash over him, perks up at the words. What is she getting at?
"In order to mend the artificial distances between you all, we decided that the best course of action would be to sort everyone once more."
"Fucking hell" Ron mutters, face filled with food and, for once, even Hermione is too dumbstruck to chide him for it.
Harry doesn't speak, staring in shock at McGonagall as she reads off the names of the first years, a ringing settling in his ears. All seven years, he prided himself on being a Gryffindor. He wore the red and gold like a badge, he fought with the sword... It was his constant, the one unchangeable aspect of his identity. Regardless of what happened, who he became, he would always be a Gryffindor.
Will it all get stripped away now? Has the war changed him so much that he wouldn't return to the Tower he made into his home? What about Ron and Hermione? Will they ever get to sit on that red couch, laughing by the fireplace like they did for six years?
"Hey, don't worry mate." Ron puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We're as Gryffindor as one can get. No way we're getting resorted."
Harry nods weakly, wishing for half of the conviction Ron is exuding. But then he remembers that very first day, the way the Hat obscured his view and whispered he'd fit in well in Slytherin.
What if this time he won't be able to talk the Hat out of it's decision?
"WEASLEY, GINNY" McGonagall calls out and Harry watches the redhead stride confidently to the Head Table. Will this be a yet another thing putting a wall between them?
When they were on the run, Harry dreamed of seeing Ginny again, of embracing her like Ron did Hermione, of returning to the little piece of heaven they created for themselves in sixth year.
But then they met again, changed people, and no matter how hard they tried, it wasn't the same. They were two pieces of puzzle, so bent and chipped they no longer fit together. It was a matter of time, really, before Ginny sat him down with a stern look and said "Maybe we should give this a break?" And Harry knew, when his chest ached not at the thought of losing her, but the comfort of a relationship, that this was permanent. They're still friends, of course, but nothing more, not ever. Maybe in another life, they told themselves, as they embraced one last time.
Maybe in another life, Harry thinks when the Hat calls out "GRYFFINDOR!"
Because somewhere in his gut, he knows it won't call out the same for him.
The Hat puts Hermione in Ravenclaw, and for the first time that night, a genuine smile forms on Harry's face. Of course the brains of their group would end up in the smart house.
Next up is Neville, still a Gryffindor - would've been weirder if he wasn't, after decapitating the giant snake on the battlefield.
A few more names passing in a blur, and then...
"MALFOY, DRACO"
Harry's eyes zero in on the blond like two magnets pulling at eachother, a moth flying towards the flame. His arch-nemesis, the self-obsessed little brat, the ghost haunting Hogwarts' halls. Back rigid, head held high, but there's something different about his stormy eyes. There's a hint of colour in his white-blond hair. Like a tiny blue flame.
"That one's a given." Ron snorts at his side. "If he gets sorted anywhere but Slytherin I'll-"
"HUFFLEPUFF"
Dead silence. Not a single whisper, no scrape of a fork against a porcelain plate. Deafening silence, pierced only by the ringing in Harry's ears.
Malfoy doesn't even wince, face a placid lake as he walks over to the yellow table. But his eyes, the twin thunderstorms, they burn.
The rest of sorting goes by in a flash. Ernie McMillan, Ravenclaw. Theodore Nott, Slytherin. Pansy Parkinson, Hufflepuff. Looks like Malfoy will have his little girlfriend by his side.
When McGonagall calls out "POTTER, HARRY" the ringing makes him want to double over, to scream, pull at his ears, just to make it stop. His throat constricts, as if he was walking into the Forest again. No, not like that. At least back then he wasn't walking into the unknown.
When the Hat slides onto his temple, Harry wishes it still covered his eyes. A thousand stares piercing right through him, a defendant called to a stand.
"WELL, WELL, WELL. HELLO AGAIN, REBEL ONE."
"Just get on with it." Harry mutters as the ancient voice scratches at his head.
"NO ARGUING THIS TIME?"
"I'm tired of fighting." Harry shrugs.
"LET US SEE, LET US SEE. BRAVE LIKE A LION, CUNNING LIKE A SNAKE. BUT YOU DON'T FIT THERE, DO YOU? THERE'S SOMETHING YOU VALUE MORE."
"What do you mean?" He doesn't fit into Gryffindor, but... he's not a Slytherin, either?
"YOUR LOYALTY IS YOUR GUIDING LIGHT" The Hat supplies, not giving Harry a second to consider the words before yelling out "HUFFLEPUFF!"
There's a thousand eyes scrutinizing him as he walks over to the table, a thousand crawling little spiders, under his skin and in his veins.
By the time the Hat names Ron a Slytherin, Harry's mind is somewhere else.
