Chapter Text
"O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!"
- Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1
HARRY
Harry woke to unfamiliar silence.
He lay still, staring at the enchanted window above his bed where false stars blinked against an artificial sky. He remembered, in no particular order: the enchanted window, returning for eighth year, the quiet of a dormitory that still felt borrowed. He turned his head to see that Ron was still asleep, one arm flung over his face. Dean's bed was empty, the covers undisturbed. Probably stayed up all night. Seamus snored.
Something glinted on Harry's bedside table.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and saw that a silver badge sat beside his glasses, catching the pale morning light. He was sure it hadn't been there when he'd gone to bed. He reached for it, and his heart sunk when he saw the large 'P' that gleamed on its surface.
Prefect.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Harry muttered.
"What's that?" Ron's voice was muzzy with sleep.
Harry held up the badge. "Apparently McGonagall thinks I need more responsibility."
Ron squinted at it, then laughed, a short, disbelieving bark. "Mate. You saved the world. She's probably worried you'll get bored with regular school and start hexing Slytherins."
"I was never a Prefect before."
"Yeah, well, neither was I after I got it. Hermione did all the actual work." Ron stretched, joints popping. "Probably figures you're responsible now. Adult. War hero. All that rubbish."
Harry set the badge down then picked it up again. His thumb traced the ‘P’ carved into the silver. McGonagall had given him a role he’d never wanted, at the time when he’d hoped to be invisible. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.
"You going to wear it?" Ron asked.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Always have a choice, mate. But McGonagall did pick you. Must've had her reasons."
Harry caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room: Prefect badge in hand, messy hair, the same uncertain expression he'd worn at eleven. Some things never changed.
The Great Hall buzzed with Monday morning chaos. First-years clustered nervously at their house tables, older students compared timetables, owls swooped overhead delivering post. Harry slid onto the bench beside Hermione, who was already halfway through toast and a dense-looking book.
"Morning," she said without looking up. "Did you get your badge?"
"How did you…?"
"I'm a Prefect too." She finally glanced at him, eyes flicking to his chest. "It suits you."
"Feels weird."
"Everything feels weird right now." She turned a page. "We're eighth-years in a school that didn't have eighth-years before. We're adults pretending to be students. Weird is relative."
Ron dropped onto the bench across from them with a loaded plate. "Oi, Harry's gone all responsible on us. Prefect badge and everything."
"About time," Hermione said primly.
Harry ignored them both, reaching for the pumpkin juice. His eyes wandered across the Hall, sweeping the Ravenclaw table, the Hufflepuffs…
They reached the Slytherin table.
Draco Malfoy sat near the end, isolated even among his housemates. Pansy and Theo flanked him like guards, but there was a careful space around them. The other Slytherins kept their distance. Draco wasn't eating, just pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. His head was bent, shoulders curved inward. He looked reduced. Smaller than Harry had ever seen him.
Different.
The word from the train returned. This Draco was diminished in a way that made Harry feel strangely discomfited. Where was the boy who'd sneered and postured? Who'd taken up space like it was his divine right? This version looked like he was trying to disappear, which Harry recognised.
"Harry." Hermione's voice pulled him back. "You're staring."
He jerked his gaze back to his plate. "I wasn't…"
"You were." She exchanged a look with Ron. "It's fine to be... curious. After everything."
"I'm not curious." The lie felt obvious even as he said it. "Just wondering how the first session's going to go. In the Room of Requirement."
"Right." Ron's tone was studiously neutral. "The Room of Requirement. Where you almost died. With Malfoy."
"We almost died," Harry corrected. "All of us. It's not…" He stopped. Wasn't what? Wasn't complicated? Wasn't weighing on him every time he looked at Draco and saw that careful blankness?
A shadow fell across the table. Harry looked up to find Ginny standing there, arms crossed, with a gang of younger students Harry vaguely recognised hovering a few feet behind her. They all looked nervous. Harry had the sudden feeling that he wasn't going to enjoy this conversation.
"Morning, Harry." Ginny's voice was bright, but her smile was tight and determined. "Got a minute?"
"Yeah, of course." Harry glanced at the group behind her. "What's this about?"
