Chapter Text
“True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.”
William Shakespeare, “Richard III”, Act 5, scene 2
“Name and wand, please.”
“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Draco says, his hand clutching the familiar hawthorn wand tightly. His heart beats faster, clenching painfully at the feeling of loss as he hands his wand over. “Here’s my wand.”
Wizards and witches walk past him, eyeing him curiously as the Ministry employee checks Draco’s paperwork and glares at him suspiciously. He casts a spell on Draco’s wand, making it gleam green.
The International Portkey Office is big and empty, and Draco suddenly feels small for the first time in a decade despite his stature. He feels again like an eighteen-year-old under trial, his wrists in chains as he awaits the verdict that will shape his life.
He was acquitted.
So why is he so scared they won’t let him in?
“It says here that you have permission to move back to the UK,” the employee says, his thick moustache quivering as he double checks the parchment with all the right stamps and signatures. “These documents look genuine,” he adds in disbelief.
“May I go, then?” Draco asks, trying to conceal his worry with a raised eyebrow and crisp tones, forcing his body to stand tall and stiff.
“I suppose,” the man says, shrugging. “But we’ll keep an eye on you. Where are you headed anyway?”
“Hogwarts,” Draco declares with pride. “I’m the new Potions Professor.”
It started as a joke, with Pansy saying that Slughorn was finally retiring and Draco should apply for the job and move back to the UK. Blaise added that they missed him, that people had moved on and forgotten about the war. That Draco was a free man, and it was time to come back home.
Draco did miss home. He missed the smell of rain on a grey autumn day. He missed looking at the green fields sprinkled with white sheep as he flew on his broom. The smell of Earl Grey and fresh scones, a pot of cream and strawberry jam ready to melt in his mouth.
He didn’t miss Father, not even after his death in Azkaban, but he felt the need to visit his mother’s grave. To pay his respects, even though the Manor wasn’t his anymore, and he was only allowed to visit the small cemetery where Narcissa was buried together with all of their ancestors.
So he got tipsy on French wine one evening and submitted his application form, accompanied by Madame Maxime’s letter of recommendation, singing his praise as one of the best Potion Masters that Beauxbatons had ever had the pleasure to employ.
Draco knew McGonagall wouldn’t even consider him as a candidate. He didn’t get his hopes up, not even when Blaise said he had heard rumours from Longbottom that the new professor McGonagall was considering recruiting was young.
McGonagall’s visit on a cold spring day had taken him by surprise. Draco’s voice quivered when she sat down at the back of his classroom to observe him teach, taking notes on a clipboard and letting her stern expression gradually relax as the lesson went on. Draco relaxed little by little and tried to forget that she was there, teaching his lesson on healing potions as he normally would have.
“You can start now, if you want,” was her comment at the end.
“I beg your pardon?” Draco said blankly.
“If Maxime can part with you right now, it would be my pleasure to welcome you as the new Potions Professor at Hogwarts before the end of the school year. Otherwise, you can start in September.”
Madam Maxime had obviously said no, so Draco had time to get used to the idea that he was going to leave France, after ten years spent there rebuilding his life.
He was going back home.
Now that he’s finally past the English border, chest still tight with anxiety, Draco levitates his trunks across the Ministry Hall, conscious of the looks that linger on him as people stare and point, a whispered is that him? making Draco’s skin crawl. He holds onto his trunks while he Floos to the Three Broomsticks and then takes a deep breath as he steps outside of the stuffy pub.
The fresh wind tickles his face and ruffles a few strands that have escaped his long plait, his white-blond hair securely fastened with a velvet ribbon. He hasn’t cut it in over six years, and he never wears it loose in front of other people, unlike his Father.
Draco levitates his trunks, making his way to Hogwarts, remembering the last time he walked the narrow path that leads to the school. It was a warm summer’s day, and he was finally free after completing his eighth-year at the end of his house arrest. He Flooed directly to France, ready to start his Potions apprenticeship with Monsieur Corot. Aunt Andromeda had been so kind to organise it, probably moved by pity after Father’s death in Azkaban and Mother’s sudden illness.
Draco remembers Potter’s face when he handed him his documents, Potter’s Auror Trainee uniform all creased and dark circles under his green eyes as Draco tried to avoid looking at him.
“So you’re leaving,” Potter said slowly, sounding irritated. “Why?”
“Better chances for me abroad,” Draco replied, eyes finally meeting Potter’s, finding a challenge there. “No one will employ me here.”
“Have you tried?” Potter asked, and Draco scoffed, trying to sneer but failing. Merlin, he had been so tired that endless year. He just wanted to leave, start fresh.
“Of course I’ve tried, Potter. No one wants to offer a second chance to a Death Eater.”
“Ex-Death Eater,” Potter clarified, as if it made any difference. As if Draco didn’t still have an ugly Mark on his arm and a filthy reputation that followed him wherever he went. Potter handed Draco his paperwork and then stepped aside without a word, letting him go. His hands were not clutching his wand as Draco expected, but they were fisted in the thick fabric of his Auror robes, the knuckles almost white. Draco wondered why, if Potter was angry because he was leaving and being a coward again, if he thought Draco was sinking even lower. Green eyes pinned him to the spot, dark eyebrows scowling as Potter dared him to move, to leave his country and his past behind. Draco considered staying for a fraction of a second, to prove to Potter that he wasn’t completely useless, but then his exhaustion and heartache got the better of him and he took a step, then another. On his way to a new life.
