Chapter Text
A pale, thin boy was standing outside Borgin and Burkes. He was wearing black, except for a thin silver chain around his neck. His wand was clutched tightly in one hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped toward the door and opened it. It was dark inside, and somehow dirtier than he’d seen it before. He brushed some of the dust that had fallen off his coat and made his way through the shop front toward the desk.
The floor was littered with all manner of magical objects. There were several tables propped up against each other, their legs missing. Glass cases lined the wall, some holding jewelry or animal carcasses. Each case had a paper placard displayed in front of it, boasting the names of the cursed objects they contained and what damage they’d done.
The boy paid the objects no mind. He reached the desk and rung a silver bell on the counter, brushing his cloak of dust once more. The air was stale inside the shop and smelled of rot.
Finally, there came a bustling noise from the hallway behind the counter and a squat man hobbled forward, smoothing his slicked hair with one hand. When he caught sight of the boy he took a step back.
“Ah—Draco,” he said in an oily voice. His attempt at friendliness did nothing to hide the faint panic in his voice.
“It’s Mr. Malfoy to you,” Draco said coldly. He looked around the shop, lip curling slightly. “Business hasn’t been very well for you.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” Borgin replied, rubbing his hands together. “Not very many people like these sorts of things anymore—”
“Never mind that,” Draco cut in. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”
“Of course, of course, how foolish of me—I’ve been dawdling, haven’t I—?” One look from Draco silenced him. He took a small step backward and forced a smile.
“Then what brings you here, Mr. Malfoy?” he asked. The panic in his voice had begun to grow again.
“I’ve come to sell,” Draco said shortly.
“Sell?” The note of panic heightened.
“Yes,” Draco said impatiently, “sell.”
Borgin took another few steps backward, looking around him as if searching for an escape route. “Ah, b-but you see, Mr. Malfoy…” he stuttered, rubbing his hands together feverishly, “My business is in no condition to buy—”
“Are you turning me away?”
Silence fell. Borgin licked his lips, eyes darting around the room. “N-no, sir, of course not—”
Draco took a step toward the counter. Borgin backed away.
“I’ve come to sell,” he repeated, voice cold.
Borgin hesitated for a second longer, then sighed in defeat. He nodded. “What is it you’re selling?”
Draco paused, letting Borgin suffer a few moments more before he replied.
“You are aware that my family is still in possession of quite a number of cursed objects. I want to get rid of them.”
Borgin winced. “H-how many, sir?”
“Fifteen or so. Mild curses.” Draco waved dismissively. “The least they’ll do is blow your hand off.”
Borgin nodded reluctantly. “Should I schedule a visit or—”
“They’ll be sent here.”
Borgin made a frantic noise in the back of his throat.
“And the—”
“A trifle. I’m not expecting much. Pay me as you deem fit.” It was a threat in itself; pay too little and it was sure to be taken as an offense.
The shopkeeper cast a frantic look at the door. “Of—of course, sir,” he stammered. “When would you like to—”
“Any time in the next week is acceptable.”
Borgin consented quickly. “Is there anything else, sir—?”
“That will be all.”
Borgin nodded, clearly eager for Draco to go, and Draco turned to leave. There was a sudden crashing sound from behind. Draco paused. Borgin squeaked in surprise. Dust rose from the fireplace in the back of the shop.
There were a few seconds of silence, and then a familiar looking figure rose from the dust, clutching a pair of broken glasses to his face.
--
“Potter.”
Harry turned, glancing through the cracked lenses of his glasses at the dimly lit shop. He didn’t need to see the other boy’s face to recognize him.
“Malfoy.”
He was hit by a sudden wave of nostalgia—before his second year at Hogwarts he’d fallen through the wrong fireplace into this exact shop, where he’d seen Malfoy. The only thing different was that they’d actually met this time.
There was a short, awkward silence. Malfoy let out a sigh and turned back to Borgin.
“I’ll be going then, Borgin.”
It seemed to Harry Malfoy had chosen to ignore him. Well, that was fine. He hadn’t felt like talking to the tosser anyway. He watched through his broken glasses as Malfoy turned and swept out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind him.
He turned to Borgin, who backed away, suddenly interested in a section of peeling wallpaper. Harry sighed.
He turned, heading for the door, and stepped out into the dirty street.
Knockturn Alley had become, if it was possible, even worse than before. The damage done during the war had left its mark; some buildings still had broken windows; the unluckier ones were half in ruins. It hadn’t stopped the squatters from moving in, and some sat in the crumbling foundations of old shops, poking at magical fires.
