Summary: The return of the eighth year students was supposed to be calm. Moderated. Peaceful, even. Draco returned to escape the chaos wrought upon his shambles of a life and Harry to flee the responsibility of a world that sees him as something greater than was truly possible. Hogwarts was a safe haven, right?

At least it was until Hagrid comes up with the wonderful idea to introduce some additional members to the student body of the fluffier variety. Hagrid doesn't do moderated - where's the fun in that?

~Written for prompt #17 of H/D Pet Fest~

Rating: NC-17

Tags: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, eighth year, EWE, magical creatures, sort-of-but-kind-of-different bonding fic

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction (duh, but, like, fiction of a fiction). None of the characters are mine except for the very obvious ones and I make no profit from writing this. All gratitude goes to JK Rowling for providing the workspace I can mould like jello :)

Chapter 1: Foxlet Gliders

The Petaurus vulpes veraque, common name foxlet glider, is a rare subspecies of the genus Petaurus, species magicae. Once widespread, since the mid twentieth century the number of these foxlet gliders has dwindled to less than a thousand in natural environments. To encounter such an individual is considered, in many cultures, to be a blessing, to bestow luck upon the seer, as much as they can similarly be deemed dangerous. Such encounters should not be disregarded lightly.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, warming the wide, round room into just short of stifling. The heat seemed to reflect the rich red carpets, the polished timber of the furnishings, the candles dotted around the walls. Unnecessary as it was – for winter had hardly begun to glimpse from behind its autumnal curtain – Minerva kept it alight nonetheless. She always had, just as she always would. A headmaster – or headmistress, in her case – needed to be contactable, and a constant fire was one of the readiest options available to her.

In that moment, however, Minerva hardly even noticed the fire, warm as it was. Her attention was trained upon the half-giant across from her, seated upon the pair of armless chairs she'd provided him and still causing them to creak and groan at the abuse of the heavy weight settled atop them. She fought back a sigh, suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, to squeeze her eyes closed. "We can't, Hagrid. Not this year. Please, they just need time, some normality, some consistency. We all do, not just the students."

The gamekeeper stared down at Minerva with baleful eyes from across her desk. No, not her desk, for it didn't truly feel like hers. She doubted it could, not when the formalities for appointing her headmistress weren't entirely completed. Not even when the teaching staff looked up to her with support, with deference, with recognition for her promotion. Just as Hagrid did, accepting of her words even as he protested them. "I understand, Professor. But I jus' thought that might be one o' the reasons teh bring somethin' interestin' in."

Minerva stared at Hagrid silently for a moment, hands clasped upon the desk before her, back straight and lips pressed together. She remained silent for long enough that he began to shift uneasily. "Have you even considered the list you've given me, Hagrid?"

"Yeah, well, like I was sayin' –"

"A chimaera, Hagrid?" Minerva picked up the half-curled sheet of parchment resting before her, scribbled with Hagrid's messy block letters. "You want to bring in a chimaera?"

Hagrid creaked in his chair awkwardly once more. "I just thought it might be something interestin' for the students teh take a look at."

"An amphisbaena?"

"It might have two heads but that doesn' mean –"

"A snake with twice as many heads means there is twice as much chance of those heads biting." Minerva did close her eyes then, if only briefly. Merlin, an amphisbaena? Where did he even find a breeder? "We don't need that, Hagrid. Not this year, certainly."

Hagrid seemed to deflate slightly. "Alrigh' then, not the amphisbaena."

"Or a Kelpie."

"They're practically harmless when they're kept away from the water –"

"Hagrid, your class will be a bare few hundred meters from the lake," Minerva interrupted, raising a hand to silence the protest. "How could you think that a Kelpie wouldn't be harmless?"

Hagrid winced. "Alright, not the Kelpie then either. I jus'…"

Minerva fought to suppress her recurring sigh. This wasn't the first of such conversations she'd had with her fellow professors. It was both the opinion of the Department of Education and of herself that they take the year following the war slowly and carefully. The bare minimum of extremes should be approached, and certainly not anything dangerous. The Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum was so devoid of actual Dark magic that it was almost as starkly bare as it had been two years before under Dolores Umbridge. This time, Minerva wasn't protesting that fact. There had been objections from all of the professors to some degree, but such protests had rapidly died beneath the weight of her explanations. Died and fallen into guilty submission.

