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In the immediate aftermath of the second wizarding war, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall took one look into the tired, grimy, lifeless eyes of her surviving students and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. Young people on both sides of the war were, because of the choices of their parents and their parents parents and their parents parents parents, fighting against fate and fortune and destiny in a vain attempt to change their own prophecies.

The kids were exhausted, and rightfully so, from clawing at the ground, fighting to gain even just one inch of progress for whatever cause they believed in, only for it all to come crashing down upon them in the end. The outcome was foretold. The chess moves determined 17 plays ago, set into motion, and then left to unfold. It was all very sad and futile and Minerva understands this. The students were used as pawns, traumatized in the process, and then left to their own devices to heal and recover and move on. 

Minerva knows the role she played in it all. Plays in it all. The earth keeps turning for some, but not for others, and she cant help but think what a supreme injustice it is that those left standing amongst the rubble are the ones who now have to rebuild, when all they really want to do is lay down the swords and rest. What a truly monumental task though, to lay down your sword, when it’s been raised against the same enemy since childhood.

On September 1st, Minerva stands at the dias looking out at their faces, and vows to help in any way she can, giving all the patience and love and grace that she can muster. The eighth years are skeptical, the first years terrified, yet Minerva looks out at their faces and hopes, fresh with optimism, that her students can change for the better, overcome their differences, and move forward together.

Oh Minerva, she thinks to herself a month later, looking back on this moment. You beautiful, dumb fool. 

&&&

Not even three days later, it starts. 

“You bitch.” uttered so incredibly casually while still loud enough to be unmistakeable as the challenge it is. Heads turn, trying to locate the source of the insult. 

“You fucking bitch.” It’s the same voice, only louder, and the hall becomes deadly quiet. If there’s one thing teenagers like more than listening to the sound of their own voice, it’s listening to the loud, messy, drama of others.

Another person laughs. Mean. Mocking. And that sound clues the rest of the onlookers in to exactly who is making the fuss. Forks stop scraping breakfast plates as everyone unabashedly cranes their neck and tunes in to the show unfolding before them.

“Merlin, he isn’t even that cute.” Harry remarks in a very off handed way, turning back to his breakfast to focus on shoveling food into his mouth, oblivious to the looks his friends are now giving him. No one seems to notice Draco’s elbow now planted in the platter of eggs, or Pansy nudging him repeatedly in the side, either. 

For the rest of the onlookers, though, this is the best spectacle they’ve seen in a while. After three solid years of conflict over good and evil, moral standdowns with rambling monologues have become a bit…blasé. This, however, is about a boy. A boy who, by the way, looks extremely proud of himself, arm around a ravenclaw, while a girl in a yellow tie glares down at them, positively mutinous.

“I trusted you! I thought you were my friend!” She’s just getting started and whips around to point a finger at the boy. “And YOU! I introduced you two!” Now she’s really going for it. “I watched all 27 James Bond movies with you because you said I needed to ‘for the culture.’ You wouldn’t know culture if it grabbed you by the dick! I can’t believe I s-”

“That. Is. Enough.” McGonagall’s voice rings out.

“Wait, I wanted to find out what she is going to do to him.” Blaise practically whines.

“Fucking Christ. It was just getting good.” Pansy sighs and goes back to her tea.

The war wasn’t forgotten, nor the death eaters forgiven. It’s more that a bone deep exhaustion had settled upon all of them, borne from fighting for so hard and for so long over monumentally important ideals. Now all they want is to revert back to being kids again, immature and trivial.

Oh my, did you hear?

You’ll never believe what happened.

Hermione and Ron kissed after the Battle of Hogwarts and then they dated all summer but they just broke up and now I’ve seen her studying in the library with Theo Nott every evening this week!

Guess what I just saw?

Justin told Hannah that Avery is failing potions and she will never make it as an Auror. The next morning, Justin found pickled eye of newt stuffed into every pocket of his robes. Avery hasn’t spoken to him for an entire month!

Wait up! I need to tell you something!

Pansy showed up to the party last week with Troy, who disappeared for a while with Parvati, just to talk, of course. It took his hair almost a week to fade back to its normal shade of brown! Pink wasn’t a great color for him, you know.