"Quidditch." Ginny sat down beside him. The others shuffled closer but kept their distance, as if uncertain whether approaching the Chosen One during breakfast needed permission. "McGonagall's appointed me Gryffindor captain. We're trying to rebuild the team."
Harry's face fell. "Ginny…"
"We need a Seeker, Harry." Her expression was serious now, the forced brightness gone. "I've got Chasers. Me, Demelza, and Jimmy Peakes switched positions. Ron's keeping, obviously."
"Obviously," chimed in Ron.
Ginny ignored him. "But we don't have a Seeker."
"I didn't bring my broom," Harry said, grasping for an excuse. "I wasn't expecting to play this year."
"I know." Ginny gestured to one of the seventh-years, who produced a long case from behind her back. "That's why I had Mum send your Thunderbolt from Grimmauld Place."
Harry stomach dropped. The broom he'd bought in July and never flown. "You went through my things?"
"I asked Mum to send your broom. That's different." Ginny pushed the case toward him. "We need you. The team needs you. And I think you need this too."
"Just flying," Ron added from across the table. "Just Quidditch."
Harry looked at the broom case. At Ginny's determined face. At the team behind her, all of them watching him with eyes wide, like he might say no and shatter something fragile they were trying to rebuild.
"I'm really rusty," Harry said finally.
Ginny's face lit up. "I think you'll manage."
"I haven't flown in months…"
"Good thing we have practice tomorrow then." She stood, picking up the broom case and pressing it into his hands. "Four o'clock. Quidditch pitch. Don't be late, Potter."
The team behind her visibly relaxed. "See you there," Demelza Robins said, actually smiling now. She and the others headed back toward their end of the table, already talking strategies.
Ginny remained, her expression turning serious again. "I know it's weird. Being back. Trying to pretend everything's normal when it's not. But you're good at Quidditch, Harry. You always have been. And you deserve something that's just... yours. Something you're good at that has nothing to do with saving the world."
Before Harry could respond, she bumped his shoulder with hers, the same easy affection as always, and walked away.
Harry sat holding the broom case, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Inside was a Thunderbolt VII. Top of the line, professional kit. Faster than his old Firebolt. He'd spent a stupid amount of money on it in a moment of desperate hope, when the pressure of the trials had seemed insurmountable.
And now Ginny was making him actually use it.
"You should do it," Hermione said softly. "She's right. You need something that's just yours. Not about duty or saving people or... complicated reconstruction projects."
Harry looked back at the Slytherin table before he'd decided to.
Draco was looking at him.
Just for a second. Eyes meeting across the crowded Hall. Something changed in Draco's expression. Not quite... anything Harry could name. Then Draco looked away deliberately, returning his attention to the untouched eggs on his plate.
Guilt settled in, low and unpleasant. He looked away.
"Complicated," he muttered, more to himself than Hermione. "Right."
DRACO
Draco watched Potter receive a broom case from Weasley, the girl, not the buffoon. It sat badly with him.
Of course. Of course Potter was joining the Quidditch team. Of course Weasley had procured a broom for him, had assembled half of Gryffindor to beg him to play. Of course Potter's morning included easy camaraderie and the promise of flying, something Draco hadn't been allowed to do for months except under supervision.
His probation terms were clear: no unsupervised broom use. No leaving school grounds. No forgetting, even for a moment, that his freedom was anything other than conditional.
Meanwhile, Potter held a broom worth more than most people earned in a year, a Thunderbolt VII from the look of it, newest model, and everyone smiled at him like the sun shone out of his…
"Stop glaring," Pansy murmured beside him. "You'll burn a hole through his head."
"I'm not glaring."
"You absolutely are." She stabbed a kipper with unnecessary violence. "And it's obvious. Half the Hall can see you watching him."
Draco forced his gaze back to his plate. The scrambled eggs had gone cold, congealing into an unappetising mass. His stomach churned at the thought of eating.
"Looks like he’s joining the Quidditch team," Theo observed from Draco's other side. His voice was neutral, but Draco knew the question anyway. And you're bothered by this because...?
"I don't care about Potter's Quidditch career." The lie tasted bitter. "I care about the fact that we're supposed to be clearing rubble today. In the Room of Requirement. Where his carelessness nearly killed us all."