Draco tried not to turn, he really did, but something compelled him to look at his old nemesis one more time before leaving England. Green eyes were still staring back at him, the same colour as the fields surrounding the Manor. He was going to miss them, he realised.
Green eyes greet him when Draco arrives at the school gates, which were shut when he tried to open them. Draco still can’t cast a Patronus, so he waited for the wards to alert the Headmistress. It’s Potter who arrives though, and this time he’s smiling at Draco.
“Hey,” Potter says, waving at him as he approaches. “We weren’t expecting you until the start of term.”
Draco is speechless.
What the fuck is Potter doing at Hogwarts?
The Gryffindor is taller than he used to be, but still a little shorter than Draco. His hair looks as impossibly messy as ever, and Draco feels vaguely grateful for it, because Potter is so ridiculously attractive now that Draco finds it disconcerting. He was not ready to meet Potter so soon, and he was definitely not prepared to be faced with such a charming and smiling Potter, all grown up and confident looking with his bloody new glasses and his strong arms, and fuck, is that a tattoo sneaking under the hem of Potter’s top?
Potter is wearing a pair of faded Muggle jeans and an old t-shirt with a massive mouth pulling out its tongue. Draco frowns at it, then schools his expression back to neutral as Potter finally opens the gates and smiles at him, a full blown thing that reaches his green eyes and makes them shine. Draco’s eyes widen.
“Potter,” he mumbles. “Are you here to keep track of me? I have all the right documentation, and the wizard at customs let me through, so I don’t see the reason why you shoul-”
“What? No!” Potter interrupts him, laughing as he casually touches Draco’s elbow and pulls him to his side of the gates, shutting them behind him. “Have you not read the papers in the past eight years?”
“I’ve been living abroad,” Draco points out, still confused as Potter levitates his trunks without even using his wand and beckons to follow him. Bloody show-off.
“I’m not an Auror anymore,” Potter explains, his confident strides making him look even more charming than Draco remembers. The ten years they’ve spent without seeing each other have clearly done him good. Potter is ridiculously gorgeous, in that careless way that Draco suspects makes him unaware of his own beauty. Potter’s face looks relaxed as he turns and smiles at Draco, making him swallow loudly and gape at him. “I quit the force eight years ago, retrained, and now I work here. I’ve been at Hogwarts for six years. I love it to bits.”
“That’s good to hear,” Draco says awkwardly, still at a loss for words, wondering why on earth Pansy and Blaise didn’t deem it necessary to warn him that Potter would be here, that he would be Draco’s colleague. That it would most likely be a disaster. He wonders if Madame Maxime would be willing to take him back halfway through the academic year.
“Anyway, the school is still empty, and most of the Professors are still enjoying their holidays,” Potter says, opening the heavy front door for him. “Nev and I are here, and there’s old McG obviously. Let me take you to your living quarters.”
“‘McG’?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow. “Is ‘Nev’ Longbottom?”
“McGonagall,” Potter explains with a cheeky grin. “And yes, that’s Neville. Pomona retired two years ago. Nev’s our Herbology Professor. We’re both really glad you’re here; all the other Professors are so old…”
“Sure,” Draco mutters, thinking that Potter should stop taking the piss and just let him settle in. As if he could be happy Draco is here.
“Here’s your key,” Potter says when they reach a big mahogany door on the second floor. He hands Draco the metal object and lets his hand brush against Draco’s for longer than necessary. Their eyes meet, and Draco’s cheeks flush. He stares at Potter sheepishly, cursing his own pale complexion and the sudden heat to his face that probably makes him look ridiculous. Potter’s lips part, his eyes widening as he stares at Draco for a moment. “Err…I’d…I’m going to go and sort out…something. I’ll see you in the Great Hall for dinner. Send me a Patronus if you need anything.”
“I won’t,” Draco replies, because he can’t, and he wouldn’t anyway.
What does Potter think? Draco’s not a bloody damsel in distress. Pfft.
“I’ll be helping Nev in the Greenhouse, if you need me,” Potter says and then he adds, “Welcome back, Draco,” as he runs down the corridor.
Draco unlocks the door, still surprised at being called by his first name as Potter’s footsteps echo down the corridor. Draco pushes the door open and gasps. His living quarters are so much better than expected. Bigger and cosier than he’s been used to at Beauxbatons, in his tiny bedroom that faced a cliff.
There’s a green velvet sofa and a fireplace, and Draco can already picture himself reading a lovely book in front of the fire on a Friday evening at the end of a hard week of work. There’s a bathroom with grey tiles, a shower and a massive white tub, perfect for the long hot baths Draco cherishes in the winter months. His bedroom is just perfect, a big comfy-looking bed with a pile of soft blankets and pillows on top of it. His window faces the school grounds, Hagrid’s hut perfectly visible and looking even more derelict than Draco remembers.
Draco feels it in his bones that even Potter’s presence won’t be able to ruin this job, not if he gets to stay in a place like this and teach his favourite subject. He starts unpacking but is interrupted by a firm knock on the door.
McGonagall stands there, slim and stiff in her formal black robes.
“Welcome to Hogwarts, Draco,” she says, her hand held out to shake his. Draco tries to be careful, because in spite of her appearance, McGonagall is elderly and has thin bones, but her handshake is strong and firm. “I will take you for a tour of the castle tomorrow morning first thing, but for this evening I will leave you to settle down. Dinner will be served in the Great Hall in half an hour.”
