Reunion

I woke up disoriented, my mind grasping at fragments of dreams that dissolved like smoke the moment I tried to hold onto them. For a few seconds, I didn’t know where I was— didn’t know when I was— and my hand instinctively reached for a wand that wasn’t there, preparing to defend myself against threats that existed only in memory.

Then reality settled over me like a weight: I was in one of the many enlarged tents in the last remnants of wizarding Britain, hiding in the ruins of London itself.

I sat up slowly, my body aching in ways that had nothing to do with physical injury. The tent around me was larger on the inside than out— Extension Charms, nothing fancy, but functional. The space was sparse: a cot, a small table with two chairs, a trunk that wasn’t mine. Everything had the worn, salvaged quality of a world that had stopped producing and started scavenging.

I needed to get up and move. Staying still invited thoughts I wasn’t ready to face.

I shuffled to the corner where someone had left a basin of water— cold, but clean. Small mercies. I stared at my reflection in the surface for a moment, barely recognizing the face that stared back. Older. Harder.

I tried a Scourgify first, reaching for the magic without my wand, feeling it respond sluggishly to my will. The spell came together after a few tries, but it felt wrong— too aggressive, the magic scraping across my skin like sandpaper. I hissed through my teeth as it left my skin feeling raw and oversensitive, but at least I was clean.

“Brilliant, Adam.” I muttered to myself. “Six years in the void and you’ve forgotten how to do basic spells.”

I pulled on the same clothes I’d worn yesterday— still the ill-fitting scavenged items from Warminster— and tried not to think about how I used to have wardrobes full of properly fitted robes. About how Sirius used to tease me, or how Helena used to— 

No. Not going there. Not yet.

I sat down at the small table and pulled my backpack toward me, the canvas worn and stained from weeks of travel. My supplies had been running dangerously low when I’d found this place, and good thing that was. I’d been maybe two days from having nothing left.

I rifled through the bag’s contents: a half-empty water bottle, a length of rope that might be useful, the knife I’d taken from the Warminster survivors, and at the very bottom, my last can of food.

Peas.

I stared at it for a long moment, then set it on the table with more care than a dented can of vegetables probably deserved. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t even particularly appetizing. But it was food, and in this world, that made it precious.

I drew the small knife from my belt, testing the edge with my thumb. It was still sharp enough even after having forced several cans open over the course of the past few weeks.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I said to the empty tent, my voice sounding strange in the silence. It was something Marcus back in Warminster used to say, usually right before they distributed whatever meager rations they’d managed to scavenge that week.

I positioned the knife against the can’s lid, ready to pry it open, when a voice called from outside the tent.

“Mr. Clarke? Sir?”

The owner of the voice was young and male, uncertain but trying to sound authoritative. I stared at the can of peas with something approaching longing. My stomach was already anticipating food, and the interruption felt almost personally offensive.

“I’ll be out in a moment.” I called back, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

I set the knife down beside the can and stood, taking a moment to straighten my clothes— not that it helped much. The shirt was too big in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. The trousers were held up by a belt cinched to the last notch. I looked like a scarecrow, but it would have to do.

With one last, mournful glance at my unopened breakfast, I took a breath and stepped outside.

The boy waiting for me looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, with dark hair that stuck up in several directions and eyes that were too old for his young face. He wore mismatched clothes that had clearly been repaired multiple times, and his wand was tucked visibly into his belt— a statement, I realized. A declaration that he was armed, that he could defend himself if needed.

This was a child who’d grown up in hell.

When he saw me emerge from the tent, his eyes went wide. For a moment, he just stared, and I felt a flash of self-consciousness. Did I really look that bad? Was it the white eyes? The scars?

Then he seemed to collect himself, standing a little straighter.

“You’re him.” He breathed, almost reverently. “You’re really him.”

I blinked. “I’m… me, yes. Can I help you with something?”

“Is it true?” The words came out in a rush, excitement overriding whatever decorum he’d been trying to maintain. “Is it true that you’re Adam Black? The one who bought the Wizarding World enough time to stay alive in the apocalypse?”

Adam Black. The name Sirius had given me felt strange on someone else’s lips, particularly when spoken with such… awe. I’d been called many things in my previous life at Hogwarts— friend, hero, that weird kid with the chains— but never with this kind of reverence.

I nodded slowly. “I… yes. That’s me. But— “

“I knew it!” The boy’s face lit up with something I hadn’t seen in weeks: pure, uncomplicated joy. “Everyone thought you were dead! They said you died at Stonehenge, that you were gone forever, but I always knew— heroes never really die. They can’t. Not when people still need them.”

The words hit me harder than I expected, settling somewhere in my chest like a stone. Heroes never die. If only he knew how many times I had died in the void, how many times I’d been torn apart and unmade, how close I’d come to never making it back at all.

“I… thank you.” I said awkwardly, unsure how to respond to such earnest admiration. “That’s very kind of you to say, but—”

“My dad talks about you sometimes.” The boy continued, barely pausing for breath. “He was at Stonehenge. He said you and Harry Potter stood against the creature that came out of that portal. He said you saved everyone.”

I hadn’t saved everyone. Not even close. The bodies in those tunnels, the screams, the people who’d died while I’d been too slow, too weak, too late— 

“I’m glad your father survived.” I said, redirecting before the memories could drag me under. “Is there something you needed? I was just about to have breakfast.”