"It was Crabbe who cast that… spell," Pansy said quietly. "Not Potter."
Draco's fingers tightened on his fork. "Potter was there. Potter was always there, making everything worse…"
"Potter saved your life," Theo interrupted. "Twice. Once in the Room, once at your trial. Have you considered that maybe your resentment is…"
"Carefully considered and entirely justified," Draco finished sharply.
But it wasn't. That was the problem. His resentment was the only thing still working properly in him. But underneath it? That was worse. The horrible, inescapable knowledge that Harry Potter had chosen to help him when he could have let Draco burn. When he could have let the Wizengamot send him to Azkaban alongside his father.
Across the Hall, Potter gripped the broom case. The Weasley girl said something that made him smile. The expression changed his face, made him look younger. More like the boy Draco had known before the war made them all ancient.
Draco looked away quickly, but not before Potter's eyes found his.
Green eyes, direct and searching. He couldn’t look away, which was worse than anything Potter might have said. He tried to read the expression on Potter's face. Was it concern? Curiosity? Please, not fucking pity. All of it made him want to hex something.
He broke the eye contact first, focusing very hard on cutting a piece of toast into precise squares. His hands were steady. He'd had years to learn that much.
"We have Defence first," Pansy said, her tone deliberately light. "With the new professor. Dubois."
"Wonderful." Draco set down his knife with careful precision. "Another stranger evaluating whether I deserve to be here."
"She doesn't know you," Theo pointed out. "Might be refreshing. No preconceptions."
"She'll learn soon enough." Draco pushed his plate away, appetite thoroughly dead. "Everyone always does."
The bell rang, signalling the start of classes. Students began to move, a tide of bodies flowing toward the doors. Draco stood, smoothed his robes, and let his face do what it had always done.
He looked back toward the Gryffindor table.
Potter was still holding the broom case, running his fingers along the leather. The morning light caught on his perpetually messy hair. He looked... hopeful. Like for one brief moment he'd forgotten how to be miserable.
The envy was specific and unpleasant.
Then Potter looked up again, and their eyes met again across the emptying Hall. This time, Draco didn't look away. He couldn't immediately identify what was in his expression. Not pity, not exactly, but something that made Draco's consciously constructed indifference become briefly unreliable.
Potter's mouth opened slightly, like he might say something. Pansy's hand closed on his elbow. "Come on. We'll be late."
Draco let her pull him away, but he felt Potter's gaze on his back all the way to the doors.
Three hours later, Draco stood in the seventh-floor corridor and seriously considered fleeing the country.
The corridor was worse than he'd expected. Scorch marks still streaked the walls despite the repair efforts. The air smelled sour and corrupted. The massive double doors to the Room of Requirement hung askew on twisted hinges, revealing darkness beyond.
"Merlin," Draco muttered.
"Yeah." Potter's voice came from behind him.
Draco spun. Potter stood a few feet away, looking absurdly casual in rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened tie. The Prefect badge glinted on his chest. Of course McGonagall had made Potter a Prefect. Of course she had.
"Didn't hear you coming," Draco said, aiming for bored and landing somewhere near defensive.
"Sorry." Potter shoved his hands in his pockets. "Didn't mean to startle you."
They stood in awkward silence. The corridor felt too narrow, despite its width. Draco kept his distance, a careful three feet of space between them. Close enough to be civil. Far enough to breathe.
"So," Potter said eventually. "Should we..?"
"McGonagall said initial assessment today." Draco pulled the work order from his bag, focusing on the parchment instead of Potter's face. "Catalogue the damage. Determine structural stability. Develop a repair plan."
"Right. Assessment." Potter scratched the back of his neck, thinking about Grimmauld Place, where he'd paid a lot of Galleons for professionals to do this work. "You've done this before? Cataloguing magical damage?"
"Yes, Potter. In my copious free time between being tortured by the Dark Lord and standing trial for war crimes, I took up architectural restoration as a hobby."
The words came out sharper than intended. Draco saw Potter flinch slightly, and immediately felt like an arse.
"Sorry," Draco muttered. "That was…"
"It's fine." Potter's voice was steady. "This is weird. We don't have to pretend it's not weird."
