The Hollow Beneath Hogwarts

23. Girlfriend

The following morning arrived far too quickly.

Sloane became aware of consciousness in stages. First came warmth. Then softness. Then the distant sound of rain tapping lightly against the tower windows.

And finally—

Goose snoring.

Sloane slowly opened one eye. The Niffler was upside down in his miniature bed with one tiny paw hanging dramatically over the side like a man exhausted from a long day of crime. Sloane smiled sleepily into her pillow.

For one blissful moment, she forgot where she was.

Then she spotted the fairy lights still glowing softly around the bedposts and remembered. Hogwarts. Her room. Her own room.

A ridiculous grin spread across her face instantly. "Oh," she whispered happily. Goose cracked one eye open. "Morning to you too."

The Niffler yawned enormously before immediately grabbing his little book and waddling toward the hanging swing chair.

Apparently breakfast could wait. Reading could not.

By the time Sloane had showered, dressed, and wrestled her hair into submission, Goose had fully settled himself into the swing surrounded by cushions with the book balanced importantly on his stomach.

"You're staying here?" Sloane asked. Goose squeaked. Honestly, she should have expected that. "Well don't rob anyone while I'm gone."

He looked offended she would even suggest such a thing.

Sloane narrowed her eyes. "...Too late?"

Goose slowly hid something shiny beneath the blanket. "Goose." He squeaked innocently. "Merlin help me."

A little while later the four Year Eights made their way downstairs together toward breakfast. Harry and Hermione walked slightly ahead chatting quietly. Draco walked beside Sloane with his usual expression of elegant suffering. Though noticeably less hostile than normal.

Harry kept glancing sideways at him occasionally. Still confused by it. Because Draco Malfoy was being... civil. Not kind exactly. That would be too much too soon for the universe. But civil.

He wasn't insulting people every five seconds anymore. Wasn't sneering. Wasn't throwing slurs around. Wasn't looking at everyone else like they were beneath him. Mostly he just looked tired. Miserable, honestly. And Harry recognised that expression far too well.

The sort of exhaustion that settled into your bones after surviving things you weren't supposed to survive. Maybe Draco needed counselling as much as the rest of them did. Maybe that was the point.

Harry slowed slightly so he was walking closer to Sloane. "What's with the purple?" he asked, gesturing toward the trim on her robes and the unfamiliar crest pinned to her chest.

Sloane blinked. "Oh." She suddenly wasn't sure how weird this was going to sound out loud. "It turns out," she began slowly, "the Sorting Hat couldn't sort me."

Draco looked over immediately, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. "Beg your pardon?"

Sloane rolled her eyes. "Well apparently I could fit into every house," she explained. "But according to the hat, being placed into any one of them would somehow negatively affect my... development? Progress? Something dramatic like that."

Hermione looked fascinated already.

"So instead," Sloane continued with a shrug, "Dumbledore decided I should have a house of my own."

Harry nearly missed a step. "You have your own house?"

"Apparently."

Hermione looked scandalised in the best possible way. "That's never happened before."