Oh my, did you hear?

You’ll never believe what happened…

The pettiness feels earned, in a way, and the hatred easier to bear, if it’s directed at the girl who dared to wear the same dress as you to the party, rather than at the boy who’s father murdered your family.

&&&

It doesn’t take long for Minerva McGonagall to wise up, crack down, and call in reinforcements. 

“Weekly individual therapy sessions, as well as group therapy, will be mandatory for all students.” Blank stares come from all five tables in the hall. She repeats herself once more for good measure, gives them a stern glare, and steps down.

The chatter starts slowly at first, then picks up in volume and velocity, everyone talking at once, trying to guage the seriousness of her statement.

“Is she for fucking real?” Pansy.

“This cannot be happening.” Neville, that time.

“I’m fine. I don’t need therapy.” Harry, who might honestly be the least fine of any person among them (but who also seems to believe that if he says “I’m fine” so many times that perhaps someone will get annoyed enough to swoop down from the heavens and make it true.)

“I already have a full course load, and NEWTs to study for. She’s probably doing what she thinks is best for all of us but I just don’t know where I could possibly fit it in.” Hermione, of course.

Obviously, the students resist, as teenagers do, when mandated by an adult to talk about their feelings. They complain loudly, and to anyone who will listen, about the unfairness of it all, which truly is ironic, because what actually is therapy, if not productive complaining? Several students are even brave enough to speak directly to McGonagall. The arguments are all similarly phrased and equally uncreative versions of “I’ll go and I’ll sit there but you can’t force me to say anything,” earning nothing but an eye roll from McGonagall for their efforts.

Eventually though, incessant whining really grates on the nerves and Minerva lays down an ultimatum: attend therapy or leave Hogwarts. No one puts up much of a fight after that. Some, like Hermione, realize the benefit. Some, like Draco, realize they need Hogwarts because they have no where else to go. For everyone else, it’s just fun to complain and, when faced with real consequences to their yapping, they shut up pretty quickly.

So the year continues on, with students attending twice weekly therapy sessions, unhappily and begrudgingly, but without much fight.

&&&

During their first group session, a bright, cheery witch who introduces herself as Emily, starts off by looking around the circle they’re sat in with a serene smile. She starts speaking, voice soft yet firm.

“In this circle, we listen and we don’t judge.”

It’s a nice sentiment really, and in a group of people possessing fully formed frontal lobes and a bit more maturity, maybe they could have pulled it off. What should have clued Emily in that this would slowly become A Problem, is the look on Pansy Parkinson’s face.

The phrase becomes something of a mantra, chanted three times by the entire group at the beginning of each session.  “We listen and we don’t judge. We listen and we don’t judge. We listen and we don’t judge.” The hour of group that follows is honestly not unproductive. They participate, they listen, they only occasionally make each other cry. It is only after, in the privacy of the eighth year common room, where it becomes apparent that some students are taking this much more seriously than others. 

It starts with Harry. The newly dubbed “golden trio” are sitting by the fire, Hermione on a tangent about homework and studying and a concerning lack of effort being given by some students into their academics. She means well, and they love her, but it’s frankly a bit annoying. Harry and Ron exchange a sidelong glance as Ron opens his mouth to say something, but Harry beats him to it. “Hey mate, we listen and we don’t judge.”  It is delivered with such comedic timing that even James Potter would be proud. Everyone within earshot laughs, even Hermione, and carries on with the evening. 

It devolves quickly from there. “We listen and we don’t judge” slowly picking up momentum as a kind of sly insult, used to indicate that they are, in fact, judging hard.

Blaise announces his intention to bring jorts into wizarding fashion.

“We listen and we don’t judge” says Seamus, who looks a bit too delighted at the prospect of getting to see Blaise wearing something stupid.

“And more importantly, how do you even know what jorts are?” Hermione always asks the good questions.

Ginny decides she is going to ask Romilda Vane out on a date.

“We listen and we don’t judge” comes from Neville, who is really more of an ass man himself. 

“Hey! She tried to dose me!”