Hagrid, unfortunately, would have to be the same. Taking a deep breath, Minerva reattempted. "Hagrid, I know what you're attempting to do. I know you're trying to make the year exciting and enjoyable, different to how it was last year. But so soon after the war, I don't think it would be possible. Not yet."

Hagrid was silent. He looked so woebegone that, against her better judgement, Minerva felt guilty. Almost urging her to renege on her resolution. Hagrid, for all his size and potential for intimidation, was like that. "I'm sorry, Hagrid."

"'S alright, Professor. I know yeh're jus' tryin' teh make the best o' a bad situation. Not even sure how many students will be likely teh return. I know some o' them, some I've talked teh, will come back – Harry, and Ron, and Hermione, o' course…"

"They will likely make up the bulk of the eighth year cohort," Minerva muttered. It was a sad truth, but she could hardly object to the reluctance of students to return, 'eighth' years or otherwise.

They both pondered in silence for a moment before Minerva shook herself from her contemplation. With another deep breath, she turned her attention back to the matter at hand, eyes falling to the parchment before her once more. "As it stands, Hagrid, I believe that only X or XX class creatures should be brought upon the grounds. Perhaps I'll reconsider in future but at least for this year."

Hagrid looked physically pained for Minerva's words. His mouth opened briefly, a bare split in his tangle of a beard before closing once more. He dropped his head in a slow nod a moment later, however, accepting. "Alrigh', Professor – ah, Headmistress." The distinction seemed to speak more than simple words. "Just the lil' ones, then." He turned his gaze towards Minerva once more and the flash of tentative query, of small hope, immediately raised Minerva's guard once more.

"Hagrid?"

"Perhaps I could jus' be keeping the Berserkers, headmistress?"

Minerva stared. And stared. And stared some more until Hagrid was shifting awkwardly once again. When she shook her head it was more in incredulity than denial. "You wish to keep… Berserkers?"

"They're practically harmless –"

"They're called Berserkers, Hagrid." Minerva didn't know what a Berserker was; it was likely a common name she wasn't aware of, one used by specialists out of some misguided affection for a deadly creature. "How could I possibly -?"

Her words died as Hagrid reached into his pocket and drew out a furball. A furball because that was truly what it looked like. A small – or at least small in Hagrid's hand – ball of white fluff. Hagrid, his eyes momentarily turned down towards it, the… the creature of sorts, appeared to have abruptly abandoned his momentary bout of melancholy. He stroked one thick, stubby finger across the downy fur.

"Hagrid," Minerva said faintly, her eyes glued upon the fluff. "What is that?"

"It's a Berserker, Headmistress. Or," Hagrid shrugged, "it might be, when it matures. But fer now, it's jus' a lil' tod."

"A tod…" Minerva stared at the ball of fur – it hadn't moved to appear more than such – before closing her eyes. She sighed heavily. "Hagrid, what exactly is it you have in your possession?"

As she opened her eyes, Minerva met Hagrid stare for stare. His expression was still hopeful, and his finger still stroking the… tod. "It's a Petaurus vulpes veraaque."

"Which is…?"

"A foxlet glider, Headmistress." Hagrid explained. "Harmless. They're harmless."

Minerva frowned. She hadn't head of a 'foxlet glider' in more than passing – they were quite rare, to her understanding – but the creature Hagrid's referred to wouldn't have been termed 'Berserker' for no reason. She felt an immediate sense of foreboding rise within her, but couldn't think to act upon it. Not yet. For once, she couldn't find it in her to fight. And besides…

"You already have a foxlet?" Minerva gestured towards the furball in Hagrid's hand with a downward flicker of her gaze. She paused, awaiting Hagrid's response and narrowed her eyes slightly as he glanced away from her guiltily. "Foxlets? You have more than one?"

Hagrid creaked in his chair once more. "Jus' three, Profess – Headmistress. And all o' them tods."

"Three?"

"Jus' three."