That seemed to snap him out of his excitement, and a flash of embarrassment crossed his young face. “Oh! Yes, sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just— Mr. Lupin asked me to bring you to him. He said it was important.”

Remus. My spirits lifted slightly at that. In all the chaos and exhaustion of last night, I’d let Scrimgeour’s men guide me to this tent and had collapsed almost immediately. I hadn’t had a proper chance to talk to Remus, to ask the thousand questions burning in my mind.

“Of course.” I said, mustering something that might have passed for a smile. “Lead the way.”

The boy brightened immediately and set off through the settlement with the kind of energy only teenagers could maintain on what was probably minimal food and sleep. I followed, my longer legs allowing me to keep pace easily despite his enthusiasm.

As we walked, I became acutely aware of the eyes on me. Last night had been dark, chaotic, overwhelming— I’d barely registered my surroundings beyond the immediate faces of Remus and Scrimgeour. Now, in what passed for daylight under the eternal purple-streaked sky, I could see the settlement properly.

And the settlement could see me.

Whispers followed in our wake like ripples in water. People paused in their work— tending small fires, mending clothes, sorting through salvaged supplies— and watched us pass. Some of their faces held curiosity, others calculation. A few lit up with recognition or hope. Others darkened with something I couldn’t quite name. Suspicion? Resentment?

“Is it really him?” Someone murmured from my left.

“Thought he was dead…”

“Looks different. Older.”

“What’s with his eye?”

“That’s Adam Black? He’s just a kid.”

“He’s exactly what we need.”

“Or exactly what we don’t.”

I kept my gaze forward, trying not to react to the whispers, but they pressed against me like physical weight. Some of the faces I passed stirred faint recognition— a woman who might have worked in Hogsmeade, a man who looked like he’d been an Auror, a couple who I thought I’d seen in Diagon Alley once. Most were strangers, or had changed so much that any familiarity was lost beneath the hard edges survival had carved into them.

“So.” The boy said, glancing back at me with barely contained excitement. “Is it true you can control shadows? And that you fought a dragon?”

I blinked at the question. “I… The Dragon was Harry’s friend, actually. I just helped raise her. And I don’t control shadows— “

“But you have special magic, right? Powerful magic? That’s what people say.”

Powerful magic. The words made me uncomfortable, though I couldn’t entirely deny them. What I’d learned in the void, the chains that answered my will, the way magic moved through me now— it wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, but it wasn’t weak either. It was something else.

“It’s complicated.” I settled on, which was possibly the most honest answer I could give.

“Everything’s complicated now.” The boy said with a wisdom that shouldn’t have belonged to someone his age. Then, more quietly: “Were you really gone for six years? Where were you?”

“I was…” How did I explain the void? The endless grey, the things that wore familiar faces, the cycles of death and rebirth? “Somewhere else. Somewhere very far away.”

“But you came back.” He said it like a statement of fact, like that was the only important part. “You came back to help.”

Had I? I’d come back because I’d had no choice, because staying in the void meant ceasing to exist entirely. I’d come back because some stubborn part of me had refused to let go of that single thread connecting me to reality. But had I come back to help?

I didn’t know. I didn’t have an answer for him.

“What’s your name?” I asked instead.

“Thomas. Thomas Whitmore.” He puffed up slightly with pride at the introduction. “My dad’s in the eastern defense force. I help with message running and supply distribution.”

“Important work.” I said, and meant it. In a world like this, every role mattered.

“Do you think you’ll stay?” Thomas asked, his tone careful now, like he was afraid of the answer. “In London, I mean? Or are you going to leave like… like the others?”

There was weight behind that question, layers of meaning I couldn’t fully parse. Like the others. How many people had come to this settlement, given them hope, and then left? How many times had they been abandoned?

“I’m not sure yet.” I admitted. “There are people I need to find. Things I need to understand about what happened.”

Thomas nodded slowly, and some of the brightness dimmed from his expression. “Yeah. That’s what they all say.”

Before I could respond to that, before I could try to explain or defend or promise anything, Thomas stopped in front of another tent— this one slightly larger than mine, with wards I could feel humming faintly in the air around it.

“Mr. Lupin’s inside.” Thomas said, his formal tone returning. “He said to send you straight in.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, feeling him tense slightly at the contact before relaxing. “And thank you for what you said earlier. About heroes. I’m not sure I deserve it, but… it means something. Truly.”

His face brightened again, that uncomplicated joy returning. “You’ll see, sir. Everyone’s going to be glad you’re back. We can finally start fighting back for real.”

He bounded off before I could reply.

Sir…?

I watched him go, then turned to face the tent entrance, steeling myself.

Time to get some answers.

I pushed aside the flap and stepped inside.

The interior was warmer than mine, with actual furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from somewhere important— a real wooden table, proper chairs, even a small bookshelf crammed with worn volumes. Remus sat at the table, and before him was spread a meal that made my abandoned can of peas look pathetic by comparison: scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, what looked like fresh bread, and even some kind of preserve.

My stomach growled audibly.

Remus looked up at the sound, and a small smile crossed his aged, scarred face. Without a word, he gestured to the empty chair across from him.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I crossed the tent and sat down, trying not to stare too obviously at the food. Remus pushed a plate toward me, already prepared, and I picked up the fork with hands that shook slightly.