“Shut up, Harry. Have you seen her tits?” And no one can really argue with that.

Draco settles on a career path, explaining to the common room why his schedule has suddenly changed.

“A healer Draco, are you serious?” Pansy huffs.

“We listen and we don’t judge,” says Harry. Though he secretly thinks it’s a perfect career for Malfoy, he doesn’t what anyone to know he thinks that.

“You do realize that healers have to be, like, kind? What are you going to do if someone comes in with their fingers blown off by a Weezes firework? You can’t call them all idiots.” Draco just shrugs in Greg’s direction.

Then, in an extremely unfortunate turn of events, Dean shows up late to an eighth year party on the same night that he tries out a new hair coloring charm. He personally thinks the bleach blonde looks cool. Very 90’s off duty supermodel. In reality, he kinda looks like a try hard, and the thing is, the party has been going for a few hours already, with the drinking and the gillyweed and the music. Inhibitions are down and tongues are loose, so when he walks in, it’s just a bit of a shock, and they aren’t necessarily a nice group of people to begin with (Luna excepted, of course.) Pansy’s shrill laugh can be heard from the corridor.

“WE LISTEN!!” she shouts, already standing on a table for whatever reason, with a bottle of liquor sloshing somewhat precariously in her hand.

“…..AND WE DONT JUDGE!!!” echos back everyone who can see Dean’s questionable hair choice.

“Here’s to THAT!!” Pansy says, lifting the bottle to her lips while the others follow suit, laughing, having reached the point in the night where they will drink to anything if it’s exclaimed at a high enough volume.

From up on the table, a dangerous grin comes across Pansy’s face. Traumatized, drunk Slytherins are harbingers of chaos, and at this point in the year, she has spent enough time with the Griffindors to know that they can be persuaded to do almost anything if it’s in the form of a drinking game. If she were sober, she might ruminate a little harder about how they all got to this point, comfortable enough to laugh and joke and drink together, because it really is a vulnerable position, to be that uninhibited. She takes another drink instead.

&&&

Some time passes. Not enough to heal all wounds, but enough for them to scab over, so the pain is easily ignored unless picked at. It is the time of year when the weather has just barely started to warm but the castle fires haven’t caught on yet. The rooms are stifling, rather than cozy, and the alcohol adds another layer of artificial warmth. Cheeks flush red, or if you’re Draco, the entire top half of your body flushes red, making it necessary to maintain a state of semi-undress. Nobody seems to mind much, and a few rather appreciate it, sneaking glances so unsubtle it could probably be considered an outright leer, if only the recipients weren’t so oblivious.

Blaise walks over to where the Golden Trio are sitting, Hermione and Harry on the couch, Ron in an armchair nearby, chatting happily. Theo is on the ground, reading with Hermione’s leg thrown over his shoulder.

“Hermione, I see you have allowed your pet to join you three. How cute.” Blaise says, pants low on his hips, a strip of skin visible below the hem of his white vest, and Ron’s eyes sweep over his frame.

Three months ago, Harry introduced the boys dormitory to muggle joggers and grey sweatpants and no one has been the same since. The first time Blaise tried on a pair, Ron stared for a beat too long, ears turning pink at the tips. Blaise now refuses to take them off.

“Go away Blaise,” says Hermione, and Theo doesn’t even look up from his book, long accustomed to ignoring Blaise’s poorly executed attempts to gain attention.

“Do you want one, Ron?” Blaise asks, trying to look innocent.

“What?”

“A pet?” The look on Blaise’s face morphs from sweet to predatory.

“Blaise don’t be gross. He’s not interested,” Harry interrupts, trying to redirect the conversation, though Ron’s eyes keep flicking back to Blaise over Harry’s shoulder, definitely interested.

“Fine, you guys are boring,” Blaise sighs, “let’s play the game.” 

Since the very beginning, the Slytherins have been caught in the orbit of the Gryffindors, always circling around each other, to the point where it’s easy to forget there actually are students in two other houses, with Luna serving as the sole reminder that logic and reason exist in this world. Even at the fringes, the Slytherins still moved around the Gryffindors, pulled in like magnets. It’s the same now, just closer, drawing towards their center of gravity, drinks in hand, while waiting for the first person to start.

