Chapter Text
"There is a kind of merry war … they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them."
- Much Ado About Nothing, Act 1, Scene 1
HARRY
Harry had insisted on walking to King’s Cross. He’d sent Ron and Hermione ahead with his trunk, explaining he needed the air, needed to put some space between Grimmauld Place’s shadows and the station’s organised chaos. The summer had passed in a blur of hearings and sleepless nights, leaving him unsteady in ways he could not quite name. No sun, no relaxation. Just the cold halls of the Wizengamot, one trial after another.
He could still see the faces. Patient and judging in equal measure, waiting for him to say the right thing. He’d testified because it was right, or it was supposed to be. Justice, maybe. Mercy. He still didn’t know. His words had echoed in the silent chamber. Each one had felt small, and not quite right. He’d spoken for some, remained silent for others. The decisions followed him, surfacing at odd hours when the house was quiet.
Then there was the Burrow. At supper there was a place no one sat in, and the silence around it was impossible to ignore. He'd watched Mrs Weasley’s hands tremble as she stirred a pot. He'd seen Mr Weasley’s forced cheer slipping when he thought no one was looking. He'd held Ginny while she cried. He'd had nothing useful to say. Nobody did.
Grimmauld Place had become both his retreat and his burden. The curse-breakers had scoured it clean, and all that remained was the hammering and sawing of contractors where dark magic used to live. He’d spent days pointing at architectural plans, discussing foundation charms with gruff wizards who treated him not as a war hero or a witness, but like any other client with a troublesome property. Harry had found it refreshing. The return to Hogwarts had created a problem, of course, but leaving the restoration in Molly Weasley’s hands was the easiest decision he’d made all summer. He’d seen the terrifying glint in her eye when she’d taken the project ledger from him. The old fire. Unmistakably hers. Harry almost pitied the contractors: that house would be perfect, or else.
And now this. School. NEWTs. The thought of homework after the war felt faintly ridiculous. He was eighteen, legally an adult. He'd testified at war crime trials. He owned property (albeit reluctantly). And now he was going back to school to worry about Potions essays.
He pushed through the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, the magic washing over him like a change in air pressure. The sudden cacophony of the Hogwarts Express hit him, and the cycling thoughts were drowned out by the shrieks of reuniting friends, the hoots of owls, and the frantic shouts of mothers.
The polished red engine gleamed on the platform amid billowing clouds of smoke and steam. Harry hadn't realised how much he'd missed the sight until now. He eventually spotted Ron and Hermione standing by the carriages with his trunk and walked over.
“Come on, then,” Ron said, heaving his trunk towards the nearest carriage door. “Before all the good compartments are taken by annoying firsties who don’t know any better.”
“We don’t need a ‘good’ compartment, Ron,” Hermione chided, though she was smiling. “Any compartment will do. It’s the principle of returning that matters.”
“The principle?” Ron grumbled, shoving his trunk into the corridor. “We literally saved the world. Why do we need NEWTs? I reckon that should count as a pass in everything. Advanced Heroics, at least.”
This had been Ron's regular refrain in the weeks since they'd received word that Hogwarts was willing to accept them as eighth-years. Hermione’s smile turned into a familiar, exasperated sigh as she began her well-rehearsed rebuttal. “Because, Ron, the world hasn’t stopped. Life goes on. Getting an education, building a future… it’s part of the healing. It’s about establishing normalcy.”
Harry followed them, his own trunk somehow feeling lighter than he remembered. "Normalcy" sounded strange in his own head, like a word borrowed from someone else's life. He watched students laughing, parents waving, with a sense that he wasn't entirely part of it.
They found an empty compartment and Ron collapsed onto the maroon velvet seat with a groan. “Normalcy. Right. So we’re back to taking notes on dark magic wars instead of, you know, actually having fought in one.”
“Precisely,” Hermione said primly. “It’s about finishing what we started.”
Harry sank into the seat opposite Ron, his knees jiggling. Finishing what we started. He turned the phrase over, unsure what it meant anymore. What exactly had he started, all those years ago? The train whistle blew, a long, mournful sound, and with a jolt, they began to move.