Real food. Actual, warm, real food.

I took a bite of the eggs and nearly groaned. After weeks of canned goods and whatever I could scavenge, this tasted like heaven.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, and I was grateful for it. Remus had always been good at reading people, at knowing when words were needed and when they weren’t. Right now, with hot food in front of me and a relatively safe place to sit, words could wait.

But eventually, curiosity won out.

“How?” I asked around a mouthful of potato, gesturing at the spread with my fork. “How do you have eggs and potatoes here? Fresh ones?”

Remus smiled, a real smile this time, and for a moment I could see the teacher I’d known beneath the layers of age and exhaustion. “We have Miss Sprout to thank for that. She’s worked miracles with the greenhouses.”

“Professor Sprout?” The name sparked hope in my chest. Another familiar face, another survivor from before. “She’s here?”

Remus nodded, though something in his expression shifted. “She is. Though she’s no longer a professor, Adam.”

I frowned, lowering my fork. “What do you mean?”

Remus was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. Then he sighed, setting down his own fork with deliberate care. “I won’t keep it from you. Though… it’s going to be hard for you to hear.”

My appetite vanished. “What happened?”

“Hogwarts.” Remus said quietly, meeting my eyes. “Hogwarts is gone. It was destroyed.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They bounced off my understanding like stones skipping across water, refusing to sink in.

“Destroyed.” I repeated slowly. “What do you mean, destroyed?”

But even as I asked, my fork clattered to my plate, forgotten.

“How is that possible?” My voice rose slightly. “It’s Hogwarts. An ancient castle with defenses that would take an army to—”

“You’re right.” Remus interrupted gently. “It took an army.”

I stared at him, the implications crashing over me like a wave. An army. Someone had sent an actual army against Hogwarts. Against the safest place in Britain. Against home.

“Who?” The word came out harsh, almost accusing. “Who sent an army?”

Remus’s expression was grave. “It was the final act of the alliance between Grindelwald and Voldemort. They came to Hogwarts together, Adam. They destroyed it. Sirius, Harry, and I… we tried to stop them. Without Dumbledore, we had no chance.”

Without Dumbledore?

“Their victory came at such a cost.” Remus continued, his voice heavy with memory. “That they were forced to leave Britain. They went to greener pastures, as it were, to build up their armies elsewhere. Now that they’re established, they see no reason to return to what amounts to the ruins of a civilization.”

I could scarcely process it. Hogwarts. Destroyed. The castle where I’d learned magic, where I’d made friends, where I’d found family. The place Helena had haunted for centuries, watching over Ravenclaw Tower. The place where Absol had nested, where he’d— 

No. I couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let myself picture the castle in ruins. I didn’t have the luxury of grief. Not yet. Not when there were still people to find, still things to do.

I forced the thoughts down, buried them deep where they couldn’t touch me.

“I need to see it.” I said, my voice rough. “I need to go to the ruins. See for myself.”

“Adam—”

“And we need to find Harry.” I pushed on, not wanting to hear whatever objection Remus was about to raise. “He’s out there somewhere. You said Sirius went after him. We need to— “

“I already tried.” Remus said quietly.

That stopped me. I looked at him properly, really looked, and saw the weight of failure in his eyes.

“I went looking for Sirius.” Remus continued. “Tried to follow his trail north. It…”

He gestured at the crutches leaning against the wall beside him. “It almost cost me my life.”

I’d noticed the crutches last night, but in my exhaustion and the general chaos of reunion, I’d made assumptions. Remus was old now, made ancient by whatever curse bound him. I’d thought the crutches were just… a consequence of age.

But now I looked at him more carefully and saw the way he sat, the slight stiffness in his posture, the way one leg didn’t quite rest the same as the other.

Remus must have seen my gaze because he chuckled— a dark, humorless sound. He reached down and lifted his left pant leg.

The scars were horrific. Deep, ragged gouges that looked like they’d been carved by claws the size of daggers, running from ankle to knee and probably higher. The tissue was discolored, the muscle beneath clearly damaged. It was a miracle he could walk at all.

“Dragon.” Remus said simply, lowering the pant leg. “A corrupted one. Crazed with whatever twisted magic is poisoning everything now. I’m lucky it was just my leg.”

Silence fell heavy in the tent. I stared at my plate, at the food I’d been so grateful for moments ago, and felt it turn to ash in my mind.

“I can’t come with you, Adam.” Remus said gently. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but…”

“But you know someone who can.” I finished, remembering what he’d started to say before the interruption.

Remus nodded. “I do. In fact— “

A voice cut him off, coming from behind me, from the tent entrance I’d forgotten to close properly.

“What am I being summoned for, Lupin? I just got back, and they told me to come straight here.”

I knew that voice.

I turned slowly, disbelief and hope warring in my chest.

And there, standing in the entrance with dust on his boots and exhaustion in his gray eyes, was Draco Malfoy.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I could only stare at the figure in the doorway like he was a ghost— another phantom conjured by my guilt and memory to torment me.

But ghosts didn’t have dust on their boots. Didn’t have calluses on their hands or scars on their faces or that particular set to their shoulders that came from carrying too much weight for too long.