Hermione wrings her hands a bit, at odds with herself, before looking over at Ron and coming to a decision.

“Ok I’ve got one,” she says and waits for the group.

“We listen and we don’t judge!” they chorus, drinks raised.

“Once, in sixth year, you and Lavender were planning on going to Hogsmeade, for a date, and it made me so upset, back then, to think about you two. I just had this picture in my head of you holding hands, walking together, and then you’d look down at her and smile and kiss her cheek. It played on a loop in my head. So I lit your potions essay on fire.”

Blaise is the first to respond, raising his hand to try to slap her a high five. Ron smacks his hand out of the air. “Wow, Hermione! Badass! Did not think you had that in you. Nice,” Blaise retorts with an appreciative glance in her direction. He does not take a drink.

“Wait, I remember that! Ron tried to get me to let him copy mine,” says Neville, who knocks back a shot.

“Oh please, Neville, no offense, mate, but who would want to cheat off you for potions?” Seamus asks, as if anyone would be caught dead copying off him for potions either. Seamus drinks, but then again, Seamus almost always takes a drink and it is little to do with the game or actual judgement. 

“Hermione! I thought I had misplaced it! I had to skip the date to stay behind in the castle and write it all over again. I thought Peeves took it out of my bag!” Ron splutters. “What the fuck!” He takes a swig of the beer in his hand.

“I know, Ronald. That was the goal.” Hermione answers with a smirk.

“Was this before, or after, the bird incident?” Harry asks.

“Before. Definitely before.”

Harry drinks.

“Merlin, Hermione. And we only ended up dating for like two months! I don’t even want to know how you’d react if Theo had done something like that.” Ron says.

“I’m not that stupid.” Theo retorts, putting his hand proprietarily on her thigh. There is no lingering jealousy, but he wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he didn’t feel the need to claim what was his, even subtly. 

Ron and Hermione spent the summer dating, fighting, breaking up, and coming back together. They ultimately discovered that the intensity of sharing near death experiences was nowhere close to the artificial high of breaking up and making up, no matter how hard they tried. It was altogether unsurprising when they decided not to get back together that last time and then inevitable, for Hermione at least, to go from a passionate, loud kind of love to falling for the boy waiting patiently in the library. 

Theo hasn’t taken his eyes off her since.

“Okay, next person!” Pansy damn near shouts from where she’s positioned herself on the floor between Neville’s legs, his arm wrapped across her chest.

“We listen and we don’t judge!”

“Sometimes when I shower, I forget to bring my towel, so then I just use yours.” Seamus admits, looking at Dean with a wary expression. Everyone except Ron drinks.

“Oh, gross, are you serious?” says Dean looking a bit put out.

“I spell it dry afterward! Clearly you’ve never even noticed before this!”

“Well now I know! And it’s not about that! Now I’m always going to wonder if you’ve rubbed your junk on my towel!”

“Well you’ve rubbed your junk on my face! So I guess we’re even!” Seamus snarks back, voice rising in volume.

Seamus and Dean are sitting close, arms pressed together from shoulder to elbow. They are touching, always some part of them touching, as a reminder of their presence after so much absence. The two of them zeroed in on each other immediately after the war. Seamus grabbed ahold of Dean with a metaphorical death grip, refusing, even now, to ever let go.

“Why can’t we literally ever get through one of these without you two bringing up your junk?” Ginny asks, rubbing a hand down her face, sounding supremely fed up with them both. “You guys are shit at silencing charms. The walls are thin. We’ve all heard it. We don’t need to hear about it after the fact too.”

At that comment, they both look shamelessly and inordinately pleased with themselves. It is nearing the time in the night when Seamus and Dean usually disappear together, slinking up the stairs, hoping no one will notice.

“Shut it, Ginny. Your tongue is down Luna’s throat so often I’m surprised you haven’t suffocated yet.” Dean retorts.

“Can someone please change the subject?” Harry groans from his place on the couch, glancing quickly at Draco. He’s happy for them all, he really is, but talking about blowies is just reminding him of how few he is getting himself, and it rankles a bit.

