Chapter Text
Draco strode up the sweeping Hogwarts lawns. The dewy grass gave way beneath his shoes, wild and unkempt from the months without student presence. The Scottish summer morning still retained a biting cold, and Draco drew into himself as he crossed into the castle’s looming shadow.
Perhaps it was returning to school, but the oppressive silent weight of the castle above him made him feel assessed.
It was as though Albus Dumbledore’s spirit had taken rest among the stones, and now the castle’s repaired walls were too pure, too protected and cherished to allow his tainted steps entry. He distinctly remembered the man’s penetrating gaze as though he stood in Draco’s path, observing him over his half-moon spectacles and turning his choices into lessons.
His hand unconsciously reached for his trunk, floating neatly at his side, as though needing something to lean on.
‘Ridiculous.’ He chided himself, snatching his hand away as though burned by his own luggage. ‘It’s a job, not a death sentence.’
And yet, he couldn’t help feeling as though the first step of his polished, oxford shoes into the hall would set him alight, like a demon on holy ground - or that the dark mark on his arm would reignite after 5 years of dormancy, snake its way up his arm to his neck and choke him to death.
He really was becoming rather melodramatic. He supposed France would do that to a person.
Draco straightened his spine, reflexively smoothing a hand down his embroidered waistcoat - pale blue, for the occasion; he hadn’t risked Slytherin green - and flicked his wand, sending his trunk sailing quietly through the great oak doors.
Despite having spent much more time in the former than the latter, Hogwarts now reminded Draco distinctly of a church as he entered. The hush of the quiet corridors and the gentle reflection of the morning sun through the dusty windows felt sacred, somehow. He only felt more like a heretic in comparison.
‘Church of Potter.’ He couldn't help muttering, and then chided himself immediately. He hadn’t taken more than five paces back into Hogwarts and he was already sulking about Potter, for Merlin’s sake - he wasn’t twelve anymore.
‘Ah, Mr. Malfoy.’ Came the familiar, imperious brogue; so unchanged that Draco felt jarred, as though Draco’s childish thought had summoned her to reprimand him.
Professor McGonagall strode through the entrance hall doors opposite him. Her formally greying hair was now completely white, her face more heavily lined, but her piercing gaze was just as sharp as usual, her gait as confident and straight-backed as it had ever been.
‘Was the journey comfortable?’ she asked. It took an unpleasant second for Draco to realise that he was now taller than her - and that she still seemed to be looking down on him, despite it.
‘Quite comfortable, thank you.’ he replied, as politely as he could, his hand proffered for shaking. ‘I appreciated the carriage you sent, but these days I much prefer to apparate.’
McGonagall took his hand without hesitation; her grip was warm and firm, and she did not baulk.
‘A change then.’ she answered, eyebrows raised. ‘I believed the traditional Malfoy means of travel was by carriage.’
Draco drew on his most magnanimous smile. ‘To the disdain of my mother’s misused coachhouse, I now prefer to travel in a less… overt way.’
Draco’s careful expression of was jovial self-deprecation, practised in many a formal gathering where one is expected to be aware of one’s status to the depths of one’s soul.
‘Very well then, let us proceed to my office.’ McGonagall regarded him with an open, slightly amused warmth, which alarmed Draco to no end. ‘We'll finish off the paperwork, and then we’ll discuss any notices you should know of. I’m sure you’re aware that we have had some changes to the staff since you were a student last.’
Draco trailed a pace behind McGonagall, repressing the feeling that he was on his way to detention.
Her crisp admission of ‘acid pops’ led them to the wide, circular room lined with portraits. The Headmaster’s office had changed much under Minerva’s tenure - Draco was sure that Headmaster Dumbledore’s office had not contained the large stereo, or the squashy looking tartan sofa tucked into the corner.
McGonagall took her seat behind the desk, which was littered with small decorations. Draco avoided eye contact with the roaring ornamental Gryffindor lion that sat facing him.
‘Before we begin,’ Draco spoke carefully, taking his seat in the comfortable chair before the desk, ‘I wanted to thank you. I know I am not the easiest person to employ, let alone defend to a board of governors.’ he smiled ruefully. ‘Thank you for your trust in me - I shall endeavour to ensure it was not misplaced.’