Draco says that he will be there, but dreads meeting again with Potter and Longbottom. He arrives fashionably late for dinner, finding the Great Hall practically the same as it was ten years before. Draco is excited at the idea of sitting at the Professor’s table this time, instead of with hundreds of other students. He used to dream of it when he was younger, especially during that horrible eighth year, when he used to get hexed as he was trying to eat as quickly as possible. He promised himself he would grow stronger, that he wouldn’t let people hurt him again. He tries every single day to be a better person, a reformed citizen, an excellent wizard.
“Malfoy!” Longbottom shouts across the Hall, making Draco falter. “Fucking finally! Minerva insisted on making us wait for you, and I’m starving.”
“Neville,” McGonagall drawls, casting an incinerating glare in his direction. “Language.”
“What? The students aren’t here yet!” Longbottom protests.
Draco blushes, apologising for being late as he sits down at the far end of the table. Potter obviously takes it as a sign that he needs to move right next to him, and Draco tries to ignore him while he eats his potato and leek soup.
“I hope your rooms are good enough for you,” Potter comments, taking some bread and sending crumbs flying across the table as he rips it in half and dunks it into his bowl. “Would you say it meets your high standards?”
Draco wants to tell him to fuck off, that there’s absolutely no need to take the piss.
“My living quarters are absolutely delightful,” he declares instead, jaw tight as he observes Potter grin at him, like the devil he is.
What does Potter know about living in a hole? About being so poor when he first moved to France that Draco had to live in a cupboard under the stairs? The only Potions Master that agreed to train him barely paid him, and Draco couldn’t afford the ridiculous rents of even the tiniest of flats in Paris. So he had to make do and settle for a tiny cupboard with Muggle students, pretending that he didn’t have any magic and learning how to do things like doing the laundry and cooking the Muggle way. The first year was hell, and Draco fell asleep with tears in his eyes most evenings, curled up into a tight ball, but what alternative did he have? With his parents dead and no Manor to go back to, this was his only home. A mattress on the floor, a shared bathroom with two university students and a dirty kitchen. The second year was better, because Draco had started to learn to settle for what he had, trying to push back the memories of a big house, Elves at his service, a family who loved and cared for him. It was easier to forget and focus on his job. The third year was filled with reckless hope of finding a good job, of a bigger house and maybe someone who loved him.
By the end of his apprenticeship, Draco had learnt that hope was misleading, often cruel when things didn’t go as planned, which they never seemed to do.
He found a job in a Potions Lab in Marseille, but he lived for six months in a hellhole with rats and no warm water. Alone.
Beauxbatons had seemed like a dream after that. The opportunity to teach, with barely anyone who knew who he was and what he had done. A room for himself. He was still lonely, in a foreign country and with barely any savings, but at least he had a good roof over his head and an amazing job. He could stop hoping for more.
And now Hogwarts. A chance to show that he’s changed, that he’s learnt his lesson and is a better person now.
“Your hair is so long,” Potter comments next to him, and Draco snaps, because he has no idea why the sodding Gryffindor won’t leave him be.
“So what, Potter?” he snaps. “Do you think it makes me look like a girl, just because it reaches my bum?”
Potter stares at him, green eyes widening as Longbottom chats amicably with the headmistress behind him.
“What? No, of course not!” Potter frowns, fingers nervously tugging at his messy curls as he flushes and shakes his head. “You most definitely look like a man.”
Draco scoffs, used to the teasing of all those men who think he looks feminine with his long hair, teasing him every time he used to go to the market, whistling after him if he ventured out in the evening in the gay bars in Paris.
“Listen, Potter,” he hisses. “I know our relationship has been nothing but tense and awful in the past, but I am here to work. I love teaching, and I just want to do my best to show McGonagall that she made the right choice.”
“Of course,” Potter murmurs, looking dumbfounded. “I know you’ve worked at Beauxbatons for six years, and that Madame Maxime didn’t want to part with you. You did really well with your apprenticeship in Paris with Mr. Corot too.”
Draco pales, realising that Potter has been keeping track of him during all these years. Maybe he kept tabs on Draco when he was still an Auror. Maybe he still has the right connections to check whether he’s up to no good. But Draco has nothing to hide, not anymore.
“There’s no need to stalk me, Potter,” Draco replies icily, and he grabs an apple and storms out of the Great Hall, thinking that he really does not deserve to be treated like that on his first day back at Hogwarts.
“Well done, mate!” he hears Longbottom tell Potter as Draco leaves, his stomach protesting as he munches on his small apple and wishes he had something else to eat in his rooms.
“I’m sorry,” Potter says the following morning as a greeting when Draco opens his door after a couple of minutes of incessant knocking. “I…I think you misunderstood what I said.”
“I think you are an utter wanker,” Draco corrects him, and Potter rolls his eyes but ends up smiling at him.
“I’m in charge of recruiting new members of staff,” Potter explains. “Minerva got sick last winter, and she’s starting to struggle with all of her duties as a headmistress. She’s still teaching Transfiguration, because she refuses to find another professor, so I volunteered to help her. I had to read all the candidate’s CVs and letters of recommendations and carry out my research to find the best possible Potion Master for our school. That’s why I know so much about what you’ve been up to this past decade. I swear I’m not stalking you.”
Draco narrows his eyes, unsure what to say and wondering if he can believe Potter.
He wonders how much Potter knows, hoping that he hasn’t uncovered his dreadful living conditions during his stay in Paris or the lonely months in Marseille. He has done his best to keep everything hidden, afraid anyone will find out how low he had sunk. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, especially not Potter’s.
The Gryffindor offers his hand, a tentative smile on his face.
“Are you suggesting we have a truce?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow as he stares at the hand, remembering distinctively what it felt like when Potter refused to take his. The burning feeling of shame, lingering on his skin long after, like a sticky residue that Draco somehow couldn’t get rid of, his hopes crushed.