Draco stared back at me, his face cycling through shock, disbelief, and something that might have been grief before he locked it all down behind a mask of careful indifference.

“Clarke.” He said, his voice level. Controlled. “I always knew you hadn’t been done in by that creature.”

The formal distance in his tone stung more than I expected. But then he crossed the tent in three quick strides, and suddenly we were embracing, and nothing else mattered.

He was alive. Draco Malfoy was alive.

I felt him shake slightly in my arms, felt my own hands grip his shoulders too tightly, and for just a moment we were thirteen again, standing in the ruins beneath Stonehenge, watching our classmates die one after the other while the world ended around us.

“You absolute bastard.” Draco muttered into my shoulder. “Six years. Six years, and you just— you just show up like—”

“I know.” I said, because what else could I say? “I know. I’m sorry.”

We pulled apart after a moment that felt both too long and not long enough. Draco’s eyes were suspiciously bright, but his face had settled back into something approaching his usual composure. He’d grown since I’d last seen him— not just older, but harder. Sharper.

The boy I’d known had been polished aristocracy playing at danger. This man had earned every scar and shadow on his face.

I turned back to Remus, accusations and gratitude tangled on my tongue. “You couldn’t have told me Draco was alive? That he was coming here?”

Remus’ smile was small but genuine.

“I do enjoy having a little fun, Adam. And there’s so little joy out there now.” His expression sobered. “That little bit is important. Now more than ever.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that emotional manipulation wasn’t fun, but I couldn’t. Not when the warmth of Draco’s presence beside me was the second truly good thing I’d felt since waking in the ruins of Warminster.

“Sit.” Remus said, gesturing to another chair. “Join us, Draco. You look like you could use a proper meal.”

Draco didn’t need more encouragement. He dropped into the chair with the graceless relief of someone who’d been on their feet too long, and immediately reached for the food. He ate like someone who’d learned not to waste opportunities— quickly, efficiently, but with an undercurrent of genuine appreciation for every bite.

“Report?” Remus asked after giving Draco a moment to take the edge off his hunger.

Draco swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand— a gesture the old Draco would have found barbaric. “The Goblins tried to push into our territory again. Eastern sector, near the old financial district. We pushed them back, but it cost us. Three injured, one badly. Williams will be lying down for good, I think. It’d take a miracle, or Phoenix Tears, I suppose…”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but I saw the tightness around his eyes. The people meant something to him. Or maybe it was just the accumulated weight of too many losses.

“The Goblins.” I said, the pieces starting to fit together in my mind. “They’re part of this? Part of what happened?”

Draco and Remus exchanged a glance.

“It’s complicated.” Draco said finally. “Everything’s complicated now. But yes, the Goblins have… well, they haven’t exactly helped society recover, let’s put it that way.”

“I still don’t understand everything.” I admitted. “I’ve only heard pieces. Fragments. Can you— can someone explain what actually happened? After Stonehenge?”

Draco set down his fork and leaned back, his gray eyes studying me with an intensity I remembered from our school days. “I can try. But we don’t have all the details ourselves. Nobody does, really. Everything fell apart so fast that getting accurate information became impossible.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

He nodded slowly. “After you… after you went through the Veil, everything went to hell. And I mean that literally. The sky went dark— you’ve seen it. Those auroras, the constant twilight. That’s permanent now. We don’t know if it’s a magical effect from the Veil breaking, or if it’s something to do with the thing that almost came through, or…”

He shrugged helplessly. “We just don’t know.

“The creatures came next. Corrupted versions of things we knew, and things we’d never seen before. They poured out of the forests, out of the deep places, everywhere at once. Erklings, gnomes, werewolves, dragons, things that don’t have names. All of them twisted, wrong, hostile.”

I thought of the Erklings I’d fought on my way here, the way they’d wielded fire like wands. The Bowtruckles that had tried to burrow into my flesh.

“Much of the Muggle technology failed.” Draco continued. “Not just magical interference— it actually failed. Aeroplanes fell from the sky. Their gadgets went dead. The Muggles were helpless, and we…”

His jaw tightened. “We didn’t help. Not at first. The Ministry was in chaos, trying to protect magical communities, and the Muggles were left to fend for themselves.”

“But surely—” I started.

“No.” Draco’s voice was flat. “There was no ‘surely.’ Dumbledore was gone. The Ministry’s leadership was dead or scattered. Grindelwald and Voldemort were still out there, still dangerous, and suddenly we had monsters attacking from every direction. Most wizards retreated to defensible positions and pulled up the wards. The Muggles died in droves.”

The weight of it settled over me like a shroud. Millions dead. Maybe billions. The whole world collapsed while I’d been trapped in the void.

“What about the Order?” I asked. “Sirius, Harry— “

“We tried.” Remus said quietly. “After Stonehenge, we regrouped. Sirius, Harry, myself, and a few others. We did what we could, saved who we could, but we were so few, and the threats were so many.”

“And then Grindelwald and Voldemort came for Hogwarts.” Draco said. His voice had gone cold. “About six months after you disappeared. They must have decided that destroying the last symbol of unified magical Britain would break whatever resistance was left.”

“They were right.” Remus added. “When Hogwarts fell, so did any real hope of organizing a unified defense.”