McGonagall looked him over. ‘Have a biscuit, Draco.’
‘I - what?’
She proffered the box of ginger newts with more vigour. ‘Have a biscuit, and be reassured. Myself and the board chose you for your skill, not as some half baked performance to mend ties. Your achievements in France as a potions master speak for themselves - and, might I add, were far more effective than anything you attempted in the service of the dark arts.’
Draco laughed slightly at her wry expression. ‘ Well, I suppose I wasn’t quite trying.’
McGonagall’s answering smile was warm as she surveyed him. ‘I believe we could not have hired better.’
Draco flushed with ill-concealed pride.
‘Well, on to business.’ She began, flicking her wand at a pile of papers, causing them to sail under her nose for her perusal. ‘As potions master, you have dominion over the potions classroom, the storage cupboards and the potions laboratory - which I need not remind you is only for use by potions masters and NEWT students. And as Slytherin Head of House, you will be given the passwords for the Slytherin common room, and will be your house’s first port of call in case of an emergency. You will also have the potions master’s rooms; the floo is enchanted to your signature, so you may travel in and out of the castle’s wards at your leisure. Only you, of course.’
‘Yes, Professor.’
‘Nonsense, Draco, now that we are colleagues, you may address me as Minerva.’
She gave an amused look at Draco’s horrified expression.
‘In terms of other changes since your student days - I doubt I need to inform you of the continual employment of Harry Potter as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. This will be his third year teaching.’
Draco schooled his expression into one of polite understanding, ignoring the swoop of his stomach. ‘Yes, I was quite aware.’
Harry Potter’s career choices had made quite the headline a few years ago; Potter had flunked spectacularly out of auror training, seemingly had a mental breakdown, and returned to the public eye as the Defense teacher six months later. The pictures that had emerged of Potter afterwards had been quite shocking - mostly because the wider wizarding community had forgotten that Potter could look awake. Or happy.
Minerva’s gaze sharpened. ‘I need not remind you that any petty grudges you boys shared hardly matter now. I don’t doubt that you will be cordial and kind to Harry, which I’m sure he will match in return.’
That’s the least of my worries, Draco thought. A bit of schoolboy fighting might force Draco back into the denial of his teenage years - a denial he would dearly welcome.
‘I must also apologise.’ Minerva’s expression fell. ‘I know you didn’t expect to be head of house so quickly; most teachers require a few years experience at least. But in truth, Slytherin needs a head like you. Our Slytherin numbers are dwindling. Many students have taken to asking the hat for other houses, and other Slytherin families are sending their children abroad for schooling. We need your influence, to advocate for their traditions. The good ones.’
For a moment, Draco recognised a pride in her; the last of the line of McGonagall, one of Scotland’s finest magical families.
‘I will do my best.’ he replied.
***
The next week passed uncomfortably swiftly. Draco settled casually into his rooms and seriously into the labs. He was still working on multiple projects that had blossomed during his mastery, and it was the setup and stabilisation of those most volatile that concerned him, far more than his domestic settings.
His only possessions that gave him any pride, aside from his potion making supplies, were his books and his tea, and the rooms were clearly created for lovers of both; plenty of shelf space welcomed his collection with open arms.
Draco took meals in his rooms, had occasional admin meetings with McGonagall to go over his class plans, and continued his near constant occupation - staring into a cauldron.
His projects were becoming increasingly grating to his nerves. Not wanting to be working on personal experiments when students arrived, he had doubled his lab time, but his frantic trials were producing no better results than usual, despite his dedication. He would stumble to bed after a morning of class planning and an afternoon of potion making that inevitably spread to evening, eyes bloodshot and hair messy and wild from potion fumes.
Certainly not the dignified Malfoy master that his mother had envisioned. This state was reserved for Draco’s eyes only - and those of his mirror, who insulted him voraciously in a strong Lancashire accent when he passed.
His avoidance did not last, however. A week into his stay, he received a sharp knock on his door, followed by a command in McGonagall’s stern voice to join the rest of the faculty for dinner, lest he ‘remain in the dungeons forever and become a ghoul’.