“Yes, why not?” Potter replies easily, tilting his head and smiling in that disarming way that Draco thinks could melt an iceberg. He feels his cheeks heating up as he wraps his hand around Potter’s, noting the way the Gryffindor blinks a couple of times, green eyes moving from Draco’s face to their joined fingers, then back to Draco’s blushing cheeks. “I…I hope you like it here. Hogwarts is a great place to work.”
“We shall see,” Draco replies, taking his hand away, marvelling at the way Potter clings to him for a second too long, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin between Draco’s index finger and his thumb.
“Minerva said she’s taking you on a tour of the school later,” Potter says, scratching the back of his head and messing up his wild curls even more. Draco stares at his unruly mop in fascination, wondering if Potter ever bothers to brush it. “I can help you get the Potions lab sorted, if you want.”
“I think I’m capable enough to do it on my own,” Draco replies with a frown, remembering Potter’s abysmal potion making skills. “I will see you at breakfast.”
Potter nods, then bites on his bottom lip and seems to hesitate for a few seconds before he shakes his head and leaves.
When Draco sees the state of his new Potions lab he feels like crying in dismay. Slughorn clearly decided to take whatever he could sell or use, leaving the cupboards practically empty and in a state of disarray. He lets out a big sigh and starts working on an inventory of everything he might need. He asks McGonagall for a list of suppliers and then spends the days before the start of term cleaning and arranging things neatly into drawers and on shelves. He takes extra care labelling all the different ingredients, scrubbing the cauldrons until they sparkle clean and rearranging the desks in his classroom.
“Are you trying to work yourself to the grave before school even starts?” Longbottom asks, leaning against his classroom door. Draco’s braid is secured in a tight bun at the base of his skull, his sleeves pulled up as he deals with a doxie infestation under his desk.
“I can help you with that,” Potter offers, arriving all of a sudden, eyes roaming over Draco as if he were a specimen to study.
“I can deal with a couple of doxies, thank you very much,” Draco replies. He’s not an idiot. And what does Potter even know about magical creatures, anyway? His area of expertise is DADA.
“You might find that Harry is actually the best man for the job,” Longbottom comments with raised eyebrows.
“Are you here to argue with me or is there a specific reason for your visit?” Draco replies as a doxie pulls on a strand of hair, painfully freeing it from his braid as it cascades in front of his face. Draco stuns the little devil and groans in frustration.
“We came to give you some ingredients for your potions,” Longbottom replies, dumping a bag that looks packed with herbs and roots on one of the students’ desks. “Minerva said you needed them. You’re welcome,” he adds and then leaves.
Potter steps closer to Draco and hands him a box full of clearly labelled animal derived ingredients. There are very rare items like grated centaur hooves and even a small piece of unicorn horn. Draco gasps and stares at Potter, wondering where on earth he managed to get a hold of such precious potion materials.
“I d-don’t…” Draco stutters, unsure what to say, and Potter smiles at him, his fingers going for the loose strand of Draco’s hair that has escaped his tight bun and landed on the box of specimens. Potter’s hand gingerly lifts Draco’s hair, curling the lock around his finger and humming as he runs his thumb against it in fascination. Draco freezes in place, his eyes widening. “P-Potter...what in Merlin’s name are you doing? Why are you touching my hair?”
“S-sorry!” Potter nearly shouts, letting go of Draco’s hair and taking a step back. “I just…it was in the way, so…I’d better go now. Neville needs help with a Fanged Geranium.”
“Thanks,” Draco murmurs as Potter turns to leave. “For all of this. It really helps.”
“You’re welcome,” Potter says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile lights up his face.
Draco is confused. He has no idea why Potter is so nice to him. He’s probably trying to prove a point. Which one, though, Draco has no idea. He’s too busy getting ready for the start of term to worry about Potter’s secret agenda. Draco plans all his lessons, checks the English curriculum to make sure he’s not getting anything wrong. Everything needs to be perfect, he tells himself. First impressions count, and Draco has learnt it the hard way.
On the first day of September Draco is a nervous mess, for the first time in years. He was used to teaching at Beauxbatons. He knew his classes, what to expect from his students. And they knew him, the rumours about how strict but fair he was spreading amongst his pupils before he could even start teaching them. But he has no reputation here, except for a dreadful one he’s carrying from the war, and he’s well aware of that.
The rest of the Professors arrive during the day, and Draco is introduced to Klara Bauer, a German lady in her late seventies who teaches Muggle Studies, so lovely and kind that Draco assumes she has no idea who he is and what he has done in the past. Draco is expecting to see Hagrid, but the man is nowhere in sight as the other professors arrive. A very tall woman with bushy hair an impossible shade of purple shakes Draco’s hand so hard that he thinks she’s fractured at least a couple of his bones.
“Camilla Campbell,” she introduces herself with a strong northern accent. “I’m the DADA Professor and Head of Slytherin.”
“Wait, what?” Draco asks, frowning at her in confusion. “I thought Potter was teaching DADA.”
The woman barks with laughter and pats him on the shoulder, nearly making Draco fall face first onto the floor.
“Harry is the Care of Magical Creatures Professor,” Camilla explains, pointing at the window. Draco looks outside and notices Potter’s distant figure next to Hagrid’s old hut, a tiny crup in his arms as Potter nuzzles his face into the soft fur of the animal. “He took over from Hagrid when he decided to go and work with the Giants Preservation Committee for the Ministry.”