At least the ringing stopped.
But somehow, the silence is even worse.
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
It's almost funny how the Hat, as if to spite Ron, put them all in different houses. Anywhere but Gryffindor.
The Hufflepuff common room is the epitome of coziness. Round with low ceilings, wooden accents and hundreds of plants. Kept in earthy tones of yellow and black, every pot or lamp made of burnished copper. Rounded windows basking the room in warm sunlight, looking out at the fields of grass and dandelions.
It's a warm, sunlit day in the form of a room, and Harry feels like an impostor. Like a void too dark to catch any of the light.
Like he shouldn't be here.
Even sodden Malfoy looked like he belonged when he walked the Hall with a yellow tie and a fire in his eyes. Even he has someone here, a tether to keep him anchored, a friend to hold his hand as they walk into the unknown.
Harry, on the other hand? He's lost, and alone. For the first time in years, he faces the new reality all on his own.
No one to laugh with by the fireplace. No one to talk until exhaustion takes over and they fall asleep mid-conversation. No familiar face to keep him steady.
That's a lie - there is still Hannah Abbott, but they've never been particularly close. And Zacharias Smith, but Harry would rather have tea with Malfoy than talk to him. For whatever reason, he can't bring himself to trust him.
But even then, they're returning Hufflepuffs. They've been here from the start. They just came back home.
Harry is the one that's lost.
At least, since it's only the five of them as eight year Hufflepuffs, they're all given private rooms. They're not particularly big, with only a bed, closet, desk and a small bathroom, but they're private. An escape from the others, a safe place to bedrot till noon if needed. No one to witness Harry jolting awake from a nightmare.
He should be glad, really, but he can't help feeling that he'd give up anything to go back to the shared dorm in Gryffindor Tower.
With Ron and Hermione sorted into different houses, he doesn't even have an excuse to go back there. He could say he's visiting Neville or Ginny, they're friends after all, but it's just... it wouldn't be the same.
With his unpacked trunk in the foot of his bed, Harry lies on the bed, staring at the patchwork quilts of his four-poster. It's still yellow, a few shades too bright to be Gryffindor gold, but it's familiar enough. Or at least that's what he tells himself. It doesn't work, of course. So Harry gets up and bolts out of the Hufflepuff Basement.
Maybe he could go seek out Hermione, or Ron, or both.
But this night feels like it should be spent alone.
"Accio Firebolt" Harry calls as he steps out onto yard. It'll be curfew soon, and perhaps breaking it on his first day back isn't the best idea. But he doesn't care. He just mounts his broom and flies, until he's too tired to stand on his feet.
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
At least, since there are only twenty students returning for eight year, all of their NEWT classes are combined.
"Merlin, Mione, your schedule is a nightmare!" Ron stares in horror at the piece of parchment, fork hung halfway to his mouth. Hermione, of course, decided to take all NEWTs possible, proving the correctness of the Hat's Ravenclaw sorting all the way back in sixth year.
They're sitting at the Hufflepuff table for breakfast, Harry's eyes still drifting off to the Gryffindor table, where the instinct carried him at first.
As if sensing his foul mood, his friends joined him under the yellow banner, bringing at least a little bit of normalcy to the storm of chaos.
Harry decided to keep his selections from sixth year, taking Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against Dark Arts, Potions and Herbology, along with Ron. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to change the list, even if he no longer wishes to be an Auror. Because he needs something from his old life, or because he doesn't know what to do with the new one, he's not sure.
"I still can't get over seeing Malfoy in yellow" Ron snickers, looking to his side.
The blond sits at the other side of the table, huddled so closesly to Parkinson they look conjoined. With his head on her shoulder, they're whispering to eachother, oblivious to the way everyone's keeping their distance from them. Away in their own little world, Harry grits his teeth. Even Malfoy fits in here better than me.
As if suddenly remembering Harry's in the same house, Ron quickly adds "It suits you, mate, don't worry. But Ferret, he looks like an alien. The Hat must've had a grand laugh putting him in here."
"There's no point mocking a whole House just to make fun of Malfoy, Ronald." Hermione chastises. "Now stop talking with your mouth full and finish eating. We have Charms in twenty."
If Harry remembers correctly, Malfoy chose the same five classes as him. He can only hope the blond, unlike him, changed his selection - seeing him in every subject would be a torture.
So, of course, it happens. All five fucking classes. According to Hermione, he's also taking Astronomy and Arithmancy. Regardless of his add-ons, Harry stuck with him - in the same House and in classes. Fucking brilliant.
Somehow, that's not what bothers Harry the most. It's the way Malfoy treats him - or, more accurately, doesn't. He doesn't avoid Harry, per se, but he doesn't acknowledge him either.