Harry looked around. Malfoy had disappeared. He brushed himself down, checked that his wand was unbroken and started down the street toward Diagon Alley.
--
Hermione and Ron were waiting for him at Flourish and Blotts, looking more than a little worried.
“Where were you, mate? Hermione was starting to panic,” Ron said, stepping forward and handing a stack of books to Harry. “We got yours for you already.”
“Got off at the wrong fireplace,” Harry explained, taking the books. “Thanks for these.”
“Where’d you get out, Harry?” Hermione broke in, moving to fuss over him. “Goodness, are your glasses are broken again?”
Harry held out his glasses for Hermione to fix; he’d always been terrible at that spell. “I came out in Knockturn. At the same shop, you know. Borgin and Burkes.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t run into any trouble, did you?” She was sounding worried again and Harry shook his head quickly.
“You’d think after all these years you’d learn how to use the Floo properly,” Ron remarked snidely, neatly sidestepping Harry’s foot as it came out to kick him.
Harry huffed. “I don’t like it.”
Ron opened his mouth to insult Harry again, but he was interrupted by his younger sister.
“Ron, Mum wants you to help her carry her new cookbooks from the counter—oh, hi, Harry.”
There was an awkward pause.
It’d been a few months since Ginny and Harry had broken up, but things were far from back to normal. Although Ron took it surprisingly well (he only stopped talking to Harry for about two weeks), Harry was still trying to figure things out. The split was mutual, but his feelings were jumbled and confusing, and he didn’t really want to think about them.
Thankfully he was saved the trouble because right then a huge hand slammed into his back, and he was almost knocked off his feet.
“Hagrid!” Hermione exclaimed, eyes brightening. “How’ve you been?”
As Harry recovered from having the breath knocked out of him, the half-giant recounted his summer holidays.
“Took a bit of a break, yeh know,” he rumbled, pushing a hand through his tangled hair. “Was nice, I suppose, but I’ll be glad when the school year starts.”
Ron nodded eagerly. “Are you teaching this year, Hagrid?”
Hagrid nodded. He turned to Harry. “Say, you seen Malfoy around anywhere?”
Harry paused. “Well, yes, actually. I saw him in Knockturn.”
Ron turned on Harry. “You didn’t tell us that, Harry!”
Harry winced. “I was going to.” He turned back to Hagrid, who was shaking his head. “Why? Is he up to something again?”
“No,” Hagrid replied, “Not that I know of. But you’ve heard, haven’t you?”
“Heard what?” Hermione asked.
“Well, he’s coming back to school, apparently. As are some of the other Death Eater kids.”
“What?”
Hagrid shrugged. “Jus’ thought you might want to know. Anyway, Harry, I’ve got to go. Got some supplies to buy.” He patted—more like whacked—Harry on the back and was off again, humming to himself.
“So.” Hermione broke the silence. Her eyes had hardened slightly.
“Malfoy, back at school?” Ron burst out, furious. “After what he did? I can’t believe it—”
“Can’t believe what?”
Ron looked up. George Weasley, the third eldest Weasley son, was standing behind Ron, smoking a joke pipe. He wiggled his eyebrows at Ron.
“Well, go on. Don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” he said, smoke puffing from his lips. “Merlin, this tastes awful…”
Ginny glared accusingly at George. “Mum told you not to smoke those anymore,” she snapped.
George just rolled her eyes. “It’s fine, she can’t see it anyway.” He turned to Harry and Ron. “So what were you saying about Malfoy?”
“Apparently Malfoy’s coming back to school,” Harry replied sullenly. “Hagrid just told us.”
George raised an eyebrow. “They’re really letting him come back?”
“Along with other Death Eater scum,” Ron spat. “He should be rotting in Azkaban, not coming back to school.”
Hermione, surprisingly, did not agree with Ron. “That’s a little strong, don’t you think? He’s still a kid, like the rest of us.”
Ron narrowed his eyes at Hermione. “But he—”
“Think about what you’re saying, Ron,” Hermione said patiently. “He may have done things wrong, but he doesn’t deserve that. Besides, didn’t he save Harry’s life? I think he’s allowed a second chance.”
“Hermione, you can’t possibly—”
Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Can’t I? Sure, I hate Malfoy. But I wouldn’t wish that kind of hell on anyone.”
Ron was opening his mouth to say something back, but he was interrupted by his mother’s sharp voice.