“Oh,” Draco replies, still dumbfounded by the revelation. “Does he live in Hagrid’s old hut?” Camilla’s loud laughter makes him jump.
“No, you silly duck! His living quarters are next to Gryffindor’s Tower, since he’s Head of House,” she explains. “By the way, I’m expecting you to take over from me soon. I can’t stand those Slytherin little brats anymore. I swear they’re getting weaker every year that goes by. Where’s all the scheming and the devious plotting? The most serious offence last year was Frankie Collins trying to sneak into the kitchens to steal cake. I mean, honestly?”
Draco grimaces, remembering the kind of plotting he got up to in his school years, and thanking Merlin that at least children nowadays are not trying to kill the headmaster or let Death Eaters into the school.
Potter smiles at him when Draco enters the Great Hall, ready for the sorting ceremony, and Draco nods at him. He remembers the box full of rare potions ingredients Potter gave him, and it all makes sense now that Draco knows he’s the Care of Magical Creatures professor. He still doesn’t understand why Potter is being so kind to him, but he assumes it must be part of his Saviour agenda. Befriend the reformed criminal and show him that Gryffindors are better. That must be it.
The ceremony is slow, and Draco gets distracted thinking about the million things that still need doing. He has to arrange to meet up with Pansy and Blaise as soon as he has a free weekend, but with the start of the school term he will have so much marking and planning to do.
By the end of the evening, Draco is tired and decides to go to bed early for a fresh start. His first lesson of the day is with first years, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Draco has planned it to a T, remembering how inspiring his first ever Potions lesson was, the way Severus charmed him with his captivating words about the power of potions. He wants to do the same, craving to inspire young minds to pursue the career of potions making, experiencing the subtlety of mixing ingredients to create the perfect reactions.
He welcomes the students at the door, making them line up before entering, standing tall and stiff, exuding confidence and control while his heart beats madly in his chest. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous teaching here; he was fine at Beauxbatons. It must be the old memories of what happened between the walls of the castle, the feeling of dread he experienced the last time he was here. The desperate desire to prove that he’s no longer the scared vicious boy he used to be. Potter’s presence probably doesn’t help either.
“Take a seat and open your parchment,” Draco says, taking his place in front of the professor’s desk. “My name is Professor Malfoy, and I’m your Potions Profes-”
A hand shoots up.
That’s a first.
Draco frowns, not ready for questions yet, but curious about this sudden enthusiasm from a first year. He nods at the blond curly boy, and the young Hufflepuff puts his hand down and speaks.
“Are you the same Malfoy who tried to kill Headmaster Dumbledore and Harry Potter, sir?” he asks confidently, a little glint of challenge in his blue eyes. “I heard about you. There’s a whole chapter about how you let Death Eaters into the castle in our History of Magic book.”
Draco’s lips part, his face frozen in horror as he stares at the child, wondering how on earth to reply. His palms are sweaty as they grip the edge of his desk, leaning into it for support. He thinks his heart is going to jump out of his mouth as the seconds go by and he’s paralysed, thirty-two young faces staring back at him.
“Oh, will you shut up, Smith?” a little boy says out loud, his brown eyes suddenly turning emerald green. “It’s been ten years since the end of the war, and Professor Malfoy was acquitted in the trials. That was also in the chapter on the Battle of Hogwarts, in case you didn’t get to the end. Besides, all your dad did during the war was run away. Harry told me about it.”
The boy’s brown hair flashes red, then turquoise when his eyes meet Draco’s.
Edward Lupin.
My aunt killed your mother, Draco thinks. Why are you trying to defend me?
He knew his cousin’s son was going to be in his class, but his face does not match the faded photo Aunt Andromeda sent a few years ago, of a little boy with chubby cheeks and a toothless grin. The Edward Lupin sitting in front of him, chin held up in defiance against his classmate, has clearly grown up. He painfully reminds Draco of Professor Lupin, of his kind face and Gryffindor heart.
“That will be enough, thank you,” Draco finally says, clearing his voice and regaining his composure. “I shall not answer any personal questions about my past during my lessons, but if you’re that interested in finding out more about me, I would recommend getting detention so that we can spend some quality time together. And for your information, I like to eat incredibly stinky sandwiches during detentions.”
Young Lupin grins back at Draco, but the rest of the class seems to avoid Draco’s gaze and pretend to take notes on their sheets of parchment as Draco starts his lesson. Edward waits for him at the end of the lesson, pretending to busy himself with his bag until everyone has left.
“We’re related, you know?” the boy asks, and Draco nods.
“Your mother was my cousin,” he replies. “I don’t need you to defend me, Edward.”
“Call me Teddy, please,” the boy says with a smile. “And I wasn’t being brave or anything. Smith is an idiot and no one can stand him already. He told Professor McGonagall she was too old to be teaching us and should focus on her job of being a Headmistress.”
Draco scoffs, imagining the kind of punishment McGonagall probably gave the boy.
“Is his father Zacharias Smith, by any chance?” Draco asks, thinking the student reminded him of an old face, one he never particularly liked.
“He is,” Teddy confirms. “Harry says he was a wanker.”
“Language, Teddy Lupin,” Draco warns, thinking that he definitely likes this cheeky student who shares his blood but looks nothing like him. So careless and happy. Draco was never like that, not even when he was spoilt rotten by his rich parents. There was always something worrying him, be it Father’s disappointment or Mother’s depression. “You’re going to be late for your next lesson. Come on, off you go.”
“I’ll see you on Friday,” Teddy says, waving with a smile, his hair flashing blond for a few seconds, before it turns back to brown.