Draco supposed she had a point, so, after donning a neat set of midnight blue robes and artfully adjusting his hair, he swept into the great hall that evening, determined to make a good impression.
Draco enjoyed a few seconds where his mind gave way to nostalgia. He felt eleven again - walking through these doors with the fear of the unknown upon him, with acceptance a tangible tightrope before him that he must walk. Despite all the pain and hatred, injury and suffering he had felt and inflicted here, he felt a rush of love for this castle, down to his very bones - a rush that took him by surprise. The corners of his eyes burned and pricked with unshed tears that he quickly blinked away.
His repressive need did not last, however. His rush of emotion swiftly drained as he stepped over the threshold and caught sight of the teachers seated above him. Every single seat but one was occupied on the high table, and every single eye was trained on him as he made the agonisingly long journey up to join them.
Many of the teachers, particular those of greater years, seemed to watch him with sharper and more suspicious eyes. Those who had known him better, however, seemed interested but not hostile - Flitwick and Sprout were eyeing him with open curiosity. Draco purposefully avoided their gazes, and seated himself primly in the only available seat - between Professor Sprout and a slim, tall woman with long, curly blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Eventually, an awkward cough prompted the return of conversation, and Draco attempted to relax as the focus was removed from him.
Draco took a moment to examine the great hall, so different from this angle. Gazing down from this high point, he could easily spot his favourite seat at the Slytherin table - centred, with his back to the wall, so he could observe the other houses and make snide comments to his flock about the ridiculousness of some Gryffindor or other. His chest tightened - a sharp pang for Vincent.
His instinct in that moment screamed at him to step away, to shrink into the shadows, to take the next portkey back to France and get roaringly drunk with Pansy and Blaise - maybe even Greg if they could tempt him out. That was where he belonged, unequivocally and surely. Not that he could persuade the Ministry to let him back out of the country now; it had been hard enough trying to get in, even with Minerva’s support.
‘Hello, Draco.’ came a gentle, irish-accented voice from his left. ‘I’m Penelope Clearwater - I’m the Ancient Runes Professor.’
Draco turned, recognising the blonde woman now that he was closer. She had been a Ravenclaw prefect a few years above him.
Penelope held out her hand. Sitting side by side as they were, the angle was rather awkward - Draco had to twist his arm oddly to shake her hand, and mentally reprimanded himself for acting so informally in such a public setting. But when he looked up, she was smiling at him.
At that moment, the food arrived, and Draco busied himself over his plate - noting with some appreciation that his glass had filled with his favourite goblin made wine, crystal glass sparkling in the candlelight.
‘I like your robes.’ Penelope smiled, gesturing to his finely tailored garment. ‘A lovely Ravenclaw blue. Although I suppose everything must work well on you when you’re so good looking, huh?’
‘Err, thank you?’ Draco supplied, his usual repertoire abandoning him in the face of her open-ended honesty.
‘Careful with the fifth years, they’re very hormonal.’ she grinned. ‘You wouldn’t believe the gossip I hear them spouting in the corridors.’
On his right, Professor Sprout chuckled heartily, her crinkled eyes surveying him. ‘Penelope, don’t rush him, girl. I taught young Mr Malfoy, here - very closed off, don’t you know. Rather reluctant.’
‘Reluctant?’ Draco asked with indignation, turning to her. He was about to assure her amused countenance of his excellent and studious qualities when he caught a glimpse of dark, messy hair in the chair next to her, turned away from them.
It took him a moment to register that Harry Potter was on Sprout’s other side.
Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. Avoiding Sprout’s glance, Draco turned back to Penelope as casually as he could manage.
‘So, Ancient Runes?’ he supplied, attempting to harness his galloping heart rate. ‘You don’t strike me as an Ancient Runes Professor.’
‘What, because I’m not some senile hag, talking in riddles?’ Penelope replied. ‘I suppose I don’t quite fit the part - although I hope to be exactly that when I’m old.’
‘A fair ambition.’ Draco nodded seriously. ‘I in turn aim to be a batty, wizened old coot with permanent fume damage and a penchant for exploding cauldrons.’
Draco thought he heard a man laugh from his right, quickly muffled. He ignored it.
