The weekend at Malfoy Manor felt stolen—brief, unreal, over far too quickly.
By Sunday afternoon, in the carriage of the Hogwarts Express, the atmosphere was nothing like it had been on the way out.
Draco lounged lazily against the window, complaining about "having to suffer troll brains and that racket of Peeves again," though his brows were relaxed. Harry wasn't as tense either, at least not while watching the scenery blur past the glass.
But as soon as the familiar silhouette of Hogwarts Castle rose in the night—cold stone walls, flickering windows—the sensation of slipping back into his mask returned, inch by inch.
Stepping down from the carriage and climbing the cold stone steps, the school's warm, noisy ambience washed over them. Laughter drifted faintly from the direction of Gryffindor Tower, whereas the stairway descending toward the dungeons was far quieter.
They were almost at the damp stone wall that hid the Slytherin common room when a loud voice echoed behind them.
"Hey! Harry!"
Harry's steps halted.
Instinctively, a thin shell of ice slid over his eyes.
He turned slowly.
Ron Weasley was jogging toward them from a side corridor, his red hair like a small bonfire in the dim hallway.
He looked genuinely pleased to see him. "It is you! I thought I saw you at the gates, then you vanished—so, uh… how's Slytherin?"
He was speaking to Harry, but his gaze kept flicking nervously to Draco, who had gone cold and stiff beside Harry.
Draco gave a very pointed, very disdainful snort. Arms crossed, he looked Ron up and down—the slightly worn jumper, the frayed sleeves of his robes—with a silent, unmistakable sneer.
Harry stared at Ron—this boy who, in his previous life, had fought at his side, shared sweets with him, sacrificed himself on a chessboard for him.
Now he stood there with a simple, guileless smile.
Something tightened in Harry's stomach.
He flashed, for a split second, on the last moments of his past life—the cold, merciless faces of the Order members hunting him down.
The Weasleys…
Did they know?
Arthur Weasley had been a core member of the Order.
Molly Weasley had loved him like one of her own…
Had they agreed to it?
Had they at least looked away when the "final directive" was carried out?
What was the truth?
Did it matter?
No.
No, it didn't.
What mattered was that he couldn't be sure.
And uncertainty meant danger.
Uncertainty meant the possibility of betrayal.
"Mm." Harry finally answered, voice flat, empty of warmth. His emerald eyes held no joy at the reunion. "It's fine."
Ron blinked, his smile faltering. He scratched his head. "Oh… uh, that's good. I mean—well, at least Snape won't take points off Slytherin all the time, right?"
He tried to joke. It landed poorly.
Draco let out a short, sharp laugh.
Harry said nothing.
The hallway air froze.
Ron shifted awkwardly, looking from Harry's unreadable face to Draco's ice-cold stare. At last he seemed to sense something was wrong.
"Uh… well, I—I should go. Hermione's probably yelling about homework again…" he mumbled, backing away.
He turned and almost scrambled around the corner toward Gryffindor Tower.
Draco watched the red hair disappear, then drawled, dripping sarcasm, " 'See you around'? Is Weasley's brain made of troll fat? Can't he tell someone doesn't want to talk to him?"
He looked at Harry, curiosity sharpening his gaze. "Why even bother replying? He's just another one of Dumbledore's little shadows—"
"No need," Harry cut him off. His tone was still cool, emotionless.
He turned to the stone wall.
"Pure-blood."
The wall slid aside, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
Inside, the fireplace burned bright, green lamps casting deep shadows across stone and leather. A few students looked up from their low-voiced conversations when the door opened, eyes tracking Harry and Draco for a moment before drifting away.
Harry walked through without a glance, heading straight toward the dormitory hallway. Draco followed silently.
Once their shared room door closed behind them, shutting out the world, Draco tossed his bag onto a chair and loosened his tie.
"Ugh. I swear I can smell the Weasley poverty on me."
Harry ignored the complaint and walked to the window overlooking the lake.
The water outside was dark, sometimes lit by the glow of strange creatures gliding past, or by a slow, drifting tentacle from the giant squid.
"Harry," Draco said behind him—less bite in his voice than before. "You… okay?"
Harry stayed quiet for a moment. The reflected green light from the common room flickered across his face, throwing moving shadows across his features.
"What use is he?" Harry murmured suddenly, as if speaking to Draco and to himself. "The Weasley family… aside from having too many children and picking the 'right' side, what do they have?"
His words were cold, precise, slicing through remnants of old warmth.
Draco leaned against the wall beside him, watching him. "So?"
"So," Harry said, turning his head.
His emerald eyes were dead calm—opaque. "A waste of time."
Draco studied him for a second, then shrugged lightly. "Fair. We've got our own plans, anyway."
His tone brightened. "Better to focus on making sure my godfather doesn't make us redo the entire potion formula next class—though ours is better than what the textbook says."
Harry turned back toward the lake.
Yes.
Plans.
Use whatever could be used.
Remove whatever stood in the way.
Hermione Granger…
She was far more useful than Ron Weasley—clever, precise, a mind sharp enough to dissect any problem.
Maybe… she was worth approaching.
Trust, though?
A cold laugh drifted through his chest.
No. Never again.
Except…
His gaze shifted subtly—to Draco's reflection beside his own in the window.
The reflection was looking back at him.
"Right," Draco said suddenly, straightening. "That essay for Potions—about the moonstone powder? I think I figured out a way to stabilize it better with the soporific bean juice… Want to hear it?"
He never asked stupid things like
"Were you upset?"
or
"Still thinking about Weasley?"
He always pulled him back with the one thing they both valued most—
their work, their plan, their shared purpose.
Harry inhaled deeply, forcing away images of red hair, a chessboard sacrifice, and a cold execution order. Locking them behind the thickest door in his mind.
"Go on."
He turned from the window and walked toward the desk, voice steady again.
Draco's mouth curved in a small, contented smile. He followed, launching into his theory at full speed, words brisk and sharp with a very Slytherin brand of intellectual enthusiasm.
Harry listened, occasionally questioning, occasionally countering.
Outside, the lake currents shifted in the deep—dark and silent.
Inside, the lamp burned brightly. Two boys bent over parchment and potion notes—one speaking with quick precision, the other listening with quiet intensity.
As if that brief, cold encounter in the corridor had never happened at all.