Draco still can’t believe his cousin’s son tried to defend him, but he smiles to himself at lunch, thinking about what happened in class.
“Teddy told me you had a little incident in class,” Potter says, sitting next to Draco as if they were friends.
“Ew, that sounds like I peed myself, Potter. Learn to use your words, will you? Besides, why are you still keeping track of what I’m up to?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow before he gracefully cuts his steak and brings it to his lips. He follows Potter’s gaze from his hand to Draco’s mouth. “I thought we were on a truce.”
“We are!” Potter insists. “Teddy is my godson.”
“That explains a lot,” Draco replies, remembering the way Teddy’s face scrunched up in anger when he faced Smith. He wonders why the boy is in Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Potter replies with a wink, making Draco blush unexpectedly. Potter stares back at him as Draco cleans his mouth with a napkin. “Anyway, kids are like that sometimes, don’t take it personally. I had a second year who asked me if I am considering re-opening the Chamber of Secrets to take over Hogwarts.”
“Are you?” Draco enquires nonchalantly, and Potter wiggles his eyebrows.
“I already have a big snake, no need for a basilisk,” he says with a wink, making Draco splutter indignantly and Potter laugh at his reaction.
“Boys,” McGonagall reprimands them. “The students are watching, and I’m sure some of them managed to smuggle Extendable Ears like last year.”
“Sorry, Minerva,” Potter says, looking not even remotely guilty.
The rest of the lessons go uneventfully, with the exception of an exploding cauldron in the afternoon that splatters a sleeping potion all over Draco’s robes, turning them bright pink and making him extremely dozy for the rest of the day.
“New look, Malfoy?” Longbottom teases when they cross paths in the corridor. Draco groans, rolling his eyes, but Potter can’t stop staring at him in the staff room as Draco leaves a pile of documents in McGonagall’s pigeonhole. The rolls of parchment vanish as soon as he places them in the tiny cubicle, and Draco can feel Potter’s eyes still on his back.
“Take a photo,” he drawls. “It will last for longer.”
“I have something for you,” Potter mumbles, handing him a small scrunched-up handkerchief. Draco unfolds it in the palm of his hand, uncovering a Bezoar. “One of my goats died this morning, and I thought I’d get this for you.”
“Oh,” Draco mutters, wondering if Potter had any emotional attachment to the animal. One never knows with Gryffindors. “I’m sorry for your goat.”
“She was sick,” Potter says with a grimace, his face sad as he takes a step closer to Draco. “Poor little Betsy. She was the first goat I got when I started working here, and she used to follow me around the school grounds all the time.”
His fingers brush against Draco’s, the calloused surface of his thumb rubbing against the back of Draco’s hand as Potter stares at the small stone.
“I used to have a baby goat when I was little,” Draco whispers, not wanting the other professors to hear him confess about a lost pet. Potter moves a little closer, eyes locking with Draco’s. “I called her Snowflake. She was so tiny and soft. Father got rid of her after only a few months, though.”
“Why?” Potter asks, his eyebrows creasing.
“He said I was getting too attached,” Draco replies with a shrug. “That it was going to make me weak.”
“I get attached all the time,” Potter says wistfully. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Are you coming for dinner, Harry?” Longbottom asks, popping his head inside the staffroom and frowning at their joined hands.
“In a minute,” Potter replies, staring back into Draco’s eyes, then slowly removing his fingers. “Are you coming with us?”
“I need to change first,” Draco mutters, pointing at his bright pink robes.
“I’ll see you later, then,” Potter says, tilting his head and hesitating for a moment. “Thanks, Draco.”
It’s the second time Potter has called him by his first name, and Draco finds himself standing there like an idiot, paralysed by the realisation that Potter is calling him Draco and has been nothing but kind to him since his arrival at Hogwarts.
“Cat got your tongue, boyo?” Professor Campbell says, smirking at him like a true Slytherin.
“I just remembered I have something to do,” Draco mutters, blushing as he leaves the staffroom and heads for his rooms to change.
Draco can’t help but stare at Potter at dinner, noticing how friendly he is towards all the members of staff, calling them by their first name. He’s absolutely charming with the children too, and Draco wonders if he’s a good teacher or not.
He spends the next couple of days in a daze, trying to get used to being back in the UK, in his old school, the place where he spent the worst years of his life. It’s harder than he thought it would be, every single corner of the castle reminding him of something awful he’s done. He can’t face going anywhere near the Astronomy Tower nor the Room of Hidden Things. He wonders if Vince is still there, or what’s left of him, anyway.
By Friday evening, Draco is exhausted and looking forward to spending a lovely evening on the sofa with a new book and a glass of port. Apparently, the school has something else in store for him.
“We’re meeting at eight in Klara’s room for the FF,” Potter announces at dinner, and Draco frowns at him.
“FF?” he asks.
“The staff meeting,” Potter clarifies matter-of-factly, as if it were normal for professors to meet at eight bloody pm. “Did McGonagall not tell you about it?”
A staff meeting on a Friday evening seems a bit excessive, Draco thinks, but he doesn’t want to look like a slacker, especially since he has just started, so he nods and resigns himself to his fate.
When he enters the Muggle Studies classroom Draco freezes, finding only three professors sitting around a table, plenty of bottles of liqueur and a stack of cards in Campbell’s hands.
“Draco!” Professor Flitwick exclaims. “I’m so glad you could make it. I was talking to Professor Bauer about how lovely it is to have so many young teachers.”