“I’ll go,” Luna says, surprising everyone. She usually opts out of participating, happy just to stick close to Ginny and watch the madness.

“We listen and we don’t judge!” They all shout, getting louder with each iteration of the phrase, the more alcohol they drink.

“Once, my father and I went to the muggle zoo and my favorite animals were the zebras.” Luna states. They all stare, waiting for her to continue. Blaise finally breaks after another few beats of silence, clear that she isn’t going to add anything else.

“Luna, why the fuck would anybody judge you for that?”

“Okay, uh, Ginny, maybe you should go instead.” Theo says quickly. “I don’t think Luna knows how to play,” which isn’t quite fair of him, considering how much time Ginny spends trying to taste the back of her teeth instead of playing the game. It’s distracting as hell. Luna might be the smartest one in the room, but even she can’t be expected to keep track of the game rules under these circumstances. Ginny reaches over, sliding a hand up the side of Luna’s neck in the most predictable way possible, grinning wolfishly in Blaise’s direction.

“A couple months ago, Blaise, you asked me if your hairline is receding and I told you no, even though I think it definitely is.”

“No it isn’t!” Ron quickly interrupts, earning him a prolonged side-eye from Pansy, as she slowly takes a drink. No one says anything while Ron’s eyes bounce around the circle, waiting for confirmation that no one is willing to give. “Wait, is it? Let me see.”

Blaise had planted himself next to Ron at the start of the game, who now reaches over to draw him even closer, one hand on each side of Blaise’s face as he forcibly moves his head to each side, inspecting the offending hairline. Ron is bare inches away, and from the smug look he shoots Ginny, it’s clear Blaise is pleased with the turn of events, despite her previous insult. 

“Ron, you may be more blind than Harry,” she says, spot on with her observation, however obvious it may be.

Blaise and Ron have been circling each other for months but the blushing and the stares and the thinly veiled, though sometimes completely outright, flirting is fun and Blaise is in no rush. The lead up will only heighten the sweetness when the day comes. Blaise knows, he knows, that it will happen eventually and until then he’s going to have fun with it.

“There are charms to fix my hair, Ginny. The same can’t be said about your personality,” he says, not breaking Ron’s hold, and his gaze goes a bit soft.

“We listen and we don’t judge!” everyone else carries on around them.

Pansy leans forward slightly, breaking Neville’s hold on her but not moving away completely.

“Draco, I hated those leather gloves, you got me for Christmas this year. They were so ugly and I felt like a goblin wearing them, so I gave them to Neville to use in the greenhouse.”

“Thanks again for those, love.” Neville plants a kiss on her cheek, adoration showing plainly on his face. “I use them nearly every day.”

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” Draco responds flatly, while Harry bursts out laughing.

“Oh, mate no! You gave Pansy those gloves? I’ve seen Neville wear those gloves! They’re awful! This drink is because I’m judging you for thinking those were a good gift! Aren’t you supposed to be good at this kind of stuff?”

“I’m not your mate.” Draco still has that same flat tone of voice but his fingers start thrumming against his cup in a somewhat rare display of genuine annoyance with Harry.

Draco has always been prickly, but the alcohol tends to soften him up, and anyone who has spent significant time with him can easily see the difference between the constant, low level peevishness that constitutes his personality, and genuine annoyance. Even though Harry is the most likely among them to be on the receiving end of Draco’s sarcastic comments, he is the least likely to face actual irritation.

“What are you then?” Harry asks, the challenge clear in his voice, like he wants to say something else but stops himself half way. Draco turns back to Pansy, ignoring the question altogether, and Harry lets out a huff, getting up to go get himself another beer.

“It’s ok. There’s always next year to redeem yourself. I like Prada,” she adds helpfully. No one is privy to the backstory of this particular argument, and frankly, when it comes to Draco and Harry it’s easier to stay out of it.

“Who doesn’t, Pansy?” Draco asks, trying to keep his voice light, but the way his eyes track Harry’s movements across the room give him away.

“Blaise!”