Something very close to amusement crossed his mind, which was irritating. "It's extremely weird."
"The weirdest."
"Profoundly uncomfortable."
"Extraordinarily awkward."
Draco's mouth twitched before he could stop it. "Did you just say 'extraordinarily awkward'?"
"Seemed to fit." Potter's own mouth was doing that almost-smile thing. Then he sobered, looking past Draco at the ruined doors. "Last time I was here, you nearly died. We all nearly died. And now we're supposed to... what? Clean it up and move on?"
Draco followed his gaze. The darkness beyond the doors seemed to pulse with old malice. Crabbe's scream echoed in his memory… high, terrified, cut off too soon.
"McGonagall has a sadistic sense of poetry," Draco said quietly. "Forcing us to rebuild the place we almost burned down together."
"Yeah." Potter's jaw clenched. "She does."
Another silence. This one was heavier, weighted with shared memory.
"We should start," Draco said, because standing here remembering was worse than actually facing it.
Potter nodded. He pulled his wand, and Draco did the same. They moved toward the doors together, steps synchronised without conscious thought.
The Room of Requirement opened before them. The smell reached them first.
HARRY
The destruction was total.
Harry had expected bad. He'd seen it during the battle, but he'd been running, focused on survival. Now, standing still in the wreckage, the scale of it astonished him.
The Room had been vast once. Multiple storeys of piled junk, narrow passages winding through centuries of hidden things. Now it was just collapsed rubble. Burned furniture jutted from piles of stone. Melted metal pooled in hardened puddles. The walls that remained standing were black with soot, covered in scorch marks that looked like screaming faces.
"Fuck," Harry breathed.
Draco had stopped moving entirely. His face gave nothing away, but Harry saw he was breathing too quickly, in short pulls, the kind that doesn't help. He was clenching his fists, then releasing them.
"Draco." The first name slipped out without thinking. "You okay?"
"Fine." The word was clipped, too quick. "Let's just… we need a methodical approach. Structural assessment."
Draco moved before Harry could respond, picking his way over rubble, each stop deliberate. Harry knew he was trying very hard not to run. He watched him go.
This was cruel. McGonagall had to know this was cruel.
But Harry raised his wand and followed.
They worked in silence for the first twenty minutes. Cataloguing damage, noting which walls were salvageable, which needed complete reconstruction. The work was mundane, methodical. A relief from thinking.
Then Harry's diagnostic spell hit a section of wall near what used to be the Room's centre, and it flickered gold.
"Draco. Look at this."
Draco picked his way over. "What?"
"There's still magic in the wall. Original magic, from before the Fiendfyre." Harry traced the pattern with his wand. "It's weak, but it's there. If we could stabilise it, maybe we could use it as a foundation.”
"We'd need to anchor it first. Prevent it degrading further." Draco moved closer, his own wand raised. "A stabilising charm, layered with preservation magic?"
"And then build new magic on top. Use the old as a base."
"Try it," Draco said. "Cast the stabilising charm. I'll layer preservation over it."
Harry raised his wand. "Structuro Stablilis."
Gold magic poured from his wand, flooding the damaged stone. The wall shuddered, dust raining down, and for a moment Harry thought it would collapse entirely.
Then Draco's magic joined his, silver, precise, weaving through the gold like thread.
The wall solidified.
Not just solidified. Glowed. The gold and silver magic braided together, sinking deep into the stone until it looked almost new. Not perfect, the scorch marks remained, but it was solid. Stable. Stronger than before.
Harry lowered his wand slowly. "That was…"
"Unexpected," Draco finished. His voice was strange.
They stood staring at the wall. At the impossible perfection of their combined magic.
"We should try a full repair," Harry said. "See if we can actually rebuild part of it."
"An arch." Draco pointed to a section where the wall had partially collapsed. "There. If we can create a stable arch, we'll know the technique works."
Harry moved into position. Draco stepped closer.
"On three?" Harry said.
"On three."
"One."
"Two."
"Reparo Maxima," they said together.
Magic exploded from both wands. Gold and silver crashed together, and for a horrifying second Harry thought they'd miscalculated, that the whole wall would come down.
Then the magic... synchronised.