“Where’s the rest of the members of staff?” Draco asks, sitting down next to Campbell as Potter and Longbottom come in dressed in Muggle clothes and shut the door behind them.
“They’re not coming,” Longbottom replies. “Wankers.”
“Wait, what kind of meeting is this?” Draco asks, suddenly suspicious as Campbell starts pouring vodka into a tall glass, summoning some ice and handing it to him.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” Draco replies. Professor Bauer starts laughing and points at the cards on the table.
“We’re playing strip poker,” she explains, as if it were something Draco should know about. He has no clue what the woman is talking about. “Trust me, you don’t want to be sober.”
“Oh!” Potter says, smacking his forehead with his hand. “You thought this was an actual staff meeting. It’s the FF. Funky Friday?”
“What the fuck are you rambling about, Potter?” Draco asks, exasperated. “And where is the headmistress?”
“Oh, she organised Funky Fridays a couple of years ago to make us socialise during the long winter months, but she never takes part,” Campbell scoffs. “It’s just us, but it’s still fun. This year it’s Klara organising the activities, so we’re doing Muggle games.”
Draco thinks Muggle games are probably inoffensive. He remembers his Muggle flatmates in Paris playing a thing called veedio-games on their tellyvision. He never understood how they found it so fascinating, but hey, whatever wingardiums your leviosa, he thinks as he grabs the only jug of pumpkin juice and pours himself a glass.
Professor Bauer explains the rules of the game, and it suddenly dawns on Draco that deciding to stay was probably a huge mistake. No, a colossal one. He stands up to leave, but Campbell grabs his arm and pulls him down.
“You’re staying,” she declares. “These two bloody Gryffindors always gang up against us, and I’m so fed up of losing. I finally have a fellow Slytherin with me, and you’re not fucking leaving, lad.”
Draco huffs, noticing Potter’s devious grin as he shuffles the cards and wiggles his eyebrows at him.
Barely an hour goes by before Draco regrets not accepting the vodka.
“It’s not fair!” he shouts, throwing his cards on the table and taking off his second sock. He only has his vest and underwear left, and he constantly feels Potter’s eyes on his pale legs and the scars peeking out of his thin top. “They’re wearing Muggle clothes. They lost a million times; they should be starkers by now! How come my robes counted as only one item of clothing?”
“Stop whingeing and get on with it,” Longbottom grumbles, getting rid of his t-shirt and revealing toned abs and a few scars on his arms. Flitwick sighs as he removes his trousers, making them all groan as his very colourful boxers flash every colour of the rainbow.
“Filius, what the fuck,” Campbell mutters with a frown, her clothes all still on. “You’re a million years old. Shouldn’t you be wearing something less flamboyant?”
“I like them,” Bauer says, winking at Flitwick as she adjusts her cardigan.
“Sorry, I should have told you what game we were going to play,” Potter whispers in his ear, making a shiver run down Draco’s spine as he feels Potter’s hot breath against his skin. Draco feels his own cheeks colouring, noticing the way Potter blinks a few times and then his lips curl up in a little smile. He’s not wearing much himself, but at least his jeans are still on.
“One more round!” Campbell shouts, and Draco dreads it already.
He loses spectacularly, looking down at his vest and underwear. He doesn’t want Potter to see his scarred chest. But there’s no way he’s taking his pants off.
He suddenly has an idea and takes his long braid into his hand, undoing the pretty bow at the end, letting his hair come undone as the velvet ribbon lands on the pile of Draco’s clothes on the floor.
“That’s not fair!” Longbottom declares, looking affronted, but Potter’s green eyes widen and his lips part as he looks at Draco’s long hair fanned across his chest, covering up the silver scars that Potter had put there and pooling in his lap.
“’s fine,” Potter mumbles. “Allow it.”
“I only have my boxers left,” Flitwick suddenly exclaims, pointing at his abysmal deck of cards, and Campbell stands up abruptly and vanishes all the cards and the alcohol.
“Let’s call it a night,” she says, shaking her head. “Draco, I’m expecting much better from you next week.”
“What? It’s a weekly thing?” Draco asks aghast. “I’m not coming again.”
“Yes, you are!” Campbell declares. “We nearly won this time. Next time will be better. Chin up, lad.”
Draco sighs and puts his clothes back on with a swift flick of his wand, deciding to leave his hair undone since he only has to go back to his living quarters and the students won’t be out because of curfew.
“I’ll…” Potter starts, scratching the back of his head and looking at the other professors as they leave. “I’ll walk you.”
Draco has no idea why he needs walking to his rooms. He’s not a damsel in distress, but maybe Potter has something important to say. Draco nods and Potter waves goodbye to Longbottom, who raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him.
They walk side by side in awkward silence, Potter’s eyes casting furtive looks at Draco, lingering on his loose hair. Maybe Potter dislikes men with long hair, Draco thinks. He certainly can’t pry his eyes off Draco’s, now that he notices.
“Do you have something important that you need to say?” Draco asks defiantly when they reach his rooms.
“What?” Potter asks, dumbfounded. “I…no, I just wanted to walk you back and…I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that we were going to play strip poker. But I…still hope you’ll come again next week. Klara said we’ll play Twister. Should be fun and you get to keep your clothes on.”
Of all the possible things Draco was expecting, an apology and an invitation were definitely not in his list. He observes the way Potter’s long eyelashes fan prettily on his blushing cheeks, nearly curling up at the end. Salazar, why is Potter so attractive? Draco has eyes, and has always had a thing for gorgeous men, strong but gentle, with an intense gaze and a charming smile.
Like Potter.