In the week they've been back at Hogwarts, Malfoy hasn't uttered a word to Harry. Not a single insult, glare, anything. As if he took one look at what became of his old enemy, and decided, not worth it. No point in kicking someone who's already down.
Now, it's not that Harry misses the snide remarks, the cruel insults, the venom he spewed. But it was a constant, the other unshakeable truth. Life circumstances, public opinion, those are all fickle, unsteady. But Harry being a Gryffindor, and Malfoy being his enemy were the two pillars he could count on. And now, both are gone.
People say the opposite of love is hatred. That's a lie. The actual opposite is indifference. And somehow, the way Malfoys' eyes glide over him like he's nothing more than air, an ether not a presence, hurts more than anything his venomous tongue could ever spit.
Everything has changed, and all of Harry's anchors are gone.
There's a new kind of fire burning in Malfoys' eyes, not the brattiness of a snobbish child, not the hatred of an enemy.
Harry doesn't know what is, exactly, but he's sure of one thing: for the first time, it's not directed at him. And for some twisted reason, he'd to anything to get it back.
Maybe it's selfish, but hasn't Harry earned it, after being selfless all his life?
Because now he's freezing cold, and the fire in Malfoys' eyes looks oh, so warm.
-
Sitting in the library with Ron and Hermione, Harry feels a terrible sense of loneliness.
"I know the window is very entertaining, Ronald, but I will not write your Charms essay for you."
"I'm not distracted! I'm looking for inspiration." Ron scoffs. "The movement of leaves is very, ah- inspiring. I feel very inspired." Hermione raises a brow. "To write about the Ascension Charm, of course!"
"You weren't looking at the Quidditch pitch?" Hermione doesn't sound impressed by the explanation.
"Quidditch pitch? No-o, of course not. I didn't even know they were practising today!"
"I never mentioned that."
Ron's face turns a shade darker than his ginger hair. Hermione looks at him for a while, before snorting and squeezing his hand. "Come on, finish this and I'll save you an extra treacle tart at dinner."
"You too, Harry. I'm not letting you cheat off me this year." She turns with a disapproving glare, hand still clasped around Ron's.
Harry doesn't mind his best friends dating, really. He's not jealous of them. But Merlin, does he miss having what they have.
Someone to remind him to stay focused during studies. A person you seek out in every room you walk into. Who knows you like an open book, loves you for the good and bad, someone to trades touches and glances like a secret language.
Someone whose eyes light up when they look at you.
Ever since he was eleven, Harry's life has been splashed out on front covers, dissected and analysed. Every move, mistake, heartbreak, win, failure, on display for everyone to see and judge. Like he belonged to the world.
And all his life Harry did, the Chosen One to save everyone. Is it really such a crime to want to be selfish for once, to have someone to belong with him?
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
At the end of September apocalypse strikes, and it's name is Potions. And maybe, for the first time in his life, it's just a teeny tiny bit Harry's fault. But mostly Ron's. For taking so long to get ready and then forgetting his bag. If they got a little bit lost and accidentally wandered off onto the fifth floor, well, that's just the unfortunate side effects.
By the time they walk into the class, about fifteen minutes after it started, there's only one free desk. In front of Malfoy and Parkinson. Two demons incarnate. And they're supposed to survive two hours directly in their line of fire? Might as well put on bows and serve themselves up to the demons on a silver platter.
"I think I'd take facing off Voldy over this" Harry mutters, doing his best to smother the instinct to cast protective charms all over their table. Malfoy may be acting like Harry's invisible, but who knows what goes on in that nutjob's brain. Especially when Parkinson's by his side. They should be kept 15 feet apart for public safety, Harry thinks, trying his best to focus on the lesson.
"Hermione's wrath sounds like heaven compared to this" Ron shivers next to him.
"Now, with all the theory out of the way, let's get to brewing!" Slughorn announces cheerfully, as if two of his (supposed favourite) students aren't currently in great risk of losing their lives.
"I'll go grab the ingredients" Ron shuffles towards the cupboard and, to Harry's horror, so does Parkinson. Which means he's left with Malfoy. Standing right behind him. And Harry can't even turn back to see if he's not being held at wandpoint without looking suspicious. Fucking hell.
Ron is gone for two minutes (Harry checks) and by the time he's back Harry feels as if he's aged at least 20 years. Their station is as unprepared as it was before.
Harry can only hope there isn't some stray Legillimens in the class. That level of paranoia would get him sent to the Janus Thickey Ward in seconds.
"Let's get to this, shall we?" Ron flashes him a weak smile, and Harry smiles back.