“My mother and I escaped with Aunt Andromeda.” Draco continued. “We linked up with her and with the remnants of whoever we could find. Other survivors, refugees, anyone willing to fight to stay alive. We ended up here, in London, because it was the last place with enough infrastructure to support a community. My mother and aunt run the western sector defense now.”

“They’re quite the formidable duo.” Remus added.

Draco nodded. “They’re traveling south at the moment. Don’t know toward what, exactly. They’ll be back in a week or two, last I heard.”

I looked at him properly then, seeing not just the physical changes but the way he carried himself. The confidence that came from real competence, real leadership.

“You must have become truly powerful.” I said. “To be given a defense posting of your own.”

Something flickered in Draco’s expression— pride, maybe, or embarrassment. He nodded toward Remus. “I had a good teacher.”

Remus smiled, the expression tired but warm. “And I had a good student.”

The easy camaraderie between them struck me as almost impossible. In another timeline— the one I remembered from books and stories— Draco Malfoy would have held Remus Lupin in utter contempt. A half-breed. A creature. A blood traitor.

But this wasn’t that timeline. This was a world where survival had burned away the luxury of prejudice, where a werewolf could teach a Malfoy and both could be grateful for it.

“I need to report to Scrimgeour.” Draco said, pushing back from the table. “Let him know the eastern sector is secured.”

“I’ll walk with you.” I said quickly, standing as well.

Draco hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

We left Remus to his meal and stepped out into the settlement. For a few minutes, we walked in silence. I tried to think of what to say, how to bridge the six-year gap between us, but everything felt inadequate. The settlement moved around us with the organized chaos of a community that had learned to function under pressure— people hauling water, tending fires, sorting through salvaged materials with the careful attention of those who knew every scrap mattered.

“Malfoy!”

The call came from our right, and I turned to see a middle-aged wizard with a graying beard and burn scars running down one side of his face. He was working at what looked like a makeshift forge.

Draco’s entire demeanor shifted. The tension I’d seen in the tent eased slightly, and something that might have been a genuine smile crossed his face. “Henderson. How’s the repair work coming?”

“Slow.” Henderson admitted, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth that was probably dirtier than his face. “That Shielded relic you helped me reinforce is holding, but I’m running low on the focusing crystals. Don’t suppose you came across any on your patrol?”

“Nothing intact.” Draco said, moving closer to examine whatever Henderson was working on. “But there’s a collapsed shop near the old Diagon Alley entrance that might have some salvageable materials. I can take a team there tomorrow if Scrimgeour approves it.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Henderson’s expression was grateful, respectful in a way that had nothing to do with Draco’s family name and everything to do with earned trust. “My daughter wanted me to thank you, by the way. For the warming charm you taught her last week. She says her tent stays comfortable now even when the temperature drops.”

“It’s a simple enough spell.” Draco said, but I could hear the pleasure in his voice at the recognition. “She’s a quick learner. If she keeps practicing, she’ll be ready for more advanced protective magic soon.”

“High praise coming from you.” Henderson glanced at me then, his expression cautious but curious. “This the one everyone’s talking about? Adam Black?”

“Clarke.” I corrected automatically, then felt stupid for it. “But yes.”

Henderson studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Welcome back. We could use all the help we can get.” There was no hero worship in his tone like there had been with young Thomas, just the pragmatic assessment of someone who’d learned to measure people by their usefulness.

“I’ll do what I can.” I said.

“See that you do.” Henderson turned back to his forge, already refocusing on his work. “Stop by later, Malfoy. I’ll have those ward stones ready for the eastern perimeter.”

“Will do.” Draco gestured for me to follow, and we continued walking.

I watched him as we moved through the settlement, noticing things I’d missed in my own tunnel-vision focus. People nodded to Draco as we passed. Not with fear or obligation, but with recognition. Respect. Several called out greetings, and he responded to each with easy familiarity.

“Mr. Malfoy!” A woman in her thirties emerged from a tent, a young girl clutching her hand. “I’m so glad I caught you. Lily wanted to show you something.”

The little girl— she couldn’t have been more than six— held up a piece of parchment with a drawing on it. Crude, childish, but clearly done with great care. It showed stick figures standing in front of what might have been buildings, with exaggerated smiles and a yellow circle in the sky that the girl had never seen.

“That’s magnificent, Lily.” Draco said, and he actually crouched down to her level to examine it properly. “Is this your family?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s Mummy, and that’s me, and that’s you!” She pointed to a stick figure that had been given blonde hair. “You saved us from the bad wolf. Remember?”

“I remember you were very brave.” Draco told her seriously. “Do you remember what I taught you?”

Lily’s face scrunched up in concentration, then she held out her hand— wandless, I realized— and produced a small, flickering light. It was barely more than a spark, but the pride on her face was incandescent.

“Perfect.” Draco said, and his smile was genuine. “Keep practicing that. One day it might save your life.”

The girl beamed, and her mother’s eyes were suspiciously bright as she thanked him again before ushering her daughter away.

I stared at Draco as he stood, something uncomfortable settling in my chest. This wasn’t the person I’d expected. The Draco I’d known at Hogwarts had been capable of kindness, yes, but this… this was different. This was someone who’d learned to be a pillar of a community, someone children trusted and adults relied on.

“You teach them.” I said as we resumed walking.