Draco has never been in love. There have been men, but not many, and nothing that lasted more than a couple of months. All his fleeting relationships ended before he had a chance to develop deeper feelings, as if there were an expiry date on how long it would take people to realise there’s something faulty with Draco. As soon as Draco finds the courage to talk about his past, people run away, disgusted. No one has ever been in love with Draco, but he’s not surprised.
Potter, on the other hand, has probably had plenty of relationships. He wonders if he’s still with the Weaslette, planning a wedding and a handful of children to make their lives even more complete. Draco has always wanted a family, but being gay and a war criminal have put an end to those hopes, too.
“Will you come next week?” Potter asks, interrupting Draco’s maudlin thoughts.
“I’ll think about it,” Draco replies, and yet, he finds himself looking forward to spending another evening with Potter, catching the Gryffindor staring at him throughout the week. Draco observes Potter from his bedroom window; he watches him handle a hippogriff during a lesson, running after his crup in the afternoon and milking his goats in the early morning. It’s like his school days all over again, eyes glued to Potter; but this time feels different, because Draco is a grown man and Potter is staring back with another kind of interest.
Draco knows he’s attractive. He’s seen the way men look at him when he goes to gay clubs, but he never thought he’d catch Potter of all people looking at his arse.
“Is your godfather still dating Ginevra Weasley?” Draco asks Teddy on Friday afternoon. His young cousin has taken to the strange habit of coming to see Draco at the end of lessons every day to chat with him, asking for advice on homework or just gossiping.
“Ginny?” Teddy replies, looking horrified. “Were they together?!”
“They used to be,” Draco replies, surprised by the wave of relief spreading through his chest and then promptly thinking himself an idiot for it.
“Harry’s gay,” Teddy declares with a frown. “He’s single at the moment, but I’ve only ever seen him with men. Are you sure he was with Ginny? She’s married to a Canon seeker. Nice bloke, but aunt Molly can’t stand him because he always has muddy boots on.”
“Alright,” Draco says with a sigh. “Time to go to dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
At five minutes past eight, after much deliberation, Draco’s hand closes around the door handle of the Muggle Studies classroom, hoping against hope that this time it’s going to be different and he won’t end up making a fool of himself. He pushes the door open, and his attention is immediately caught by the sight of Professor Flitwick being unceremoniously thrown across the room by Professor Campbell.
“Filius, you twat!” the woman shouts. “You touched my tits!”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Flitwick replies, straightening his robes. “Besides, I don’t like women.”
“I’m still going to sue you for sexual harassment.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t play Twister,” Longbottom says gloomily as he watches Campbell cracking her knuckles. “Hey, Malfoy. Welcome to Funky Friday.”
“Draco, you made it!” Potter beams at him, raising his head as he perches precariously on a colourful mat with big round dots. Potter is on all fours, his delectable bum up in the air as Longbottom straddles him and groans whilst trying to move a foot at an awkward angle.
“I should have checked what this Twister game was before joining,” Draco sighs, then joins the rest of the teaching staff and ends up on the floor too, his hand on Potter’s chest and their noses only a few inches apart, giving Draco the unexpected opportunity to marvel at how impossibly green and beautiful Potter’s eyes are.
Definitely something he didn’t need.
“It’s Tombola next week,” Professor Bauer says at the end of the evening. “Nice and calm.” Draco somehow doubts it, but he still goes, and ends up unexpectedly having a good time.
A few weeks go by, and Draco settles into an odd routine. He wakes up, staring at Potter from his window as he gets ready for the day. He has breakfast with the other professors, chatting amicably with most of them, and then he teaches his lessons, putting all his energy and passion into making every one of them count. Teddy always joins him at the end of the day for a chat, an easy smile on his face as he tells Draco about his day or asks for advice on an essay.
“Nannie used to read your letters out loud every time we received them,” Teddy reveals one day. “It was nice.”
“Oh,” Draco replies, surprised by the revelation. He didn’t think Aunt Andromeda shared his missives with young Teddy.
“I loved the ones where you told us about being chased by wild geese,” Teddy smiles. “And the one where a swan bit your bum!”
Teddy laughs, and Draco pretends to be offended, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Edward Lupin,” he says with an arched eyebrow. “I will let you know that swans are vicious and vengeful creatures, and I was an inexperienced young man, used to the Manor’s tame peacocks.”
“You wrote that!” Teddy chuckles, packing his school bag as they prepare to leave for dinner. “Harry laughed so much when we read the letter to him.”
Draco falters, not expecting Potter to be aware of his letters.
He wonders how much Potter has heard. How much of Draco’s life he’s aware of.
On the second week of October, McGonagall tells Draco she needs to speak to him in her office at lunch, and he spends the whole morning fearing the worst, thinking of all the lessons he’s taught and wondering if he’s said something wrong to one of the children, if he hasn’t been scrupulous enough with his teaching.
“Please take a seat, Draco,” McGonagall says serenely. She flicks her wand, and an assortment of sandwiches and beverages appear on her desk. “Have something to eat whilst we wait for Harry.”
“Potter?” Draco asks, confused, just as the Gryffindor barges through the door, panting and looking like he’s run all the way from the school grounds.
“Sorry, I had a problem with the Acromantulas,” he says, and Draco notices that his arms are covered in cobwebs. “They’re getting more annoyed by the day.”
“Scourgify,” the headmistress mutters, pointing her wand at Potter as if she’s used to cleaning him like a toddler. “Take a seat and help yourself to some lunch, Harry. I have summoned you two here to ask for a favour. I would like you to help me organise the Triwizard Tournament for next year.”