“George Fabian Weasley! What have I told you about smoking those?”
George jumped, looking guilty, and tucked the pipe away. “Oh, hello, Mum. How have you been?”
Molly was having none of it. She held out her hand, eyes blazing. “Hand it over now, and if I catch you with one of these again—”
“Alright, alright,” George said, flustered. He handed the pipe over.
Molly Vanished the pipe and turned to the others. “Did you get lost in the Floo again?” she asked Harry, frowning.
Harry nodded. “Still haven’t got the hang of it,” he explained sheepishly.
Molly just laughed. “That’s alright. The Floo’s not for everyone. Come, dear, let’s get your books sorted…”
--
Draco stopped in front of Ollivander’s and stared up at the new sign. The whole shop had been rebuilt, and it was slightly jarring to see how clean and new it was. The glass windows, which had always been grimy and dark, were clear and polished to a shine, reflecting the blinding sunlight into Draco’s eyes.
Draco moved into the shade and spent the next few minutes staring at the door, unable to reach out and open it. The owner of the shop, Ollivander, had been kept prisoner in his family’s basement for the previous year and a half, and tortured half to death by Voldemort. Surely he’d hold a grudge, especially against the son of the Death Eaters who held him there.
While Draco was debating this, trying to convince himself to just open the damn door and go in, it opened for him.
A small, eccentrically dressed man looked up at him through large glasses. He smiled.
Draco’s heart leapt into his throat. “Mr. Ollivander,” he began. He couldn’t finish. He looked down at the man, who looked right back at him with an unwavering smile.
“I, uh…”
“Draco! I was wondering when you would come. Come in, come in…” He ushered a flustered Draco into the dimly lit wand shop, the door closing behind him with a tinkle.
The shop seemed the same as it had always been, albeit a bit cleaner. There were new shelves lining the walls, piled with wandboxes of different sizes and colors. Draco distinctly remembered his first visit to the shop—the way the floor had creaked underfoot, the smell of magic lingering in the air. It felt the same, yet somehow heavier. He felt weighed down, by the dark, by the dim light.
Ollivander had started down one of the rows of shelves and was plucking a long, thin box from up high. He brought it down and came over to where Draco was standing.
“Try this one. Oak, nine inches, unicorn hair core. Smooth handling.”
Draco frowned, but took the box. He couldn’t understand the wandmaker’s behavior. Shouldn’t he be more hostile? After all, Draco was a former Death Eater, one who’d directly participated in keeping him hostage at the Manor.
But there were no traces of animosity on Ollivander’s face, just quiet watchfulness. “Go on, give it a wave.”
Still eyeing the wandmaker, Draco took the lid off the box and took out the wand.
He knew immediately that it wasn’t the right one. The magic felt flat in his hands—subdued, and the wood cold to the touch. He looked over at the wandmaker and shook his head.
Ollivander nodded patiently. He took the wand and the box back, placed them on his desk and went back down another row of shelves.
He returned a few minutes later carrying a few boxes. He laid them on the desk and beckoned for Draco, who moved to join him.
“Try this first,” he said, giving Draco another wand, this one shorter with a bumpy handle. “Ash, veela hair. Ten inches.”
Draco disliked it the moment he touched it. The wand had a temper. He could feel it, the magic angry and turbulent, shooting through his veins like fire. He put it down. Ollivander sighed, but his eyes were understanding.
They made it through the next three wands in the same fashion. None of them seemed to fit Draco.
Ollivander himself didn’t seem bothered at all, in fact, he grew more excited with each passing moment.
“Strange, very strange,” he muttered to himself as he gathered up the failed wands into their boxes and went back down the aisle.
He returned with one final box. It was long, thin, and an unassuming brown. “This,” he said confidently, “this may be it after all.”
“What do you mean?” Draco asked despite himself. Almost immediately he wished he hadn’t because Ollivander had looked up and locked eyes with him.
The wandmaker smiled. “You’ve changed, Draco Malfoy. You’ve changed a great deal.”
Before Draco could ask what he meant, Ollivander handed Draco the box. “Try this one.”
As Draco opened the box doubtfully, Ollivander continued.
“Willow,” he declared. “Ten inches, dragon heartstring.”
Draco took out the wand. It was a simple design, slender and smooth, the handle engraved with curling patterns.
Almost immediately he felt it; the hum of magic beneath his fingers—vibrant but not too robust. A soft, bubbly feeling formed in Draco’s chest, warm and comforting. It was nothing like what he’d felt from his old wand—a mix of power and exhilaration—this was different. It was gentle. Stable.