“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, eyeing Harry’s fidgeting. “You’re twitchier than a niffler in a gold vault.”
“Fine,” Harry said automatically. The London suburbs began to slide past the window, brick terraces giving way to green fields. His gaze drifted to the corridor. He remembered the last time he’d been on this train, huddled under the Invisibility Cloak, heart pounding with fear. Now, the fear was quieter, a low hum of unease.
His thoughts strayed to Ginny. He'd seen her on the platform with Dean Thomas. No ache. No regrets. What they'd had belonged to the war, intense because it had to be. In peacetime, it had just... ended. They'd talked about it at the Burrow. No tears or drama; just an acknowledgement that they weren't those people anymore. It'd been the Weasleys who'd taken it hardest, as they'd been delighted at the prospect of having Harry as a son-in-law. Ron had seemed... relieved.
“I’m just going to stretch my legs,” Harry said abruptly, standing up.
“Don’t get lost,” Ron called after him. “Or kidnapped. Again.”
Harry slid the compartment door shut and walked down the gently swaying corridor. He passed compartments full of younger students, their faces excited and unlined by the things he’d seen. He kept walking, towards the back of the train.
Then he stopped.
Through the glass of a compartment door, he saw them. Slytherins. Pansy Parkinson, her sharp features set in a permanent scowl, was talking animatedly to Theo Nott, who looked bored. And there, in the corner by the window, sat Draco Malfoy.
Different. That was Harry’s first thought. The boy Harry had known was all sharp angles and sharper words, a presence that demanded a reaction. This Draco was… diminished. He was thinner, paler, if that were possible. The sleek platinum hair was slightly longer, a strand of it falling across his forehead as he bent over a thick, leather-bound book. He wasn’t preening or holding court. He was just reading. Isolated, even surrounded by his own housemates.
He couldn’t look away. Draco was reading, one finger moving slowly down the page. As if sensing Harry’s stare, Draco’s head lifted. His sharp grey eyes, wary and guarded, met Harry’s through the glass. For a second, neither of them moved. Draco’s eyes went wide. Surprise, mostly. Then something closer to alarm. The book tightened in his grip.
Harry didn’t know what to do. A jinx? A nod? A smile? The habits he'd once relied on no longer seemed to fit, so he settled on a stiff, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of neutral civility. Then he turned on his heel and walked back the way he'd come. The image stayed with him: Draco's face, pale and uncertain, already looking away.
He returned to his compartment and slid the door closed, leaning against it for a moment.
Ron looked up from the Quidditch magazine he was flicking through. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Saw Malfoy.”
Hermione gave him a piercing look. “And?”
“And nothing.” Harry dropped back into his seat, staring out at the rushing landscape. “He was just… there.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Harry shifted in his seat. He couldn’t shake the image. Draco Malfoy, reading a book, the way that strand of hair fell across his forehead, looking like a boy carrying a weight too heavy for his shoulders. The war had left matters between them unresolved. Proper closure had never been something Harry was particularly good at, but as the train rattled onwards, he realised he might finally be forced to learn.
DRACO
The train shuddered to a halt at Hogsmeade station with a final, weary sigh of steam. Draco closed his book and slid it into his bag. The dread had settled while he wasn't paying attention. This was it. The return. Whether he liked it or not.
Pansy was already on her feet. "Come on, Draco. Let's get this over with. The sooner we're in the castle, the sooner we can hide."
Theo said nothing, merely standing and falling into step beside them. They formed a shield around him and moved through the crowded corridor three-abreast where the space allowed. Draco kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the scuffed heels of Pansy's shoes. He didn't need to see the stares, the whispers. The awareness of being watched had a texture he'd learned in the last year: concentrated and not friendly.
The platform was the usual chaos of school friends reuniting and trunks being levitated. Draco looked around before he stepped down. Left first, then right. He always did that now.
There, across the platform, stood Potter with the Weasel and Granger. They weren’t jostling with the other students. Instead they formed a quiet trio huddled near the Thestral-drawn carriages. Granger had her arms crossed. She was scanning the crowd the way a prefect might, bored but vigilant. Weasley’s shoulders were hunched, his usually animated face grim.