Harry felt the resonance of it, Draco's magic answering his, weaving through it, completing it. The arch rose from the rubble, stone by stone, each piece fitting perfectly into place.
When the magic faded, a perfect arch stood before them.
It was, by any measure, a perfect piece of repair magic. Gold and silver were still visible in the mortar between stones.
"Holy shit," Harry whispered.
Beside him, Draco had lowered his wand. His face was pale, eyes wide. "That's not… that shouldn't be possible."
"But it is." Harry reached out, touching the arch. The stone was warm under his palm. "Our magic just…"
"Harmonised," Draco said quietly. "Perfectly."
Harry turned to look at him. Draco was staring at the arch.
"Is that bad?" Harry asked. "That our magic works together?"
"I don't know." Draco still wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's not normal. Magical resonance like that usually requires…" He stopped abruptly.
"Requires what?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter." Draco stepped back, putting distance between them. "We should continue. There's a lot of ground to cover."
“It does matter…”
A grinding sound echoed through the Room. Both of them looked up.
A section of the ceiling was moving. Stones shifting, destabilised by their magic. Harry gazed in slow horror as the stones began to fall.
Directly toward him.
Harry saw the stones tumbling, saw death written in falling rubble. His wand was already moving, shield charm forming.
Arms wrapped around his chest and yanked.
Harry's back hit something solid. Draco's chest. Draco's arms locked around him from behind, pulling him backward with desperate strength. They stumbled, crashed into the wall behind them. Stones thundered down where Harry had been standing.
Silence. Dust settled.
Draco held on, just long enough for Harry to feel Draco's breathing, fast and unsteady, against his back. Draco shoved him away.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Draco's voice was sharp. "Standing there like an idiot while the ceiling came down?"
Harry stared at where he’d been standing. Where he’d be dead now. “Fuck.”
“Pay attention, Potter. If you're going to do this work, at least try not to get yourself killed. Some of us would find the paperwork tedious."
Harry turned to face him. "Thanks. For…" He gestured vaguely at the rubble.
"Don't mention it." Draco was already moving away, pulling out his wand. "Literally. Don't. We need to stabilise that section before anything else comes down."
But his hands were shaking.
Harry saw it. The tremor Draco was trying to hide as he raised his wand. His voice was level, but his hands weren't.
"Draco…"
"I said don't mention it." Draco's jaw clenched.
"Right. Yeah." Harry pulled out his own wand, still feeling the ghost of arms around his chest. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving him shaky. "We should probably work on opposite sides of the Room. You know. In case something else falls."
"Excellent idea."
They worked in silence after that. Staying on opposite sides of the Room. Communicating only when necessary about spell work and structural concerns
An hour later, McGonagall appeared to inspect their progress. She stood before the arch, running her fingers along the gold and silver magic still faintly glowing in the stone.
"Remarkable," she said quietly. "I hadn't anticipated such... synchronicity."
Harry and Draco stood side by side, maintaining a careful distance.
"The work is acceptable, then?" Draco asked, his voice perfectly modulated. Polite. Distant.
"More than acceptable, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall’s gaze moved from the arch to their faces, lingering past the point of politeness. Her mouth remained a straight line, but Harry had the distinct impression she'd got what she came for. Assessment? Or perhaps satisfaction? She turned away. "I expect this level of cooperation to continue. Same time, Wednesday. You're dismissed."
She swept out, tartan robes billowing. Harry and Draco stood in the wreckage of the Room of Requirement, neither quite willing to move first.
"So," Harry said finally. "Wednesday."
"Yes. Wednesday." Draco was already gathering his things, movements precise and deliberate. Not looking at Harry.
"Draco."
"We're fine, Potter." Draco slung his bag over his shoulder. "You're alive. I fulfilled my probationary obligations. Everyone's happy."
"That's not what I…"
"I'll see you in class." Draco was already moving toward the door. "Try not to get yourself killed before Wednesday. It would complicate the work schedule."
He left without looking back.
Harry stood alone in the destroyed Room, hand still half-raised from where he'd almost reached out. He dropped his hand. The Room was very quiet.
The Great Hall was loud with dinner conversation when Harry arrived. He'd spent the last hour walking the castle, trying to clear his head. The session in the Room of Requirement had left him unsettled.