He's faced Voldemort (twice!) for Merlin's sake, he can deal with two Slytherin demons standing behind him.
Malfoy probably can't even hex him, with his probation of coming back to Hogwarts for the eight year.
He's safe. Perfectly safe.
Probably.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, Harry reaches for ashwinder eggs - the first ingredient of his least favouite potion. "Right. Amortentia."
At least Harry's able to focus on the brewing. Somewhat. There's still the nagging voice in the back of his head, reminding him there are literal demons brewing a dangerous potion behind him, but otherwise he's fine. Really. He's not burned anything. Yet. No. Bad Harry. Focus.
"So, what d'you think yours will smell like?" Ron asks as he crushes his moonstones.
"Not Ginny, that's for sure." They're more like siblings than romantic partners.
"Mum would have a heart attack if she heard that." Ron snorts.
"She still thinks we'll get back together?"
"Absolutely. I saw her with a wedding catalogue right before we left." Ron whispers conspiratorially, stopping his stirring to properly articulate Molly Weasleys' dramatics.
"And you're sure it's not about you and Hermione?" Harry raises a brow, reaching for the knife to let a drop of his blood into the potion. It's almost done and disaster has yet to struck. I can do this.
Ron turns scarlet red, mumbling something about Harry being ridiculous.
"Mr Slughorn." A younger student, working on their missing assignment in the back of the class, raises a hand. "I finished the potion."
"Please bring it to the front." The professor replies, temporarily away in his study.
And just when Harry's potion turns a mother-of-pearl sheen, with the spiralling steam signalling a perfect brew, disaster strikes.
It starts with the smell. Treacle tart. Peppermint. Apples. Broomstick handles. What the-
"MATE, WATCH OUT!" Ron pushes him, just as his brew - a weird mix of dirt brown and sickly green - blows out of the cauldron.
The rest is a blur. The Ravenclaw carrying the potion. Malfoy's cauldron. Bony hands grabbing him by the collar. Liquid everywhere.
"Aguamenti!" Someone yells.
"Take them to Madame Pomfrey!" Someone else adds.
But Harry doesn't hear it. There's only one thing on his mind. One name.
Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.
-
If you ever thought, 'there's nothing worse than having to face your classmates after you got dosed with Amortentia and tried to snog your former arch-nemesis (who spent the past month ignoring you) in the middle of Potions class to the point your bestfriend had to restrain you so your teacher could give you an antidote, before taking you and said arch-nemesis to the infirmary, because no one knows if you would've survived the trip otherwise', well, you would be wrong.
One moment, Harry is sitting on a bed, face redder than his old Gryffindor uniform, Madame Pomfrey casting diagnostic charms all over him.
The next, Malfoy lets out the most animalistic, agonizing scream Harry's ever heard in his life.
Bones crack.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Blood splatters over the sheets, the curled up body of the boy. Pained face curtained by long, silky, white-blond hair. And feathers. There are feathers everywhere.
The ringing comes back.
"Oh, Merlin!" Madame Pomfrey leaves Harry's side with the speed of a lightning. "Deep breaths, Mr. Malfoy! Lenio! Stay calm!"
The Pain Relief Charm doesn't seem to do much, judging by Malfoys' writhing. There are wings, ginormous white wings spurting out of his back, falling down to cover him like a blanket as he calms down, still curled up in a fetal position.
In all her haste, Pomfrey neglects to send off Harry.
Harry, who's too frozen too move, to breathe, to think.
Snap, crunch, crack.
"I shall go fetch some potions." Madame Pomfrey says to the curled up boy. "And you, Potter, what are you waiting for? Go back to class!"
Harry snaps back to reality, bolting out of the infirmary.
He doesn't make it back to class. His mind is buzzing, two movies blaring all at ones. Cracking bones. Amortentia.
Harry's brain clings to the second like a lifeline. In a way, that's what it is - better to be embarrassed than replay that agonizing scream.
Besides, it's not like Harry has any reasons to be embarrassed about the whole ordeal. He was under the influence of a powerful potion. Brewed by Malfoy who, unfortunately for Harry, is really fucking good at the subject, so of course it worked perfectly. And turned Harry into a lovesick puppy.
Eugh. Harry feels the flush creep onto his face all over again.
Since Potions are his last class of the day, Harry decides to go back to his room. In Hufflepuff. Which is fine and Harry doesn't mind, and he absolutely doesn't catch himself absentmindedly heading for the Gryffindor Tower.
It's all Malfoys' fault anyway. Nearly a whole month of disregard, and now this.
Yes, Harry wanted the git to stop ignoring him, but in what language does that translate to 'give me more fuel for my nightmares' or 'I want a new contender for the Most Humiliating Moment of My Life Award'?