"You already have them?"

"I… yes, Headmistress." Hagrid stroked at the ball of fur in his hand like a sheepish child. "A friend o' a friend asked me teh –"

Minerva held up a hand to silence him. No, she couldn't bring herself to fight the subject any more. It was just too hard in that moment. Besides, Hagrid already had them so… "I want a full report on what to expect from these creatures, Hagrid, alongside the rest of those you will be bringing in for the school year. X and XX class only." She flickered her glance back down to the upheld furball once more. "And when they reach maturity, should they become, ah… Bersekers, they will be –"

"I'll rehome them if need be," Hagrid hastened to agree. His sheepishness had split into a beaming smile. "O' course, Headmistress! If it happens, like. It's my hope that they won't turn into Berserkers – there's a means of maturing them that can help teh –"

"The reports, Hagrid," Minerva interrupted with a sigh. She felt like she was making a mistake, that she would regret her decision in due course, but couldn't bring herself to care. Maybe later. Maybe she really would regret it, would scold herself in the coming months for the not putting her foot down, but not now. In the face of Hagrid's spreading grin, how could she? Few enough people smiled these days. Not yet, anyway. "Get me the reports, and we'll see."

Hagrid's smile only broadened further. Minerva wished it didn't look so threatening, but for that moment she couldn't concern herself with it too greatly. She had a school to prepare, to welcome her students back once more.

The gushing toot of the Hogwarts Express emitted another blast as Draco stepped onto the platform. The autumnal air was still faintly warm despite the darkness that was blanketing the students as they clambered from the train. A respectable number they were in total, thought Draco didn't need to count to know that the total populace of returnees that year was significantly lesser than it had been in previous years. Less than it should be.

Not that Draco could really blame them. He'd been hesitant to return himself.

"Same old same old."

Glancing to his side, Draco met Blaise's gaze. Just barely, though; the darkness of the evening and his now-permanently downward facing cast shadowed his eyes. It was almost as though he was hesitant to meet the eyes of any of their fellow students. No, not almost. He was. Draco knew because… because he felt the same.

"Not quite the same," Draco murmured in reply.

Blaise's lips quirked to the side but he didn't smile. "Yeah, 'suppose you're right." He glanced over his shoulder towards where the last of the students where nearly falling in their descent down the train steps. His face seemed to shadow further. "It seems strange, coming to school without Pansy."

Draco could only nod his agreement. Blaise had always been close to Pansy. He would feel her absence most keenly out of anyone. Draco did too, but not as much. He missed Greg, who had chosen not to return to school that year. He missed Vince, who had died the year before – the thought of which still drew Draco short with a sudden need to swallow, to thrust back the memory.

Almost more than that, however, more than simply 'missing his friends', Draco missed the familiarity. He missed the touch of normality, the consistency, the monotony that he never would have thought he would reflect upon with wistful reminiscence. Hogwarts had been boring in the past. Funny, that now when it finally wasn't, Draco missed those boring days.

The students around him, milling quietly and making their gradual way in the direction of the carriages that waited for them… they weren't 'normal' either. Oh, there were the smiles. There was chatter, even laughter. There was the familiar Hogwarts robes, school emblem standing out starkly visible upon the breast, and the distant calls of owls, the meows of cats and even the grumbling croaks of toads as luggage was manhandled from the train carriages by the house elves before they snapped them into disappearance and towards the school dormitories. All of that was similar.

And yet, innately, it was different.

Students laughed, but it was always with a glance to the side, a glimpse at their dwindled numbers and a hasty silencing of that burst of merriment. Smiles spread across faces but they were just a little forced, and though talk of the coming school year arose as was commonplace, hungry chatter of the feast and longing for the plush, four-poster beds that would await them that night, it was similarly strained. As though the students of Hogwarts had made an unspoken vow to try to be normal but were only just managing, and not very well at that.

The weight of the war, of the previous year, of the deaths, was too much to overlook. Draco didn't think such a marked reduction in the number of students was surprising. It was more surprising that anyone returned at all. There was even about a score of first years, drifting aimlessly around the platform with wide eyes staring after their upperclassmen.