Draco startles, now really confused. Did he miss something? He isn’t actually paying attention to Pansy but his head is also a bit hazy. “You don’t like Prada?” he asks Blaise.

“No, you idiot. It’s his turn.”

Draco goes back to watching Harry, Harry continues pointedly ignoring Draco, and the rest of them raise their glasses for the next turn. “We listen and we don’t judge!”

“Neville, you know how, about a month ago, I put a Chudley Cannons poster on the wall, and we got into an argument because you wanted to take it down? Well it’s hiding a giant hole in the wall.”

“Aren’t you a wizard?” Hermione says pointedly. “Why didn’t you just fix it?” She hands Theo her cup, who takes a drink for her, and one for himself too, twin looks of judgement on their faces.

“How did the hole get there?” Ron asks, the effects of the firewhiskey making him a bit boneless. He’s laying on the floor now, feet in Blaise’s lap, but as he asks the question a little commotion from the drink table makes him sit up. Harry’s knocked over the bottle of gin, and an arc of liquor pours off the table to puddle on the floor as he scrambles to right the thing. He’s turning red. From the clumsiness. How embarrassing.

Blaise glares at Harry before answering Ron.

“You don’t want to know. Not even magic will fix it,” he says, strong-arming Ron’s feet back into his lap.

Ron looks like someone just kicked his crup. “Wait, what? I thought you were a new fan! That’s why I even started talking to you in the first place!”

“Well, yeah, why do you think I chose a Cannons poster instead of Puddlemere? The Cannons are terrible. They didn’t win a single game last season. But I’m not trying to get into Draco’s pants, hence the Cannons poster.”

Harry knocks over the bottle of gin again.

“Merlin, Harry, maybe it’s time to lay off the booze if you’re this clumsy. Try switching to water.”

&&&

“We listen….” Shot glasses, plastic cups full of beer, half empty bottles get raised in the air.

“…and we don’t judge!” Everyone takes a drink.

It’s Ron’s turn. Some people drink again.

The game continues.

The rules are loose and ill defined. You make a statement and those who judge you for it have to take a drink. It is a counterintuitive game, because really, who wins here? but seeing your friends shit faced is fun and Slytherins will win by any means necessary, so the statements do become rather revealing and, in some cases, embarrassing. It’s just a drinking game though; it isn’t serious. The next person takes their turn, then the next, around and around in a circle. Emily would be proud.

&&&

At the end of the school year, NEWTs taken and (hopefully) passed, the eighth years host one last party. It’s not a dramatic blow out or “the party to end all parties.” Those events are generally reserved for people who actually enjoyed their school years, wanting to look back on them fondly, and, let’s be honest, this particular group of students has had a rough go of it. It’s not a bittersweet moment for any of them, not even the ones who love Hogwarts. They are all itching to get out of there to get started on testing the waters of adult freedom.

“We listen…”

“…and we don’t judge!”

It’s Draco’s turn and he decides…now or never. He’s not exactly thinking rationally. If he were, he’d realize this is an insane calculus to make. Now or never doesn’t exist for people who have wormed into each others lives and don’t plan to leave. He could tell them in a week from now, or a month, or a year. They’ve all decided to stay close, picking flats in London, for this exact reason: to stick around so they can continue to tell each other things for years to come. The first post-Hogwarts pub night is already on the calendar for Merlin’s sake!

The fact that they agreed to ease into it, to slowly bring their friends around on the idea, doesn’t really cross his mind. It probably should. The words spill out of his mouth like one giant run on sentence. It’s a bit hard to follow, with how fast he’s talking and how much alcohol is slowly finding its way into all of their veins.

“Potter and I have been sleeping together since November I wanted to keep it secret but he wanted to tell you but we have no intentions to stop and I know we’re young but I gave him my signet ring and we are moving in together and I’m going to help him fix up Grimmuald Place before starting my healer training so I figured I should probably tell you all.” He takes a breath and smirks. “Oh, and we caused the hole in the wall in the boys dormitory, but Blaise was right. You don’t want to know how.”

Everyone just stares. Speechless.

“Draco, what the fuck? We agreed there was a right way to do this!”

They all drink. Harry included.