Potter was different. Potter watched, his green eyes taking in the scene from behind his glasses. His expression was sombre, almost detached. They looked like veterans surrounded by children. Which they were, Draco supposed. The war had carved the youth from them. What remained was quieter, and heavier, and not student-shaped at all.
He knew that weight. He felt it in himself all the same. The same drag. The same tiredness of someone who had run out of war to hide behind. They were all ancient ghosts here, pretending to be students.
"See something you like?" Pansy murmured, her voice a low and knowing right by his ear.
Draco tore his eyes away. "Just taking stock of the enemy, Parkinson. Standard procedure."
Before Pansy could retort, Potter turned. His eyes found Draco's across the platform. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then, to Draco's astonishment, Potter started walking towards him, Weasley and Granger following in his wake. He moved with solid intent, weaving through the crowd with a purpose that made Draco want to flee.
Why was Potter approaching him?
Draco's first thought was: run.
Potter looked different out of school robes, taller than Draco remembered, shoulders broader. The late summer sun caught the mess of his hair. Draco wished, briefly, that he had somewhere to look that wasn't directly at him. This was going to be worse than he'd thought.
Potter stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Malfoy. Parkinson. Nott."
Draco's voice felt rusty. "Potter. Weasley. Granger." He nodded at the group flanking Harry. The formalities were a pathetic shield. Nobody said anything. What did Potter want from him?
He was just about to say something sarcastic to break the silence, but it was broken for him by a voice, shrill and carrying, from a witch standing nearby with her companion. "…can't believe they let him come back. It's a disgrace. His father's in Azkaban where he belongs…"
Draco's face went blank. He'd practised this in the mirror. No reaction. No flinch. He was a statue.
The witch, emboldened by her own outrage, continued. "…if Harry Potter hadn't testified for him, he'd be right there with him. I don't know what the boy was thinking, defending the likes of that."
Harry turned slightly, his weight shifting forward as if to confront the woman. Draco froze. He couldn't let Potter defend him. Not here. Not again. It would only make things worse. It would be a... spectacle.
He cut in, his voice a deliberate, bored drawl. "Trying out human facial expressions, Potter? Very convincing. The heroic brooding needs work, though."
Surprise crossed Potter's face, then, oddly, relief. His lips twitched, fighting a smile. Draco looked away. Whatever that was, it was not useful.
"Still perfecting it,” Harry said. “But I'll never match the master. You've had years of practice."
From beside Harry, Granger let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, for Merlin's sake."
Pansy's hand closed around his elbow, her grip firm. "We're leaving," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She pulled him back, away from the Gryffindors. At the same moment, Weasley was tugging on Potter's arm, saying something about the carriages.
Draco couldn't help it. He looked back over his shoulder.
Harry was doing the same.
Their eyes met one last time across the crowded platform. Green. Grey. Neither looked away first. For a moment Potter looked at him the way people looked at things they hadn't expected to find. He turned away before Potter could make it worse.
As they walked towards the waiting carriages, Draco's mind raced. He defended me. The memory surfaced: the Wizengamot chamber, Potter's voice, level and deliberate in the formal silence. Draco’s not a killer, he'd been a boy forced into an impossible situation. He'd spoken for his mother, too. He'd saved them both.
And today, he’d been about to do it again. Defend Draco from a stranger’s venom. The fierce protectiveness in Potter’s face when that witch spoke had been unmistakable.
Draco didn't know what to do with that. Gratitude felt foreign and dangerous. Debt was a chain he understood, but this was different. Potter didn’t owe him anything. Yet he kept…
Pansy squeezed his arm. "Well, that was interesting."
"Shut up, Pansy," Draco muttered, but there was no heat in it.
He climbed into the carriage. The Thestrals waited at the front, patient and very thin. This year was going to be torture. Not because of the whispers or the stares. But because of the green-eyed hero who kept saving him, and who’d looked at Draco on that platform like he actually gave a damn.
Hopeless. He'd known it would be, coming back. He just hadn't expected to be proved right in under five minutes.
HARRY
The Great Hall felt both achingly familiar and entirely new. The enchantment on the ceiling showed a clear, starry night, same as always, but the house banners hung with less flash, their colours rich but muted. They’d repaired the damage, smoothed the scars in the stone, but they hadn’t tried to recreate the gilded grandeur of before. This was a leaner, more sober Hogwarts. A school that remembered.
