He awoke with his face pressed into the cold tile of the loo, the damp paper from the ground sticking to his robes. His head pounded with evident pain, and it took him a few moments to focus his eyes properly. His invisibility cloak was gone.

Malfoy had actually hexed him when he wasn’t prepared, the absolute bastard. Really, who did such things? When Harry began he had no intention of even running into Malfoy, though somehow he had ended up with a stolen cloak. The bastard took his father’s cloak.

Harry’s first reaction was to strike out – find Malfoy on this train and beat him to a pulp until the fucker decided to give back his cloak. He raised himself into a sitting position, scrubbing his grimy face with two hands. No, he’d have to think logically about this. Adult wizards didn’t just rush off and punch someone in the face. He’d go to McGonagall and ask her for help. Weren’t there retrieving spells for these situations? It seemed it was the best option – Harry wouldn’t get in trouble and Malfoy would be reprimanded by McGonagall.

Realising he’d actually thought out a problem logically, Harry smiled briefly to himself. His stomach twisted at the thought of not having his cloak, but it wouldn’t do any good for him to lash out at Malfoy. He supposed Malfoy was sort of correct – everything wasn’t perfect, even after the war. But Harry decided that he’d do his best not to escalate the relationships between both sides even more, including his relationship with Malfoy.

Malfoy was a child. A child who had been abused for the past year. It would take time for him to heal just like everyone else.

Sitting there, smelling shite with his clothes dampened, he wondered how he was able to keep his composure. How was he able to just brush Malfoy’s attack off, but if Ginny even touched him he felt a striking anger boil within him. It was ridiculous – it was a relief. It gave him confidence to know that he was able to stay in control at least in one particular moment in his life.

He desperately wanted to be composed and in control in every aspect of his life; he hoped this was just the beginning of his knew found strength. It was exhilarating in a very strange way.

“Oi, Harry. What are you doing down there?” Neville looked down at him, concerned. Harry blinked, realising he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“I – slipped, hit my head,” Harry responded, struggling to stand up. Neville offered his hand to help him up.

“You should see Pomfrey when we get to Hogwarts.” Neville paused, puffing out his chest. “Have you heard?” he asked, pointing to the badge pinned to his robes. “I was picked as Head Boy.”

Harry beamed at him, thinking about Hermione’s disappointment. “That’s just great, Neville. If anyone deserved it, it sure is you.” The image of Neville slicing off Nagini’s head flashed within Harry’s mind. He felt immense gratitude.

Something in Neville’s eyes made Harry feel uncomfortable. The happiness that engulfed his face at Harry’s words made it seem as if Neville actually cared, very deeply, about what Harry thought of him. It made Harry’s stomach twist in pain. Neville wasn’t supposed to look up to him – they had known each other since they were children. They were equals – how Neville had acted on the battlefield had obviously showed that. If it weren’t for Neville Voldemort would’ve still been alive.

Laughing, Harry clutched at the back of his neck. “Oh, well, you enjoy the rest of the ride, yes?”

Neville’s thinned face showed confusion. “Are you sure you’re all right there?”

“Yeah, yeah – everything is fine,” Harry responded, brushing his bangs from his eyes. He really needed a haircut. They stared at one another for a moment, then Harry nodded and walked out of the loo.

“See you around!” Neville called after him.

With his head down, Harry rushed down the corridor without looking at anyone. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he was being ridiculous, but he felt horribly exposed without his cloak, and he felt as if everyone was staring at him. Though, they probably were – but why couldn’t he just walk with his head held high?

Back in the compartment, he was unable to speak to Ron and Hermione, who asked him where he had gone off to but where too involved in their own glaring competition to really pay attention to Harry. He accepted their distraction, because – well, the war was over. They had been there for him long enough, everything – everyone was supposed to be okay now. He tried not to let the anger from his thoughts penetrate his consciousness.

Ginny wrapped his small hand around his, squeezing with reassurance. She smiled softly at him. “You have a bit of toilet paper in your hair.”

He brushed his fingers through his hair, feeling slightly unnerved.

.:.

There were ghosts in the Great Hall. No, more than just the usual ghosts – but real ghosts that actually scared you. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on the first day of classes, and his eyes flashed whenever he saw Lupin – Tonks – Colin dead on the floor. Where McGonagall was sitting was where Voldemort had fallen dead. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, trying to ignore his thoughts.

He wouldn’t allow himself to react to his memories – they weren’t going to affect him during this last year. This was a time, according to Mr Weasley, that was supposed to be carefree and devoted to trying out new experiences. Danger was no more – everyone needed to give a sigh of relief and go on with their lives.