Calm.
Ollivander’s smile grew. “Indeed, you’ve changed, Draco Malfoy,” he murmured. “You’ve changed quite a bit.”
There it was again. Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve changed, Draco,” Ollivander said, taking the wand from Draco.
Draco watched with a pang as Ollivander wrapped the wand away and placed it back in its box. Already he missed the way it felt, the way it fit. His fingers twitched around empty air.
Ollivander looked pointedly at Draco. “Will you be taking it?”
There was a pause. “You’ll let me?” Draco couldn’t help the question.
Ollivander laughed. “Of course, my dear boy,” he said. “Why ever not?”
“No, I just mean—” Draco began, flustered. “After what happened—”
Ollivander sighed. “You need to move on, Draco. That is the only way you’ll find peace.”
A lump grew in Draco’s throat. He hated how right the wandmaker sounded. “I…”
“Here,” Ollivander said, pushing the wandbox into Draco’s hands. “Take it.”
Draco froze. “I—”
A pause.
He took the box with weak hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About…”
Ollivander nodded. His expression had changed slightly, but he didn’t look disappointed or angry.
“I’m sorry,” Draco repeated, needing to get the words out. “I should’ve done something. I should’ve helped—but I was—”
“Scared,” Ollivander finished. “I understand. There’s no need to worry about things in the past.” He looked sad, the wrinkled skin of his face stretched and worn.
“But…”
“You’ve changed, Draco,” he repeated. “Are you going to fight that change, or are you going to embrace it? That is your choice.”
--
Five minutes later, Draco was out of the wand shop and back in the sunny street, the wand box in hand. After being in the wand shop, which hummed with magic, the air outside felt dull and flat.
A myriad of feelings rushed through Draco—anxiety, annoyance, anger, even. But the most he felt was confused.
Confused at Ollivander’s actions toward him, how the wandmaker could be so forgiving even after what Draco’s family had done to him.
Confused at how shaken he was. How he’d let a little interaction like this mess his thoughts and feelings up so easily.
He looked up and down the busy street, pulled his sleeve farther down his left arm, checked his watch and Apparated back to the Manor.
--
His mother was waiting for him in the courtyard. She had taken to spending most of her time outside these days, away from the Manor, out in the sunlight. Draco guessed it was fear or anxiety that led to this; he himself disliked being inside because of the memories it brought back.
When she heard the crack of his Apparition she looked up and smiled faintly.
“Draco.”
“Mother.”
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
She nodded. “You didn’t meet…any trouble, did you?”
Draco shook his head. He knew what she was referring to; many witches and wizards were still bitter about what had happened during the war—just last month one of his old classmates in Slytherin had been sent to St. Mungo’s after an assault at work. Honestly, Draco couldn’t blame them. He would hate himself too.
His mother pressed on. “Did you sell the…?”
“…yes, yes I did,” Draco informed her. He only hoped that his cold act had fooled the shop owner. It was getting harder and harder to act like he’d used to, especially to those he’d hurt, indirectly or not.
Narcissa was sighing. “Darling, are you really sure about Hogwarts?”
It was the fifth time she’d asked that week. Ever since Draco had told her he was returning to Hogwarts to finish the year he’d missed out on during the war, she’d been worrying more than usual.
“Yes, mother,” Draco replied patiently.
“I mean, is it really necessary?”
It was—both of them knew it, but his mother was in denial. Maybe she was afraid he’d be prejudiced against or bullied at school, or maybe she just didn’t want to be alone. Draco could understand both aspects, but graduating with his NEWTs was the best option, if he wanted a proper future, that was.
“It’s just a year, mother,” Draco reassured her. “It will be fine.”
She gave him a dubious look but then her attention was drawn to the box in his hand. “You met Ollivander.” Her tone had turned flat, like it always did when she was restraining her emotions.
Draco nodded.
“How was it? Was he—?”
“It was fine, Mother.”
She didn’t look convinced.
Draco sighed. “Here,” he said, returning his mother’s wand. He’d been borrowing it for the past few months, putting off buying a new one. It hadn’t obeyed him perfectly, but it had been good enough.
Narcissa took the wand back, tucking it into her robes. “Well,” she said after a few moments. “You’d better come back inside. Daisy’s prepared tea.”
--
Daisy was one of the old Malfoy house elves. Following the war, she’d stayed on for Narcissa, even after she’d been freed. Or rather, she’d stayed on for Draco.