The scent of roasted meat and treacle tart hit him before he'd crossed the threshold. His gaze swept the staff table, a painful inventory of the missing. Hagrid’s bulk was a familiar comfort, and Professor McGonagall sat stern and upright in the centre chair. But the space where Snape’s dark presence had brooded was now occupied by a stranger.
A woman with honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant low bun. Her robes were a deep burgundy and she was observing the hall with a thoughtful air. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Harry presumed. It felt like a deliberate erasure. A final seal.
Harry’s eyes drifted from the blonde woman down to the house tables. He told himself he wasn’t looking for anyone specific. But somehow his gaze found Draco Malfoy at the far end of the Slytherin table.
The candlelight caught in his hair, turned it silver-white. He wasn’t eating. His plate was untouched and he was looking at it the way people looked at things they weren't really seeing. Harry looked away quickly. Across the table, Hermione was watching him with that knowing expression she got. Harry focused very hard on his own plate.
As the last of the dishes vanished, the gentle hum of conversation died away. All eyes turned to the staff table. Professor McGonagall rose, her spectacles glinting in the candlelight. The hall went very quiet. She placed her hands flat on the table.
“Welcome,” she began, her Scottish accent crisp in the hush. “Welcome back to Hogwarts. This year is… different. It is a year of healing. Of rebuilding. Not just these walls,” she gestured around the hall, “but ourselves, and the bonds between us.”
Harry felt the words land. He kept his eyes fixed on McGonagall, but his peripheral vision was tuned to the far end of the Slytherin table.
McGonagall’s hands remained steady on the table as she continued, her gaze sweeping over the assembled students. "Our world has endured a great division. To help bridge it, we have looked beyond our borders. I am pleased to introduce your new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Aurélie Dubois, who joins us from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic."
A polite, curious murmur spread through the hall. Harry watched the blonde woman stand.
"Professor Dubois brings a wealth of international experience," McGonagall said. "Her philosophy emphasises defence as a means of prevention, a strategic art rather than a blunt instrument. She believes true strength lies in protecting others, in understanding before confronting. I have every confidence she will guide you toward a more nuanced mastery of the subject."
Scattered applause began, growing into a steady wave. Professor Dubois gave a brief, gracious nod. The applause subsided, and she resumed her seat with that same quiet elegance.
Professor McGonagall paused, her gaze sweeping the room and seeming to settle for a moment on each student who had returned. "And a special welcome," she said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "to our eighth-year students. You represent a first in Hogwarts history. We recognise this presents unique circumstances, having adults among our student population."
The older students glanced at one another. Harry felt Ron shift beside him.
"Certain adjustments have been made," McGonagall continued, a hand indicating the lengthened house tables. "But the greater accommodation must come from within these walls, and within yourselves. You are here by choice, to complete your education. Remember that privilege."
She turned her attention to the Hall itself. "The work of reconstruction is ongoing. Magic can mend stone, but it cannot forget. These walls now hold our collective memory. Your task, while you are here, is to help rebuild not just a school, but a community. A stronger one."
McGonagall paused and looked around the Hall again.
"It will require a courage different from that needed in battle," she continued, her accent thickening with conviction. "The courage to be patient. The courage to offer a hand where it might be refused. The courage to face the past without letting it dictate the future."
A silence, deeper than before, gripped the hall. Harry thought of the encounter with Draco on the platform, the stupid, impulsive defence he had attempted.
“To that end,” McGonagall continued, “the castle’s major reconstruction programme will provide practical opportunities for this year’s students. It is funded, in part, by reparations from the estates of those convicted of war crimes. It will also serve as a structured community service for those students who are here on probationary terms, allowing them to contribute meaningfully to the school’s renewal.”
A ripple went through the Hall. Harry’s eyes flickered across the room. A few students glanced pointedly towards Slytherin. He followed their gaze. Draco was staring fixedly at the table, his shoulders rigid. His posture was so perfect it looked painful.