Until the gamekeeper arrived, of course, and huddled them together. "First years! First years, come with me. This way, over here, the lot o' yeh."

Making his way down the platform amongst the sea of students, Draco glanced up at the half-giant, peering over heads that similarly turned like sunflowers wearily facing the sun. Hagrid was a hulk of a man, towering and imposing, and his actions in the final battle did nothing to allay Draco perception of such. He could remember the sight of the gamekeeper, ploughing through enemy forces, using brute force rather than magic and managing just as well. He remembered the fat tear drops that visible spilled down his face as he'd stepped from the Forbidden Forest surrounded by Death Eaters and carrying –

No. No, Draco didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about any of it.

And yet, despite his vehement denial of remembrance, he couldn't help but look on the half-giant with new eyes. He couldn't help but recall the strength behind the big man's friendly, bearded smile, the determination and perseverance that had so overwhelmed any of Draco's past speculations as to the stupidity, the uselessness, of the man. His perspective of Hagrid had changed. Just as it had in so many other instances.

Draco bowed his head after his first glimpse of the man. He was taller than most of his fellow students, and not only because he was one of the few 'eighth years' that had returned that year. Still, he didn't make use of that height, kept his chin tucked in an effort to avoid falling into view of… of anyone. Draco wasn't a Death Eater. He never had been, really. All charges had been cleared from his name, even if they hadn't from his father and only to a degree for his mother. And yet it didn't change the reality of his position and past actions. It didn't change the fact that, though they didn't do so openly, Draco knew the students around him viewed him warily. That they maintained just a little distance. That they might not shun him but they were far from acceptance, both of a Malfoy and a Slytherin.

Draco wasn't a fool. More than that, he could hardly blame them for their guardedness, for their ostracism. He would have done the same in their shoes.

The carriage bay was barely a three-minute walk from the platform. Draco didn't speak, for neither did Blaise, and few enough others would care to speak to him at all. He didn't need to glance up from his toes to see where they were going, and not only because he knew he could have walked the short, easy distance in his sleep without become lost. It was a little difficult to become so distracted when amidst a horde of forcedly jovial teens that flocked towards the waiting vehicles like a school of fish. Draco didn't look up at all, in fact, until the person – a girl with dark hair in a ponytail as her only distinguishing feature – pulled up short before him. Until he noticed that the voices around him had died.

Draco glanced up. Then he saw what everyone else saw.

The carriages pulled themselves. That was what Draco had always been told. No, not been told, he realised, but had assumed. None of the professors had actually told him that the carriages pulled themselves, but it was a commonly accepted fact. One that Draco, too, accepted.

Until sixth year, that was, when he'd seen that they didn't pull themselves at all.

As he stood in the midst of his fellow students, gaze trained easily over their shorter heads, Draco saw the thestrals. The skeletal horse-birds, their black, leathery wings draping limply at their sides and nearly grazing the ground. The hollow cheeks, the white, sightless eyes, the twig-thin legs that looked nothing if not blackened bone with not a hint of flesh to bulk them out. Each was hitched in pairs to the carriages, waiting idly, silently, and paying not an ounce of attention to the students who had drawn up before them. As though they'd seen them hundreds of times and the stunned, staring children were of no consequence to them.

Which, Draco knew, they likely weren't.

No one moved for a long time. There was incomprehension radiating from most, and in those that understand arose only heartbreak settling in its wake. Thestrals. Thestrals were visible to those who had seen death. Draco knew that not a single student who had witnessed the Battle of Hogwarts was spared such a sight. It was almost painful to consider. As so often happened, as had already happened in the short time since Draco had alighted from the train, he felt an upwelling of memories, of pain and horror, as recollection returned to the forefront of his mind once more. He had to close his eyes, to look away from the creatures; what they represented truly did hurt to consider.

A scuffle of noise, a clearing of a throat, drew his attention back towards the still scene around him. Over the heads of his fellows, Draco saw a single figure step forwards. He saw him break from the stagnant pool of wary students and start for the carriages. He saw him pause alongside one of the thestrals, idly pat the creature's head as though it were dog, before turning and swinging himself up into the carriage behind it.