“Someone has to.” Draco’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Most of them are Muggleborn or half-bloods whose parents died in the collapse. They have magic, but no one to teach them control. If they don’t learn young, the accidental magic can be dangerous— to them and to others.”

He paused, then added quietly. “We lost two children in the first year because they panicked during a creature attack and their magic lashed out without direction. I won’t let that happen again.”

“So much for ‘Mudbloods’, huh?” I commented lightly, watching him stiffen.

“…Adam, what I called you, back then—”

“Draco! Oi, Draco!”

We both turned to see a young man— maybe seventeen or eighteen— jogging toward us. He was lean and wiry, with the kind of scars that suggested he’d been fighting for survival since he was barely more than a child.

“Davies.” Draco greeted him, sending me one last look before focusing on Davies. “Thought you were on guard duty?”

“Shift just ended.” Davies grinned, the expression transforming his hard features into something more boyish. “Wanted to catch you before you disappeared again. We still on for sparring practice tomorrow? Marcus and Chen want to join in too.”

“If I’m here, yes.” Draco’s expression was carefully neutral now. “I might have new assignments after I report to Scrimgeour.”

“Fair enough.” Davies’s gaze slid to me, and his eyes widened slightly. “Bloody hell. You’re him, aren’t you? The one from Stonehenge.”

“Adam Clarke.” I offered.

“Marcus Davies.” He said quickly. “Look, I don’t know if you remember me. I was at Hogwarts. Ravenclaw. Two years below you.”

I studied his face, trying to find the eleven-year-old boy in the hardened features, and caught a flicker of recognition. “You were the one who snorted spaghetti noodles out of his nose.”

His face fell. “… Yes. That… That was me, all right. I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Good to see you made it.” I said, smiling.

“Thanks to Draco here.” Davies clapped Draco on the shoulder with easy familiarity. “Found me half-dead in the ruins of the castle, dragged my arse all the way to London. Been fighting with him ever since.”

“You dragged yourself.” Draco corrected. “I just pointed you in the right direction.”

“You carried me the last three miles and you know it.” Davies turned back to me. “He does this. Downplays everything. Doesn’t want credit. But half the people in this settlement owe him their lives, one way or another.”

I watched Draco’s jaw tighten, watched him deflect the praise with a shake of his head. “I did what anyone would do.”

“No.” Davies said firmly. “You did what needed to be done, even when it was hard. That’s different.” He seemed to realize he’d made Draco uncomfortable because he shifted topics.

“Anyway, I should get to the mess tent before they run out of food. You coming to the gathering tonight, Draco? People have been asking.”

“Maybe. Depends on how the report goes.”

“Right. Well, hope to see you there.” Davies nodded to me. “You too, Clarke. It’d be good for morale. People knowing you’re back and all.”

He jogged off before I could respond, leaving Draco and me standing in the middle of the path.

“Gathering?” I asked.

“Something we started doing once a week.” Draco explained as we continued walking. “Everyone who can spare the time meets in the central area. We share news, remember the dead, sometimes someone plays music if we’re lucky. It’s…”

He struggled for the word. “It helps. Reminds people they’re not alone.”

The image of Draco Malfoy organizing community gatherings was so fundamentally at odds with the boy I’d known that I almost laughed. Almost.

“You’ve changed.” I said instead.

“We all have.” His voice was flat. “We had to.”

We passed through an area where several people were working on reinforcing tent structures, and I noticed more of the same pattern— respectful nods, brief greetings, the occasional request for advice that Draco answered with the easy competence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

“The wards on the northern tents are fluctuating again.” An older witch called out as we passed. She was missing two fingers on her left hand, and her robes were patched so many times they were more repair than original fabric. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, but the magic just won’t hold stable.”

Draco diverted immediately, moving to examine the tent she indicated. I watched as he ran his wand along the perimeter, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“The anchor points are fine.” He muttered, more to himself than to us. “But the weave is… Henderson’s forge. It’s putting out residual magical interference.” He turned to the witch. “I’ll talk to him about adjusting the containment field. In the meantime, try recasting with a modified rune sequence— use Algiz instead of Eihwaz for the binding. It’s better at handling environmental noise.”

The witch’s face cleared with understanding. “Of course! I should have thought of that. Thank you, Draco.”

“Let me know if it doesn’t work. We’ll figure something out.”

As we walked away, I couldn’t help but ask. “Runes in magic?”

“Another effect of the breaking of the barriers.” Draco said. “Entirely new fields of magic are now open to us. Though, I will say that it’s highly volatile and dangerous. Many lives have already been lost in the pursuit of its knowledge.”

We were getting closer to what looked like the administrative center now— a cluster of larger tents with guards posted around them. The guards nodded to Draco as we approached, their stance relaxing slightly.

“Successful patrol?” One of them asked, a woman with short-cropped hair and a wand holster on each hip.

“Quiet enough.” Draco replied. “The Goblins tested our eastern line but pulled back when we reinforced. No casualties on our side.”

“Good to hear.” The guard’s gaze moved to me, and her hand drifted toward one of her wands. “And you brought a guest.”

“Adam Clarke.” Draco said before I could introduce myself. “He’s cleared. Lupin and Scrimgeour both confirmed it.”

The guard studied me for another moment, then nodded and stepped aside. “Welcome back, Mr. Clarke. We could use some good news.”

