Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express had never felt this quiet before. That was the first thing you noticed.
Usually, the train was filled with noise before we even left the platform. First years crying as they said goodbye to their parents, older students laughing as they dragged trunks into compartments, owls screeching from their cages, and the Weasley twins causing some sort of chaos before the journey had even begun.But this year was different, everyone knew, the wizarding world knew. Voldemort was back.
You stared out the window as King's Cross Station disappeared behind you, watching London blur into streaks of grey and green. Your reflection stared back at you, messy hair, tired eyes brown, and the faint scar on your forehead that matched your brother's. You were always told you resembled your mother, except for your messy hair and dark brown eyes. Everyone always assured you they were your father's. The only thing you heard more than "You look just like your mother!" was "You look just like your twin brother!". To which you always mentally answered; "No shit, we're twins." Well, they were right. but that's not what bothered you. Harry was almost never compared to you. Only you to him. Harry had always been the one people looked at first. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The person everyone expected to save them. Which, they weren't wrong, but they weren't completely right either. Some people seemed to forget that you were there too.
The night Voldemort fell, you were part of the reason he survived. You spent your entire life carrying a prophecy that didn't even make sense. You weren't like Harry. Or any of your peers for that matter. You couldn't pick up a wand and cast spells like everyone else. You couldn't whisper Lumos and watch light appear at the end of a piece of wood. You couldn't defend yourself the way everyone expected you to. Your magic had never worked that way. You got a wand at Ollivanders the day you turned eleven, just as everyone else. You wished he had warned you that day.You mostly managed to get by the muggle way. Brewing tea in a kettle, using a lantern, unlocking doors with a bobby pin. However, in desperate times your magic presented itself in a different way. When you were in danger, the sword appeared. The ancient blade of Ravenclaw. A weapon that had chosen you before you had even understood what being chosen meant. Everyone thought it made you special, which, it really didn't. It just made you... different. And unfortunatley you had the rotten luck of being born into a world where different usually meant dangerous.
"You're doing it again."
You blinked and turned away from the window.
Hermione Granger was sitting across from you, watching me with the same concerned expression she had worn all summer.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking yourself into a terrible mood."
You gave her a shy smile. That Lily Evans smile. "I didn't know that was a skill."
"It is," Ron said from beside her. "You've perfected it."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't stop the small laugh that escaped. That was the thing about Ron and Hermione. They never treated you like you were something fragile, not because they didn't care, but because they did. They knew you hated being treated that way. Harry looked up from where he was sitting beside you. He had barely spoken since you boarded the train. That worried you more than anything. Harry was many things; stubborn, reckless, occasionally impossible. A textbook Gryffindoor as one might say, but quiet wasn't usually one of them.
"You okay?" you asked.
He looked at you for a moment before nodding.
"Yeah."
You raised an eyebrow. You never believed in real twin telepathy. But some things you simply couldn't explain. Sometimes you just had the ability to read each other. Maybe that's just from years of being alone together.
He sighed.
"Fine. No. I've been thinking."
You reached over and nudged his shoulder with yours.
"Same."
For a moment, neither of you said anything, as you didn't need to. Being Harry Potter's sister meant people expected you to understand him, you probably understood him better than anyone, for reasons far beyond twin telepathy. You both carried the same fear. The same anger. The same question. How many people were going to die before this was over? The compartment door suddenly slid open.
"Looking miserable already, Potter?"
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, his silver-blond hair perfectly arranged and his expression wearing the same cruel smirk it had carried for six years. Some things never changed.
Your hand instinctively tightened around the handle of your bag.
"Malfoy."
His eyes flicked toward you.
For a second, only a second, something strange crossed his face. Not hatred, not amusement, something else. Then it disappeared.
"Enjoying the view?" Ron asked.
Draco's smirk returned.
"Hardly."
His eyes moved back to mine.
"Try not to get yourself killed this year, Potter."
You leaned back in your seat.
"Try not to be unbearable for five minutes, Malfoy."
A few seconds passed. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost like he wanted to smile. Almost.
But then he turned away.
The door shut.
And for some reason, you couldn't stop thinking about the way he looked. He looked tired, miserable, like he was carrying something far heavier than his own ego. You had never seen Draco that way. It kind of started to worry you a bit.
You shook the thought away.
Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy. He had spent years making your life miserable. He wasn't my problem. He couldn't be a distraction for you, you had a war to fight.
And Draco Malfoy was certainly on the wrong side of it.