Potter. Of course it would be Potter. Potter, who was always the leader, who was the Saviour of the world. Who, even after his role was complete, even after he had publicly professed that he wanted nothing more than peace and to return to his studies, to be normal – Potter was still leading them.

Draco didn't feel ridicule. He didn't feel disgust, or anger, or frustration at Potter's actions. He didn't feel all that much of anything except… no, there was something. Just a little bit of respect. A little gratitude. That perspective, of Potter himself, had changed too.

As one, as though suddenly given permission to do so, the rest of the students slowly flowed into forward movement once more. In tentative steps at first, but swiftly with more confidence. Weasley and Granger led, they too clambering up into Potter's chosen carriage, expressions still guarded but attempting nonchalance that Draco didn't think fooled anyone. Some of the students that followed in their wake while struggling for that same nonchalance, even paused to reach hesitant hands towards the thestrals, to stroke the leathery black skin of the beasts as Potter had done.

Draco followed. He didn't like to think he wouldn't have eventually left the immobilised masses and stepped forwards, wouldn't have brushed aside the foolishness that had stilled them all in step and swept towards the carriages with his head held high. He would have liked to have thought as much but he knew it to be false. He knew himself well enough these days to know as much. The previous year had been confronting on a number of levels, not the least of which being that Draco knew himself better. And the Draco that he perceived, that he knew to be that of reality…

He didn't like what he saw all that much, even if it was impossible to break free from. It was simply him.

Draco climbed into one of the empty carriages. Empty intentionally, because he didn't think that most would care to be inflicted with his presence and, though he wasn't so altruistic as to care how they felt – he knew that about himself now, too – Draco couldn't face the open aversion. The wariness. The whispered conversations and sidelong glances that he knew would follow.

Blaise was right behind him, and seconds later so too was Tracey Davis and Theodore Nott. That was all. That was all of them of the eighth year Slytherins. Draco had expected as much – he still questioned why he had decided to come back himself at times – more than he had the similarly small numbers of the each of the other houses. It was more of a surprise, really, that they seemed to have perhaps the most of their retuning house out of their fellow eighth years, or equal if not.

Just the four of them. The four who would be outcasts, in some ways even more than the rest of Slytherin house. The professors might – and likely would – attempt to promote unity amongst the school, but Draco knew that the reality of the situation was that it was hardly possible to achieve as much. Not yet and perhaps not ever.

Draco had never been particularly close to Theodore, the tall, thin boy more engrossed in his potions studies than in making friends, and small, dark Tracy was so quiet that he had to wonder if she even had a voice. But they were bonded of a sort now, even if they didn't want to be. Draco settled into his seat with the weight of that knowledge, folding his robes precisely over his legs and picking at the rich fabric. Vince had always called it his 'fussiness', viewed with thinly veiled bemusement, but was more an act of discomfort than any finicky-ness on Draco's part. He knew he did it. That was another thing he'd noticed about himself, something that others had noticed too, had teased him about. Not his friends, of course. No, he didn't think the voices behind those jibes had been friendly. The leers that accompanied them were just as bad. Those faces, those largely nameless figures… it was the memory of them as much as anything that drove Draco back to Hogwarts. Or, more specifically, away from home.

The carriages jostled into motion when Theo, the last of them, settled into his seat. Alongside them, directly before and directly after, the carriages of their fellow students similarly swayed into motion. Draco knew it was impossible – it didn't happen, not even when they could see them – but he could have sworn he could hear the footsteps of the thestrals to accompany the crunching rumble of the carriage wheels. There was no other sound to disturb the pervasive darkness. No one spoke, not in Draco's carriage and not in any of the others. Not even Potters.

That was different to.

And as Draco stared down at his hands, fighting the urge to pick at his robes, he could help but think. This year is definitely going to be different. Even in his own head he could hear a touch of wistful sadness to the thought.

A/N: So this is a pretty short chapter but they'll be getting longer after this. The story should be posted at least once a week? Maybe more often? Probably more often.
Anyway, if you liked this chapter please/liking the story so far, please leave a review! It's much appreciated to hear thoughts on the matter, thank you :D