The weight of expectation in her words made me uncomfortable. Everyone seemed to think my return meant something— that it would change something. I wasn’t sure I could live up to that.

We’d almost reached Scrimgeour’s tent when another voice called out.

“Draco! Thank Merlin.”

A man in his forties rushed up to us, his face drawn with worry. “It’s Thomas— Thomas Whitmore. He’s been asking for you. Says he needs to talk to you before you leave again.”

I recognized the name— the boy who’d led me to Remus this morning.

Draco’s expression shifted to concern. “Is he all right? Did something happen on his route?”

“He won’t say. Just keeps insisting he needs to talk to you.” The man looked apologetic. “I know you need to report, but the boy’s worked himself into a state.”

Draco looked toward Scrimgeour’s tent, clearly torn between his official duty and whatever this was. Then he sighed and turned to me. “I should— “

“Go.” I said. “Your report can wait a few minutes. I’ll… I’ll just wait here.”

He looked at me for a moment, something grateful flickering in his expression, then nodded. “I’ll be quick.”

I watched him hurry off with the worried man, and found myself alone in the administrative center of the settlement. The guards had returned to their posts, and the general bustle of the camp continued around me. I felt suddenly, acutely out of place.

I’d been gone for six years. These people had built something here— a community, a functioning society carved out of the ruins. They’d learned to survive, to adapt, to support each other. And I was just… what? A ghost walking back into a world that had learned to exist without me?

“You’re thinking too hard.”

I turned to find one of the guards— the woman with the twin wand holsters— watching me with an amused expression.

“Sorry?”

“I can see it on your face. That lost look people get when they realize the world moved on without them.” She tilted her head. “It’s disorienting, isn’t it? Coming back to find everything changed.”

“You have personal experience with that?”

“In a way.” She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “I was in St. Mungo’s when everything went to hell. Coma from a bad curse gone wrong. Woke up three weeks after the collapse to find the hospital in ruins and most of the healers dead. Felt like I’d lost everything in the span of a single nightmare.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I survived. That’s more than most can say.” She studied me for a moment. “People are going to expect things from you, you know. Adam Clarke, the hero of Stonehenge. The one who came back from death itself. They’ll want you to save them, to fix everything, to make the world right again.”

“I can’t do that.” I said quietly.

“I know. But they don’t. Not yet.” She shifted her stance, and I noticed the way she constantly scanned the perimeter— habit, born from too many threats. “Take my advice? Be honest about what you can and can’t do. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. These people have had enough disappointment.”

Before I could respond, Draco reappeared, Thomas Whitmore trailing behind him. The boy’s eyes were red, like he’d been crying, but he was composed now.

“Thank you.” Thomas said to Draco, his voice thick. “I just— I needed to know someone understood.”

“Anytime.” Draco said, and the gentleness in his voice was so at odds with the sharp-edged boy I’d known that it made my chest ache. “You did the right thing by telling me. We’ll handle it.”

Thomas nodded, then caught sight of me and immediately tried to straighten up, to look less vulnerable. “Mr. Clarke. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Just waiting for Draco.” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

“Right. Of course.” Thomas glanced between us, then seemed to decide something. “He’s a good man, sir. One of the best we have here. I hope—”

He cut himself off, then just nodded and hurried away.

I looked at Draco, questions on my tongue, but his expression had closed off again.

“Patrol business.” He said shortly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Which meant something had happened that he didn’t want to talk about. I let it go.

“So.” Draco said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. “What are your plans?”

And just like that, we were back to the tension I’d been dreading. The question I knew would drive a wedge between us.

But I couldn’t lie. Couldn’t pretend I was content to stay here while Harry and Sirius were somewhere out there.

“I want to travel to Scotland.” I said, keeping my voice level. “To find Harry and Sirius. And to see the remains of Hogwarts for myself.”

Draco’s step faltered almost imperceptibly. “Scotland.”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” He stopped walking, turning to face me. “That’s not a good idea, Adam.”

“I need to know what happened. I need to find them.”

“Anyone who goes that far north doesn’t come back.” His voice was tight now, controlled but strained. “The territories between here and there are some of the most dangerous in Britain. Corrupted creatures, collapsed wards, unstable magic. And that’s before you factor in whatever Grindelwald or Voldemort might have left behind.”

“Come with me then.” I said. The words came out before I’d fully thought them through, but once spoken, I realized how much I meant them. “We went into the depths beneath Stonehenge together. We survived that. We can— “

“That was different.” Draco’s jaw was set, his gray eyes hard. “We had support then. Numbers. A plan. This would be a suicide mission, Adam. Even with you.”

The especially with you remained unspoken but clear in his tone.

“So you’re saying I should just… what? Stay here? Pretend Harry and Sirius aren’t out there somewhere?”

“I’m saying you should think before you throw your life away on sentiment.” The words came out harsh, and Draco immediately looked like he regretted them. “I’m not— look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care. But going north is death. I’ve seen it happen. Good people, strong wizards, they go north chasing answers or family or hope, and they don’t come back.”

“Then I’ll be the first one who does.”

Draco stared at me for a long moment, something conflicted warring in his expression. “You don’t understand what it’s like out there. You’ve been gone, Adam. You don’t know how bad it’s gotten.”