Still agitated, Harry crosses the kitchen corridor and stands in front of the barrels. If I get dosed with vinegar I swear to Merlin I'll end up in Azkaban, Chosen One or not.
One, two, second barrel from the bottom in the middle of the second row. Tap, tap, tap in the rhytm of Helga Hufflepuff. And now, squeeze through like a rat in a sewer.
I miss passwords, Harry sighs. One crisis awerted. He remains vinegar-free. But of course, following the pattern of the day, peace and normalcy is Britain and Harry is the fucking Uranus. Too focused on trying to get to his room, he trips over a stray bag, falling down with a yelp.
Or not a bag, Harry sighs into the floor as the shrieking mass of fur digs it's claws into his back. "Ouch, for fucks sake!" Harry could cry. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice you, can you stop stabbing me now?"
The animal makes a sound suspiciously resembling an exasperated huff before, at last, releasing Harry from it's wrath. Or not, judging by the way the beady amber eyes are now glaring daggers at his barely lifted face. Can cats even do that? Whoever this one belongs to must be a real delight.
Propping his head on his folded arms, Harry observes the cat. It's well-groomed, with an almost aristocratic aura to it. Luxurious, long black fur, so fluffy-looking that Harry almost reaches out to pet it, before deciding he's had enough of it's wrath. Who knows what a cat that clearly already hates him would do with the access to his hand?
There's a patch of white around it's neck, with a baby blue collar peaking from behind all the fur. As adorable as the cat looks, the hiss it lets out sounds nothing short of murderous. With a swish of it's tail (smacking Harry right in the nose), the animal gracefully trots away towards the dorms.
Once he's alone, Harry buries his head back in his arms and groans. Can this day get any worse?
⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
It can. And does so in the Great Hall. Because why would Harry be awarded a peaceful fucking dinner?
"Everything alright, mate? You didn't come back to class." Ron asks as Harry joins him and Hermione at the Ravenclaw table. They'd made a habit of switching tables every meal. Inter-house unity, and all.
If Harry flushes one more today, that Azkaban threat is going back onto the menu. "Hey, don't worry, we all know it was an accident! You'd never act like- that." Ron tries to reassure him, and Harry's cheeks only grow warmer.
"Just- let's forget about it, please." Harry mutters, serving himself a portion of the roast beef. "Besides, Malfoys' got it worse. One moment, Pomfrey was checking me over, the next he's got ginormous wings portruding out of his back." What a nice, casual way of saying 'I watched every bone in his body rearrange, and I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep normally again.'
Harry doesn't notice the dead silence until Ron drops his fork. "He what?"
"Grew wings" Harry shrugs. "White, kind of like a dove. Oh, and his skin was glowing - you should've seen it, he looked like he bathed in glitter."
Maybe if he keeps it casual, it won't haunt him as much?
"Mione?" Ron manages weakly, looking at his equally shocked girlfriend.
"Lizzie was brewing Veritaserum, but that doesn't make sense, it can't-" Hermione furrows her brows in concentration. "Unless..."
"Unless what?" Now Ron sounds exasperated.
"Wings, glowing skin, did you- no, you're immune, right... Did he have talons or pointy ears?" Hermione looks over to Harry, ignoring the question.
"Uh, I- well I didn't really pay that much attention-" He was frozen, blinded by feathers, deafened by the screams. "-but now that you mention it, yeah, he had. Why?"
"I think Malfoy is a Veela." Hermione says at last, and Ron chokes on his pumpkin juice. To be fair, so does Harry.
"Malfoy? Veela?" Ron barely stops his coughing when he's bursting out laughing. "The proudest pureblood of our year?"
And then the Great Halls' door open. Noise dies down like a blown out candle. Heads turn. Long hair. Pointy ears. No wings.
Is it irrational to say Harry misses the sight of them?
"Definitely a Veela." Ron says in a voice a little too airy for his liking.
All hell breaks loose. Malfoy bolts like the room is on fire. So the sixth year parallels continue. Except this time, it's not Harry chasing him down.
"And, there goes a peaceful eight year." Harry plops his face directly onto the plate. He doesn't care anymore.
Ron clears his throat, snapping out of the allure. "Godric's a- hollow." He corrects himself quickly under Hermione's glare. Guess not even Veela allure can stop her from chiding them for swearing. "At least the attention won't be all on you, mate." Ron says brightly, picking up his dropped fork.
"You're not helping, Ron." Hermione mutters, pouring herself a goblet.
They're going to need something much stronger than pumpkin juice. Merlin, this is going to be a looong year.