Draco had always been good friends with the house elves, especially as a child. His parents had never paid much mind to him growing up, and they never had other children over at the Manor, so it had been just Draco, alone.
During that time, the house elves had taken to treating him like their own child, sneaking him sweets from the kitchen and playing hide and seek around the Manor when his parents were away. Now most of them had left. Draco didn’t have much of an idea where they were; he knew some were with new families, a few working at Hogwarts.
Recently he’d received a letter from Hilda, who’d been a sort of nanny for him when he was a child. She’d informed him that she’d heard of his return to Hogwarts and wanted him to visit if he could. Draco had no idea where the house elves worked or how he’d find her, but the prospect of having someone waiting for him, someone happy to see him at Hogwarts, was an uplifting thought.
“Draco!” His mother’s voice broke through the quiet. Draco pushed the letter back into his drawer.
“Coming, Mother.”
He turned, shut the drawer, and casting a final, longing glance at the wandbox on his bed, headed out the door and downstairs.
She was waiting for him in the sunroom outlooking the courtyard. They had taken to avoiding the drawing room, and it had been locked since May. Not that Draco minded. He’d rather never have to go in every again.
He pulled out a seat at the table where Daisy was serving tea and sat down across from his mother.
“Was there something you’d like to speak about?”
Narcissa froze, and Draco knew he was right. He waited for a minute while his mother composed herself, lips pursing, and took a sip of her tea.
“Your father’s going on probation.”
Now it was Draco’s turn to freeze. “What?”
Narcissa looked up at Draco, wearing a strained smile. “It’s good news, Draco,” she said, voice tight. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
Draco set his teacup down and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m not…”
Narcissa sighed. “You’re not pleased.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Draco pressed his hands together. “No, I—”
“It’s alright.”
“What?”
“It’s alright,” Narcissa repeated. “Things between you and your father have always been…difficult.” She looked down, tracing the rim of her teacup with a finger.
Draco frowned. He’d expected her to push him, to pressure him to forgive his father and get over it, not this. He’d never expected her to be understanding.
“Your father’s probation starts in a month, after you leave for school.” Narcissa was choosing her words carefully, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “You don’t have to come home for the holidays if you don’t want to.”
Draco sat up straighter in his seat. “No, of course I’ll come, Mother. I promised.”
Narcissa laughed softly. “You’re a sweet boy, Draco.”
Draco wanted to argue; that that wasn’t true, he was an awful person, but his mother was smiling, laughing, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin that.
Narcissa, now half-smiling, reached out and patted Draco on the shoulder. She sat back, looking a little relieved.
“Well,” she said after a while, “how’s your wand?”
Draco unfolded his hands. He felt calm again. “It’s nice. Willow, like your old one.”
Narcissa looked pleasantly surprised. “I was wondering what you’d end up with.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon in comfortable conversation.
Draco didn’t tell her about meeting Potter in Knockturn Alley.
--
The next few weeks at the Manor passed with a rush. Narcissa grew more agitated with each coming day. Draco tried his best to avoid her. He didn’t want to feel any more guilty than he already did.
Eventually August was almost over, the upcoming school year looming overhead. Draco’s anxiety had never been as bad as this since the war. Before, he’d used to look forward to Hogwarts, to getting away from his house, his parents—but now his feelings were mixed. Half of him dreaded going back, meeting all the people he’d hurt—indirectly or not—and the other half was relieved that he wouldn’t have to remain in the Manor, surrounded by dark memories.
A week before the school term started, Pansy wrote him. It was the first time Draco had heard from one of his school friends since the battle at Hogwarts. He’d been worried they might hate him or worse, but Pansy seemed friendly enough, and some of the anxiety dissipated.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad year at all.
--
It was going to be a bad year. Draco knew it, even as he stood in front of the pillar at King’s Cross Station, gripping the metal bar of the cart carrying his school supplies.
He tried to tell himself it was just nerves and he’d get over it, but he knew that wasn’t true either.
But his mother was watching him expectantly, and he didn’t want to make her worry more than she already was, so he tightened his grip on the metal bar and pushed through the barrier onto the platform.
It was like stepping into the past.
The platform was crowded. Students milled around with their families, stretching out their farewells as long as they could go. The Hogwarts Express gleamed in the background, painted with a fresh coat of glossy black and red, steam billowing from its chimney.
Draco pushed his cart away from the barrier and to the side. Narcissa followed, twisting her purse between her fingers. She cast her son a worried glance.