“I walked here from Warminster.” I said quietly. “I fought corrupted Erklings and Bowtruckles. I’ve seen Stonehenge turned into a crater of magma. I have some idea of how bad it is.”

“A week of travel doesn’t compare to six years of surviving.” Draco shot back. “You think you’re ready for this, but you’re not. You’re still— ” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

“I’m still what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” He started walking again, faster now.

I caught up to him easily with my longer stride. “Draco— “

“I need to report to Scrimgeour.” He said, his voice clipped. “We can talk about this later.”

The silence that fell between us was different now— heavy with unspoken tension and hurt. We passed through fields of produce. This was the first real silence since we’d reconnected, and it felt like failure.

Draco’s pace picked up as we approached what looked like the administrative center of the settlement— a cluster of larger tents with more guards posted around them.

“I’ll catch up with you later.” He said without looking at me. “I have to go.”

“All right.” I said, because what else could I say? Pushing him would only make things worse.

I watched him disappear into the central tent, his shoulders tight with tension, and felt the familiar weight of isolation settle over me again. For a few bright moments, I’d had a friend back. Now I wasn’t sure.

“You’re going to have to forgive young Draco, Mr. Clarke.”

The voice came from my left. I turned and found myself facing a woman I almost didn’t recognize.

Professor Sprout looked older— they all did— but on her the changes were more dramatic. The plump, cheerful woman I remembered had been weathered down to someone smaller, thinner, with deep lines carved around her eyes and mouth. But her eyes were still kind, still sharp with the particular intelligence that came from years of teaching teenagers.

“Professor Sprout.” I said, genuine warmth flooding through me. “I’d been told you were here, but I’m glad to see you’re safe.”

Her smile was gentle. “I’m no longer a professor, dear. That time has passed.”

The reminder stung more than I expected. “I heard. About Hogwarts. I’m— I’m sorry.”

She waved a hand, dismissing the sympathy. “We’re all sorry about many things. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She nodded toward where Draco had gone. “Young Mr. Malfoy has suffered quite a bit in this new world. But he’s become an admirable man under the circumstances.”

“He won’t come with me.” I said, the admission harder than it should have been. “He thinks going north is suicide.”

“He’s not wrong.” Sprout’s voice was matter-of-fact. “It very well might be. But that’s not really what’s stopping him, is it?”

I looked at her, surprised by her perception. “Then what is?”

“Fear, I expect. Not of death— he’s faced that enough times. Fear of hope. Fear of caring about something only to lose it again.”

She tilted her head, studying me with those sharp gardener’s eyes. “You have to understand, Adam. Everyone he’s cared about has either died or left. His father is with You-Know-Who. His friends from school, most of them dead or scattered. Even you, who he thought of as something close to invincible, supposedly died six years ago.”

The words hit harder than any spell. I’d been so focused on my own losses, my own pain, that I hadn’t considered what my disappearance had done to the people who’d survived.

“I didn’t choose to leave.” I said quietly.

“I know that. And deep down, so does he. But emotions aren’t always logical.” Sprout’s expression softened. “Give him time, dear. He needs to process the fact that you’re back, that you’re real, before he can decide whether he’s brave enough to hope again.”

I nodded slowly, watching the guards at the entrance to Scrimgeour’s tent. “How did you know what I was planning? I only just told Draco.”

Her smile returned, warmer now. “I was your teacher for several years, Mr. Clarke. I learned to read my students quite well. And you have a particular energy about you— different from the others here.”

“Different how?”

“You walk without the weight of the world pressing you down.” She said simply. “Everyone else here moves like they’re carrying the accumulated grief of six years. But you… you move like someone who’s been somewhere far worse and come back. It gives you strength, but it also makes you reckless. You haven’t learned yet what these past six years have cost.”

The observation was uncomfortably accurate. I had been somewhere worse. The void had been worse than anything this broken world could throw at me. But that didn’t mean I understood this reality, this new status quo built on ruins and desperation.

“Draco needs time.” Sprout continued gently. “And if I’m being brutally honest, you need time too. Time to acclimate to this world, to do some research, to understand what you’re actually facing. And time to earn the supplies you’ll need to make the trip north in the first place.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that I couldn’t afford to wait, that Harry and Sirius might be in danger, that every moment mattered.

But even as the protests formed, I recognized the truth in her words. I’d arrived with nothing but a backpack of near-empty supplies and clothes that didn’t fit. I barely understood the political situation, the territorial divisions, the nature of the corrupted creatures. I was running on desperation and stubbornness, and that wasn’t enough.

“You’re right.” I admitted, the words reluctant but honest. “I need to prepare properly.”

“There’s wisdom.” Sprout said approvingly. “And there’s no shame in it, dear. Patience isn’t surrender. Sometimes it’s the bravest choice we can make.”

I managed a small smile. “Thank you, Professor. For the advice.”

“Though my students have all grown up.” She said, her eyes twinkling slightly. “There’s always room to learn. Always.”

She patted my arm gently. “Come by the greenhouses later. I’ll show you what we’ve managed to grow. And perhaps we can find you some clothes that actually fit.”

I watched her walk away, her stride steady despite everything she must have endured. There was something reassuring about Professor Sprout being exactly who she’d always been— practical, kind, and impossibly wise in the way that only the best teachers managed.

“Thank you, Professor.” I said to no one in particular.