Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express had never felt quite like this. The air was still thick with memories, burnt wood, rushed heartbeats, and the ghost of pain, but the way the sunlight filtered through the windows of the train made everything look new again. Maybe it was because, for the first time in years, there were no whispers of war in the background. No missions. No Horcruxes. Just Hogwarts, waiting.
Ron sat with his back comfortably against the velvet seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, foot casually bumping into Harry’s. Hermione sat across from them, animatedly pointing out a passage in Hogwarts: A History while simultaneously trying to scold Ron for nearly knocking over her inkpot.
“You’ve had all summer to read that,” Ron muttered, though he was smiling. His hand was loosely laced with hers.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled back. “You’ll be grateful when I remind you that Flitwick doesn’t allow anything but enchanted ink for his essays.”
Harry chuckled, head leaning against the glass. “Let’s just not think about essays yet, alright? We haven’t even crossed the lake.”
Ron nodded, grateful. It felt good, he felt good. Lighter than he had in years. It wasn't perfect, there were still nightmares, still scars hidden beneath sleeves—but they had survived. And now they were going back.
Back to Hogwarts.
To finish what they’d started.
“Wonder what the dorms will be like,” Ron mused aloud. “You reckon they’ll put all the eighth years together?”
“McGonagall mentioned something like that in her letter,” Hermione said, flipping through her parchment again. “More integration. Peace-building between houses.”
“Peace-building,” Ron echoed, with a snort. “Right. That’ll go well.”
“Ron,” Hermione warned, but there was no real edge in her voice.
“I’m just saying! Imagine being stuck in a room with Malfoy for a year.”
Harry glanced away at the mention of Draco’s name, but Ron didn’t notice. He was too busy fishing a Chocolate Frog from his pocket.
“Relax,” Hermione said softly. “It’ll be fine. This year’s going to be different. Better.”
Ron believed her. He wanted to. He took her hand again, listening to the steady rhythm of the train as it carried them forward, away from the past, and into something new. He had no idea how right he was.
The castle hadn’t changed.
The towering stone walls, the shifting staircases, the floating candles in the Entrance Hall—all of it looked exactly as Ron remembered. And yet, everything felt different. Older. Quieter. Like the building itself knew what they’d been through.
As they stepped off the carriages and joined the crowd of returning students—all seventh and eighth years now—there was a moment of quiet reunion. Smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Hugs that lingered too long. Grief and gratitude, pressed into brief words and glances.
“Dean!” Ron grinned, pulling Thomas into a rough one-armed hug.
“Good to see you, mate,” Dean said, clapping him on the back. “You all right?”
“Better now,” Ron said, and meant it.
Next came Neville and Seamus, Luna (who floated more than walked, as always), and a handful of others who had decided to return for a proper final year at Hogwarts. Luna gave Harry a long hug and kissed Ron on the cheek without warning.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said dreamily, and Ron flushed. “I had a dream that you turned into a flobberworm. I was worried for a bit.”
Before he could respond, the sharp sound of McGonagall’s voice cut through the chatter.
“Eighth years,” she announced, voice clear and magically amplified. “Given the unique circumstances of the past year, and the need for house unity, we have made a few changes.” A few mutters passed through the crowd. “You will no longer be separated by house tables. Nor will your dormitories follow house lines. This year, we will be housing all returning eighth years together in a shared dormitory hall, with paired room assignments based on compatibility... and need for growth.”
Hermione immediately stood a bit taller, nodding approvingly.
Ron groaned.
McGonagall began to read from a floating list.
“Thomas & Corner.”
“Longbottom & Finnigan.”
“Weasley & Zabini.”
Ron froze.
Beside him, Blaise Zabini exhaled, a barely audible sigh, but Ron didn’t miss it. His ears turned crimson.
“Granger & Parkinson.”
“Potter & Malfoy.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Ron’s face twisted. “With Zabini?” he hissed, leaning toward Hermione like she could fix it.
“You could do worse,” she replied automatically, eyes already trailing after Pansy Parkinson, who had the audacity to wink at her as she sauntered away from the crowd.
Ron looked desperately to Harry. “Mate?”
But Harry wasn’t listening. His green eyes were locked on Draco Malfoy, whose expression betrayed nothing, though his shoulders were unusually tense, like he’d been expecting something worse. Ron frowned. Well. This was going to be something. He turned toward Blaise, who simply raised an eyebrow and started walking toward the new tower McGonagall had designated for them. Ron stayed back a moment, waiting for Harry and Hermione to catch up.
“She winked at you,” he muttered to Hermione under his breath.
“She did not,” Hermione said, clearly flustered.
“She did,” Harry said, barely containing a grin.
Ron snorted. “And you,” he added, eyeing Harry. “You and Malfoy?”
Harry shrugged. “Could be worse.”
Ron gaped at him, but before he could say anything else, Hermione gently pushed him toward the stairs.
“Go unpack,” she said. “Try not to get hexed.”
Ron mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I’ll hex him first and trudged off after Zabini. The tower was unfamiliar, probably one of the guest wings they never used during regular school years. The hallway was quiet, the carpet a deep blue, and the portraits on the walls appeared just as disinterested in them as Zabini was in Ron.
They reached a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. Zabini pushed it open without a word. The room was… fine, Ron guessed. Spacious. Two four-poster beds, two desks, and a window that looked out over the Black Lake. It was quiet, still, and for a second Ron thought maybe Zabini would say something.
He didn’t.
Blaise walked in, dropped his trunk at the foot of the bed on the left, and opened it with a flick of his wand. Then he sat down, pulled out a book, and started reading as if Ron weren’t even there. Ron stood awkwardly in the doorway. Right. So that was how it was going to be.
He entered slowly, dragging his own trunk over to the other bed. It landed with a soft thud, but Blaise didn’t even glance up. Ron cleared his throat. “So, uh… guess we’re roommates now.”
Nothing.
Zabini turned a page. Ron’s mouth twitched in irritation. “Right. Brilliant.” He threw himself down onto the mattress. It was softer than he expected, but the quiet stretched between them like a spell no one dared to break. He glanced over at Blaise again. He was still reading. Ron scowled and flopped back against the pillow.
This was going to be the longest year of his life.