“Harry, your schedule.”

He looked up and saw Bill Weasley staring back at him, his hand poised to give Harry his schedule. It was still a shock, even if they had all seen Professor Weasley sitting at the head table. Harry smiled and took the card, blinking away the sight of scars against that handsome face. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, making sure his voice sounded easy.

Bill smiled down at him and went on to the next student. He tapped his wand against the card and solid, black letters appeared on the white. His brows came together in confusion.

“We have teaching assistants here?” he asked no one in particular, but he knew Hermione would answer.

She looked over his shoulder at his schedule. “It seems so – I heard rumours about it becoming more popular this year – especially with all the new professors.” She paused, staring down at his card. “Wow, you’ll have three Defence classes once you include your assistant class.”

Ron grimaced once he got a look. “You’re going to be a TA to my brother?”

Harry felt his stomach sink. “Yeah – what’s so bad about it?”

Shrugging, Ron answered, “Nothing, I guess, he’s just really demanding.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course you would say that – you are most lazy person I’ve ever met!”

Ron glared at her and mumbled under his breath. Whatever he said made Hermione’s cheeks blaze bright red and her eyes widened considerably.

“Ronald!” she gasped, then smacked him in the shoulder.

Harry looked between them, his eyes searching for clues on what the hell was happening. He reminded himself that he’d decided long ago to ignore their scuffles. Turning away from them, he forked his lukewarm eggs around his plate, trying to make up his mind on whether he liked the idea of being a TA for the DADA class. He doubted Bill would be any trouble – yes, maybe he’d demand a lot of Harry, but that prospect didn’t scare him. It was just surprising – would he be grading essays everyday or would he actually be working with the students, helping them like he did with Dumbledore’s Army?

Shockingly, the idea of him helping out with the teaching cheered Harry up – he actually felt excited to see what Professor Weasley had in store for him.

.:.

Harry was surprised to see Slughorn still occupying the Potion’s Master position. He felt slight anger as he remembered how the coward had tried to run away during the battle. Children had been fighting and he only thought of himself. It made Harry sick.

The class started off as its usual self, with Slughorn taking attendance and explaining the class rules. He tapped his wand against the board and the syllabus appeared. He asked them to copy it down as if they were first years.

Harry’s stomach knotted together once he realised Malfoy was in the same class. It was strange – being in this atmosphere again after a hard year of fighting. The boy was stationed in front of him and every time Harry caught a glimpse of that blond head his mind flashed back to the fiery disaster in the Room of Requirements, or the way Malfoy’s face had appeared during that time when Harry had been captured in the Malfoy Manor.

What was he doing with Harry’s cloak? Did he parade it around the common room, gloating on how he stole the Chosen One’s prized possession? The cat was out of the bag, as the saying goes, and Harry felt a mourning quality within him – everyone would soon know that he owned an Invisibility Cloak and never again would he be able to stalk alone, going without notice.

He gritted his teeth, watching as Malfoy bent his head forward, the pale skin on the back of his neck smooth and white – as if the skin was translucent and Harry could see down to the muscle. He suddenly had the urge to punch the back of Malfoy’s neck, but he made himself look away, swallowing slowly as he pushed down his anger. Malfoy would be the one person he wouldn’t be angry at, ironically.

For the last half of the class they were set to begin working on a review potion, which despite Hermione’s huffing, suited Harry just fine. All of his determination during the war had made him forget lots things that wouldn’t help him – like making potions. He sometimes couldn’t remember how to spell certain words; it was as if his mind had deleted all the unnecessary facts and replaced them with survival techniques.

He assigned to get the potion ingredients, and as he waited in line for the ingredients cupboard, he realised that Malfoy was unbearably close again. The blond stood just in front of him, and he swallowed down his anger before tapping him on the shoulder.

Malfoy didn’t look back. “What is it, Potter?”

Leaning in closer, Harry whispered, “I’d like to have my cloak back, if you don’t mind.”

There was a brief hesitation. Malfoy’s shoulders seemed to relax. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he responded casually, but his voice was filled with mirth.

Harry bit down the insult that sprang to his tongue. He exhaled slowly. Keep calm. He’s only doing this to make you angry. You can do this. “Malfoy – please -- I don’t want to play games with you. All I want is my cloak back. I’ll be forced to go to McGonagall about it if you don’t give it back.”

Malfoy’s shoulders shook as he laughed. “Go to McGonagall. I don’t care.”