“Eighth-year students will be paired, cross-house, for these projects,” McGonagall announced. A wave of nervous murmuring followed. “The pairings have been carefully considered to foster cooperation.” She unrolled a parchment. “The assignments. Miss Granger and Mr Nott. You will assist Madam Pince with the restoration and re-cataloguing of the more delicate texts in the library.”
Hermione sat up straighter, a spark of interest in her eyes. Theo Nott, at the Slytherin table, gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Mr Weasley and Miss Parkinson. You will work with Professor Hagrid on restoring the Quidditch pitch, clearing debris and repairing the stands.”
Ron’s face drained of colour. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered, staring in horror at Pansy Parkinson, who looked back with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I assure you, Mr. Weasley, I am not in the habit of joking about serious matters.” She returned to the parchment.
“Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy.”
The hall seemed to hold a collective breath. Even the first-years seemed to understand they ought to be still.
“You will be responsible for the initial clearing and assessment of the seventh-floor corridor, specifically the ruins of the Room of Requirement.”
Harry’s head snapped up. Across the Great Hall, Draco had gone white. Properly white, the way people did when the blood left their face all at once.
Their eyes met across the hall. Harry's shock was still arriving when he saw it on Draco's face too. The Fiendfyre. Crabbe's scream. Fleeing through flames. All of it there, unspoken, in that single shared look.
Then Draco looked away, his jaw clenching.
Someone a few seats down from Harry muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “Well, at least Harry can keep an eye on him.”
Harry’s fork slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against his golden plate. Hermione’s hand came down on his forearm, her grip firm, a silent warning. Don’t.
McGonagall continued reading pairs as if the entire hall hadn’t just frozen solid. Harry couldn’t hear them. He was still sitting with his own name. The Room of Requirement. The burned-out shell of a place where they’d nearly died. It was a cruel joke. It had to be.
His gaze drifted back to the Slytherin table. Draco was looking at the wall opposite. He wasn't blinking. And then Harry noticed something else. The boy sitting next to Draco, the tall, handsome one with the close-cropped black hair. Blaise Zabini. He wasn’t looking at Draco or at the Headmistress. He was looking across the Hall, towards the Gryffindor table. Directly at Ginny.
Ginny, who was leaning over to say something to Dean Thomas, caught Zabini’s eye. Something passed between them, a smile, quick and private, before she turned back to Dean. Harry frowned. A protective instinct, old and worn, stirred briefly. But Potter and Malfoy was louder.
The feast had ended in a buzz of conversation that had felt forced and brittle. Harry had excused himself, and was heading towards the Gryffindor tower, lost in a fog of his own thoughts, when a hand caught his arm.
“Harry.”
He turned. Ginny stood there, her red hair a bright splash in the dim corridor. She’d caught him alone.
“That Slytherin boy from dinner,” she said, releasing his arm. “The one sitting next to Malfoy. Do you know him?”
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. He knew exactly who she meant, but a stubborn, petty part of him made her ask. “Which one?”
She gave him a look that said she saw right through him. “Tall. Dark. Handsome. Looked like he knew it.”
“Zabini. Blaise Zabini.” Harry studied her face. There was a slight flush high on her cheekbones. “Why?”
“No reason.” She shrugged, a little too casually.
Harry’s first instinct was to say something protective and unhelpful. But it was immediately swamped by the memory of McGonagall’s parchment. Potter and Malfoy. The words were echoing in his mind.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed, seeing his distraction. “You okay? About the Malfoy thing?”
“Fine,” Harry said, too quickly. “It’s just a project. We’ll clear some rubble. It’s whatever.”
She gave him a slow, knowing smile. “Right. Just a project. Because you’ve always been so calm and neutral about Malfoy.”
He had no answer for that. He looked away, down the corridor where a suit of armour stood gleaming.
Her expression softened. “Harry… what you did at the trial. Testifying for him. For his mum. That was… really brave.”
The shift in topic was so abrupt it left him reeling. He hated talking about the trial. He hated the memories of the Wizengamot chamber just as much: the hostile faces, the formal silence, everyone waiting for Draco to be the villain they needed him to be. “It was the right thing to do,” he muttered, scowling at the floor. “He was a kid. We all were.”