‘Lucky you have a mastery.’ Penelope toasted him with her glass of pumpkin juice. ‘Quite an achievement. Hopefully it’ll prevent any of our students becoming fume-damaged coots before their time.’
‘The time comes for us all.’ Draco responded gravely. ‘If one is not mad in one’s old age, then one’s potential for mischief is lost. How else will I scare teens away from my yard with my flock of hand-reared doxies and get away with it?’
Penelope laughed - a bright, ringing kind of laugh. ‘You’re funny, too! What a surprise. I’m almost disappointed you’re not a dementor looking figure offering me vials of poison.’
‘I aim to please.’ He bowed his head, realising his first conversation with a fellow teacher might not have been a disaster after all.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Penelope added. ‘Don’t mind my commentary on your lovely appearance. I’m as gay as Merlin’s most bedazzled pants, it turns out.’
Draco raised an elegant eyebrow, observing her over his glass of wine. ‘I’m aware. You think I can’t spot my own kind, Ms. Clearwater? I realised I flew for the other team at thirteen.’
A storm of explosive coughing interrupted their conversation. Professor Sprout was slapping Potter hard on the back as he choked into his cup.
‘Potter. Always the penchant for drama.’ Malfoy sighed, casually rolling his glass in the light of the candles. ‘One would think he was famous, or something.’
Both Penelope and Sprout laughed openly. Sprout elbowed Harry, causing more coughing.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Penelope was very engaging, and Draco answered all of her questions that he was willing to; in return asking about her experience as a teacher so far - and managing to gain some details about Potter along the way.
According to Penelope, he was a well liked teacher, and his class achieved high marks on average. He seemed to make time for students who struggled, and his door was always open to those in need.
‘They say he’ll be head of Gryffindor soon, once Vector retires.’ she predicted, nodding in his direction. ‘I think he’ll do well. He’s really changed from when he first arrived.’
Draco’s curiosity was eclipsed only by his will to not seem interested, especially within earshot of Potter himself. He did not ask.
***
‘Merlin’s bollocks!’
Draco felt the urge to slap the cauldron to the floor; he shook his hand vigorously to rid himself of the impulse. He could feel a crease forming between his pale brows as he surveyed the bubbling surface of his cauldron, which had turned the sickly green of failure.
His mother would have smoothed the line out with her thumb, chastising him to watch for wrinkles. ‘Appearance is power, Draco.’ she would say, smoothing down the shoulders of his robes. ‘Command with your presence.’
If only he could command his alihotsy leaves to stop wilting so fast.
The thought of his mother calmed him a little. She had been more stable when he had left the french manor - still frail, but it had been one of her better days. He already missed her desperately, and he made a note to write to her as soon as he got the chance.
He straightened, biting the end of his quill - an unfortunate habit he had picked up in third year and never been able to break - and cursed himself for the hundredth time for choosing to specialise in medicinal potions. Why couldn’t he have found a lifelong passion for explosives, or poisons, or cosmetic brews?
What could he do? Alihotsy was famously fiddly, and most conventional potions that used it were robust enough to not be affected by wilting. He was sure something could be gleaned from the alihotsy remaining fresh until the unicorn horn shavings were added -
‘Settled in, Professor Malfoy?’ came a light voice from behind him.
Draco was violently ejected from his thoughts, sidestepping alarm and catapulting into panic. The voice was familiar as ever, low and warm, with a hint of amusement. He turned, and immediately cursed the fae of old for orchestrating his fate.
The last five years had been unspeakably good to Harry Potter. His hair was longer, though still curly and wild, his tan skin warm and healthy. In his muggle clothes, he looked hale and strong, no long robes to hide his neatly tapered figure. Even his glasses now suited him.
His good looks, whilst always visible to Draco before, were now a knife edge. Compelling and bright, but wickedly sharp - an invitation to draw blood.
‘Professor Potter.’ Draco answered smoothly, hoping his tone sounded controlled. ‘What can I do for you?’
Potter grinned in a self-conscious sort of way - an awkward smile meant to invite Draco into the tension; to break it with mutual amusement. Draco hated it.