He slid onto the bench beside Ron, who was in the middle of an animated story about Pansy Parkinson's reaction to being paired for Quidditch pitch restoration.
"...told me if I breathed on her wrong she'd hex my bollocks off," Ron was saying. "Like I want to get anywhere near her breathing space."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You'll manage. It's good for you. Building bridges between houses."
"I'll build her a bridge and push her off it," Ron muttered, but he was grinning.
Harry reached for the shepherd's pie, not really hungry but not eating would only attract unwanted attention. His eyes wandered down the table, and stopped.
Ginny was laughing. Nothing unusual about that. But she was laughing with Blaise Zabini.
They sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, close enough their shoulders touched. Ginny had her head back, genuinely amused at something Zabini had said. He was leaning in, saying something else, and she swatted his arm playfully.
It looked... easy. Natural. Like they'd known each other for years instead of being on opposite sides of a war months ago.
It wasn't jealousy. He and Ginny were done, had been done since the summer. This was envy, which was almost worse: wanting not her, but whatever it was that made it look so easy.
Zabini said something else and Ginny laughed again, her whole face lighting up. Then she glanced across the Hall, toward the Slytherin table, where Draco sat with Pansy and Theo.
Harry followed her gaze. Draco was watching them too. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were tense. He leaned towards Theo, said something low. Theo nodded. Both stood. Draco left the Great Hall without a backward glance, Theo trailing behind.
Harry looked away.
"You alright?" Ron asked around a mouthful of potatoes.
"Fine. Just tired." Harry went through the motions. Ron spoke and Harry answered. His water glass needed refilling twice. But his mind kept circling back to the way Draco's hands had trembled as he pulled Harry clear of the falling debris. Why would someone look so shaken by saving another's life?
After dinner, Harry climbed to Gryffindor Tower in silence. Ron and Hermione were debating something about the Defence essay due Friday. Harry walked behind them, not really listening.
The common room was packed. Eighth-years mixing with seventh-years, trying to pretend everything was normal. Dean was curled in an armchair by the fire, staring at nothing. Seamus hovered nearby, clearly worried but uncertain how to help.
Harry nodded to them both and headed for the stairs.
The dormitory was empty and he was grateful for it. He needed quiet. Needed to think, or not think. He wasn't sure which.
He changed into pyjamas mechanically, brushed his teeth, climbed into bed. The mattress was softer than his old one. The enchanted window showed a clear night sky. Everything was designed to be comfortable. Soothing.
Harry wasn’t soothed. He stared at the false stars, mind racing through the day.
The Quidditch commitment he now had. Ginny’s determination to rebuild the team. The broom he’d bought in July, still barely used, now waiting for him to actually fly.
Then there was the Room of Requirement. The destruction worse than he’d imagined. Draco nearly hyperventilating when they first entered, though he’d hidden it well.
And the magic. The way the gold and silver had fused together perfectly, impossibly synchronised. McGonagall had looked surprised by it. Draco had looked almost disturbed.
The ceiling falling. Draco yanking him backward without hesitation. Then immediately putting five feet between them and snapping about paperwork.
But his hands had been shaking.
Harry rolled onto his side. That's what he couldn't stop thinking about. Not the rescue itself, that was just... what you did. You didn't let someone get crushed by falling rubble, regardless of who they were.
But Draco had looked scared. Really scared. Even while he was covering it with sarcasm and that carefully blank mask he wore.
It reminded Harry of the Fiendfyre. The terror on Draco’s face as he'd reached out his hand.
Why had saving Harry seemed to cost Draco so much? Why had he looked like that, shaken, almost angry at himself?
The door opened. Ron stumbled in, followed by Dean and Seamus. They were laughing about something. Harry closed his eyes, feigned sleep.
He listened to them settle in. The rustle of sheets, the creak of beds, Ron's muttered goodnight. Seamus's soft snoring started within minutes.
Harry lay awake, staring at false stars.
Tomorrow was Quidditch practice. He'd focus on that. On flying, on the Thunderbolt, on something straightforward.
Not on the way Draco had looked at the arch they'd built, like it meant something Harry didn't understand.
The questions circled his mind, unanswered.