“I have to go soon,” she said apologetically. “I’ve papers to fill out at the Ministry.”
Draco nodded. “Of course. You should go.”
For one conflicted moment his mother looked from him to the barrier and then she stepped forward, hugging him awkwardly.
Draco froze. His mother had never been one for public displays of affection; neither had his father. For this to happen now…
She pulled back, smiling, eyes watery. “I’ll be going then.”
Draco nodded, still shaken. “Y-yes, yes, of course. I’ll see you at Christmas.”
His mother nodded. “Christmas.” She turned on her heel and stepped back through the barrier.
--
For a moment, Draco stood on the edge of the crowd, faint panic rising in him. He felt sixteen and alone again, surrounded by Death Eaters in his own home, with the screaming from the basement slipping through his silencing spells—
“Draco!”
He turned.
It was Pansy, accompanied by Blaise and Greg. The relief hit him like a wave.
“Pansy,” he began, pushing his cart toward them, but she got there fast, running toward him with arms outstretched.
She threw her arms around him, grinning. “Draco!” He noticed she still wore the same perfume, which was somehow comforting. At least there was one thing the war hadn’t changed. “How’ve you been?”
“Hey, Pans,” he said, awkwardly hugging her back. “I’ve been doing—fine. You?”
She drew back, still smiling. “Dreadful,” she complained. “All summer I’ve been meeting potential suitors. I can’t get Father off my back.”
Draco paused. “He wants you married already?” Among the pureblood families his father had been friends with, most would start going to marriage meetings following school, but one or two years after, not so early. Draco himself hadn’t had any meetings yet, although his father would say it was “getting late.” Then again, perhaps Pansy’s family was just scrambling to get a foothold before the repercussions of the war swept them away; after all, her father had been involved, if only slightly, with the Death Eaters.
Pansy sighed. “Been going on about it since May,” she said. “I’ve been dying to get away.”
“But you don’t want to.”
Pansy looked up at him. “No, of course not! Having to marry someone I don’t know and live with them for the rest of my life…” She shuddered. “No thanks.”
Silently, Draco agreed with her. He had never liked the prospect of arranged marriage either. From a logical point of view, it was practical. With any transactional relationship, there were no strings attached. You didn’t have to worry about the other person’s feelings. You weren’t “blinded by love” as his father would say. You could think rationally and make rational decisions, and Draco supposed from that standpoint it wasn’t a bad thing at all.
But he didn’t want that kind of marriage. Maybe before he’d been fine with it, but now…
Now it was difficult to say.
He almost missed his past self; when he knew his thoughts and feelings and could control them. Now it was like a dam had been broken and he was just barely able to keep his head above water. He lived in constant fear of drowning.
“Er…Draco? Hello?”
Draco started. Blaise was waving a hand in his face.
“Oh, um. Yes?”
“I was asking how your summer went.”
Draco, slightly flustered, replied. “It was—fine.” He didn’t know what else to say. Blaise eyed him suspiciously, but made no comment.
“Come on then. Let’s get a compartment before they’re all gone.”
--
“Harry, hurry! We’re going to be late!” Hermione chastised, shoving her cart forward through the break in the Muggle crowd and toward the barrier.
Harry checked his watch. Ron groaned.
“It’s not the end of the world if we’re five minutes late,” he snapped, although he grudgingly spurred himself forward.
Hermione glared at Ron, just as they reached the barrier. “Honestly, Ron, if this is how you’re going to be—”
She was broken off mid-sentence as she passed through the barrier. Ron turned to Harry and rolled his eyes.
“Gotten more bossy, she has,” he remarked. “Well, see you on the other side.”
He vanished.
Harry waited five seconds, took a furtive glance around, and followed Ron through the barrier.
They were, in fact, late. Most of the platform had cleared off already, parents making their way back toward the barrier. Harry and Ron struggled with loading the luggage onboard, and by the time they were gone the train was blowing its whistle.
“I told you,” Hermione snapped as they hurried down the aisles, searching for an empty compartment. “I told you we were going to be late. Now we’ll be stuck standing the whole ride!”
Ron huffed, but couldn’t find a good enough retort, so he settled for glaring at Hermione’s back as she knocked on another compartment door.
They made their way down the train. Hermione was dragged into conversation with several Ravenclaw girls, so Harry went ahead. Absentmindedly, he knocked on one of the doors and opened it.
“Hello—you don’t happen to have any space in here, do you—?”
He broke off as his eyes fell onto the last person he’d ever wanted to see.
Malfoy.