“Still.” Ginny’s voice was quiet, sincere. “Not everyone would have done it. Most people wouldn’t have.”
She reached out and squeezed his arm once, briefly. Then she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the stone passage.
Harry stood alone in the corridor, more unsettled than before. He wasn't really thinking about Zabini. He was still thinking about Malfoy. What did Draco Malfoy think about being shackled to him for Merlin knew how many hours? Would he see it as another layer of humiliation, a constant reminder of his probation, of the charity of Harry Potter’s testimony? Would he resent it? He hadn't considered that. He had only wanted to do the right thing. He hadn’t imagined that the right thing might feel, to its recipient, like just another form of punishment.
Harry started at the touch on his shoulder.
“You coming, mate? Or are you planning to hold up this wall all night?” Ron’s lanky form blocked the torchlight. Dean, Seamus, and Neville lingered behind him, a small Gryffindor contingent.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Harry fell into step with them, the ascent to the Gryffindor tower a familiar path worn deep into his memory. The trek felt longer tonight, the silence among them weighted with the evening’s revelations.
When the Fat Lady swung forward, the common room greeted them with its usual comforting warmth. But the chatter died down as the returning eighth-years scanned the room. The spiral staircase to the boys' dormitories looked unchanged.
“Hang on,” Seamus said, frowning. “There’s eight years now. There’s only seven rooms upstairs. It doesn’t add up.”
McGonagall’s words echoed in Harry’s mind. Unique circumstances. Certain adjustments have been made.
“Up here,” Dean said, already climbing. They followed, a silent, curious procession.
Halfway up the stairs, where there had only ever been solid stone, a new oak door stood. A softly glowing, golden number eight was enchanted upon it.
Ron exchanged a glance with Harry before pushing it open. The room beyond was broader, the ceiling higher. Instead of five four-posters cramped together, the beds were arranged with generous space between them, each with its own bedside table and a small, enchanted window showing the starry sky. It was a room built for young men, not boys. A room that suggested they were different now.
The dormitory felt too large. The spaces between the beds acknowledged something no one wanted to say: the war had put distance between them all. Harry pulled off his robes. He hung them over the bedpost the way he always did. It helped, a little, to have something to do with his hands.
Ron collapsed onto his bed. "Pansy Parkinson. Rebuilding the Quidditch pitch with Pansy fucking Parkinson. She'll drop a beam on my head first chance she gets."
“Could be worse,” Seamus offered, unbuttoning his shirt. “You could be Harry. Clearing out that… place.”
All eyes turned to Harry. He kept his gaze fixed on his trunk as he folded his clothes. “It’s fine.”
“Is it, though?” Ron pushed himself up on his elbows. “Mate, testifying for him at the Wizengamot was one thing. That was… noble. But being paired with him? Forced to work in the room where his mate tried to kill us? That’s a bit much.”
Harry slammed the trunk lid harder than necessary. “He didn’t cast the Fiendfyre, Ron. Crabbe did.”
Ron deflated slightly. “Yeah. I suppose.” He looked back at Harry, his expression earnest. “But why’d you do it? Testify, I mean. After everything.”
Harry sat on his own bed, the springs groaning. He focused on untying his trainers. “His mother lied to Voldemort for me. Saved my life. It was… a debt.” The explanation felt thin, even to him.
“A debt,” Ron repeated, sounding unconvinced. “Right.”
“I think it was decent,” Neville said softly. “Shows we’re different from them. Better.”
Silence fell. Dean stared out his enchanted window at the false stars, still in his day clothes, jacket on and everything. Harry noticed and said nothing. Some things you didn't prod at.
“Wonder what the new French professor is really like,” Seamus said, changing the subject with obvious relief. “Dubois. ‘Defence is an art form.’ Sounds a bit poncy.”
“Hermione’s already looked her up,” Ron muttered. “Published three papers on defensive warding. McGonagall didn’t hire her for her small talk.”
“At least it’s not another Death Eater in a turban,” Neville offered with a weak smile.
The conversation drifted to other pairings, tomorrow's schedule, the strangeness of being back. Harry only half-listened. Soon he'd walk into the burned-out Room of Requirement. And Draco Malfoy would be there.