Draco sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, the weight of the morning settling around him like a thick fog. The whispers of his peers barely reached him, though he could feel their eyes on him—those who’d witnessed the aftermath of the war, who still remembered the days of the Dark Lord’s reign. It was hard to believe he was sitting here now, no longer a child wrapped in the security of his family’s name, but a young man trying to rebuild, piece by piece, what had once been shattered. Nineteen. Another year older, and yet, it felt like nothing had changed. He was still heir to his family's legacy, forever burdened by the choices of the past. He ran a finger along the edge of his silver goblet, the cool metal offering a brief moment of distraction. It’s just summer classes. Finish what was started. Complete what should have been done long ago.

The room buzzed around him, full of students, some familiar, others less so, but none of them quite the same. The battle had changed everything—Hogwarts had changed everything—and so had he. He caught sight of a few familiar faces, those who had once been his allies, or at least, his acquaintances. Theodore Nott sat across the table, eyes trained on his parchment as he scribbled notes, unfazed by the former wariness that once defined their interactions. Draco’s stomach churned slightly. They all expect me to be the same. That’s the thing about the past—it clings to you. But I’m not him anymore. Not that anyone here cares. He glanced at the teachers who were scattered around the hall, and then back down to his untouched plate of food. Focus. Just get through the summer. It’s not about anyone else. It never was.