𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭 & 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 | drarry

5

The Great Hall was filled with a quiet anticipation, the kind that settled just before a storm. Candles floated overhead, the long tables draped in house colors. The Sorting Ceremony was moments away, and the air was thick with expectation.

Draco stood at the side of the Hall, near the door where the first-years would soon enter. He found himself drawn to this spot, the place where he had once stood, eleven years old, with the same mixture of hope and nervousness that would soon be etched on the faces of the students waiting beyond those doors. His eyes traced the length of the room, lingering on the raised platform at the far end, where the Sorting Hat rested on a stool, waiting to decide the fates of new young minds.

It was here, in this very spot, that he had first met Harry Potter.

Draco could remember it vividly, the memory preserved as though behind glass—bright and unchanging. He had reached out his hand, full of confidence, full of the arrogance that had come so easily to him back then. He remembered the way Harry had looked—thin, glasses too large for his face, eyes wide and green, with a curiosity that had seemed so earnest. He had offered his friendship then, or at least his version of it, and Harry had turned him down without hesitation, choosing Weasley over him, choosing Gryffindor over Slytherin, choosing a path that was always destined to diverge from Draco's.

Back then, Draco had resented it—resented Harry for that immediate rejection, for the friendship he'd chosen instead, for the ease with which he'd navigated the halls of Hogwarts while Draco struggled under the weight of family expectations, of a name that carried its own burdens. He had hated Harry for years, not just for who he was, but for what he represented: a choice that Draco hadn't been brave enough to make, a light that Draco had been taught to despise.

He leaned against the stone wall now, his gaze sweeping over the room, and found it so strange to be standing here again, in the same place, but in such a different role. They were no longer children, and the innocence of that first meeting had long since withered, replaced by scars that neither of them spoke about but both carried.

The boy who had stood beside him that day had grown into a man who shared his quarters, who offered him books on potions, who smiled at him in the morning. The world had shifted, slowly and quietly, until they were here—no longer enemies, but something else entirely.

Draco's eyes fell to the spot where he remembered himself standing that day, chin high, full of his father's teachings and his own misplaced confidence. The distance between that boy and the man he was now felt immense. There was still a part of him—small but undeniable—that longed for the certainty he had once had, even if it had been false, even if it had led him down a path he regretted. There had been no doubt back then. Now, standing on the precipice of something new, Draco felt nothing but doubt.

The door to the Great Hall creaked open slightly, and Draco's heart gave a small, involuntary jolt. He turned his head, half expecting to see the first-years lining up, but instead found Harry there, standing just beyond the threshold, his eyes catching Draco's in a glance that held something soft, something that Draco still wasn't sure how to name.

There was an acknowledgment in Harry's gaze—of where they had been, of where they were now—and maybe even a quiet understanding of what it meant for Draco to be standing in this very place, on this very night, just as it had all begun.

I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, be more myself.

Harry walked towards him, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, and stopped beside Draco, following his gaze towards the dais and the Sorting Hat.

"Nervous?" Harry asked, his voice low, laced with a familiarity that spoke of the past year, of shared space and awkward greetings that had slowly given way to something closer to friendship.