‘I just wanted to say hello, I suppose.’ Harry spoke after a pause, running an absent minded hand through his hair. ‘And bury the hatchet - if there’s any to bury. I’m sure we’ve both put old habits behind us, but just to be sure, since we’ll be seeing each other every day.’
He looked up at Draco with a hopeful determination, a kind of concentrated decency in his eyes. It was a very Gryffindor expression.
‘You’re quite right, there’s nothing to bury.’ Draco said, trying to fight down the panic welling up in his chest, closing his throat. The sight of Potter had hit him with the swift strength of a stunning spell.
Potter seemed to brighten, unaware of Draco’s panic, and walked into the room like a vampire invited. He sat on a desk opposite Draco, and Draco made a mental note to burn it.
‘So,’ he began brightly, as though Draco were as close with him as Weasel. ‘Potions master, huh? Congratulations. I saw it in the papers when you graduated.’
‘I didn’t know you could read, Potter.’ Draco responded automatically.
Potter rolled his eyes, bracing his hand on the desk behind him. ‘I should have known I’d never get a cordial answer from you, Malfoy.’
But he was grinning - a sharp, slanted grin, full of confidence. Almost challenging. Draco felt blindsided; lost in his own skin - as though his body was not his own.
‘I’m nothing without my prodigious badinage, Potter.’ Draco managed, remembering to draw his wand and banish the ruined potion behind him in a smooth flick. ‘I don’t suppose Gryffindors get up to much flexing of wit. Far more of a subtle art than jumping in front of a curse.’
‘Well, I could never match you for subtlety, Malfoy.’ Harry leaned forward on the desk with his elbows braced on his knees. ‘I’m afraid not all of us were raised with the collected pureblood snobbery of generations.’
‘It is a snobbery that I wear with pride.’ Draco responded, calming himself whilst determinately not looking at the way Potter’s t-shirt pulled over his shoulders as he leaned. A golden chain that ran beneath his shirt had also come free, revealing a small, rotating pendant of golden rings.
Potter, oblivious as ever, turned to the still smoking cauldron that Draco had abandoned.
‘Is that the reason that you were cursing Merlin’s nether regions when I passed?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not anything particularly evil is it? You seemed in a hurry to banish it.’
‘Would you rather the alternative?’ Draco responded dryly. ‘I’m glad to see the chosen one is as suicidal as ever - you should have told me you craved death by overstewed alihotsy fumes.’
Harry snorted. ‘Eh, perhaps one of the more peaceful ways I’ve experienced it. Potion been giving you trouble then, oh great master?’
Draco waved an arm in dismissal. ‘It didn’t work. It never has yet, out of my hundreds of attempts. It’s a very complicated theory and I haven’t quite gotten the balance yet.’
He didn’t want to discuss the potion; it agitated him. Instead, he turned to the desk, reaching for his teapot; a nice calming chamomile to soothe his totally normal, completely academic tension.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked, gesturing to the pot. Malfoys were nothing if not hosts, after all.
Potter’s easy smile drained, as though the concept of sitting down to tea with Draco Malfoy was not something he had considered, and now found quite alarming on examination.
‘Oh no, thank you, I can’t stay - lots of prep work to do, you know; busy classes coming up, I’ve got some shipments coming in of some highly volatile creatures…’ he tailed off listlessly. ‘Work stuff.’
Draco shrugged, pushing down his relief. ‘Well, don’t let me keep Saint Potter from his holy mission educating our youth.’
‘Saint Potter.’ Potter echoed, grinning. ‘I think I could get used to having you around, Malfoy.’
Potter hopped off the desk, moving to the door. Draco didn’t follow. As he pulled the door back open, he looked over his shoulder, his green eyes piercing into Draco’s own.
‘And call me Harry.’ he said, before closing the door and vanishing into the corridor.
His footsteps faded down the hall, leaving a smothering, oppressive silence behind. Draco sat heavily onto his desk, his mind reeling.
***
Before he knew it - certainly before he was prepared for it - the start of term swept in like a tidal wave. The castle was full of staff members making last minute changes to classrooms and receiving orders of supplies, ingredients and even creatures, while house elves scurried through the corridors making last minute quality checks, their new Hogwarts uniforms flashing proudly (courtesy of Granger’s recent efforts in the Ministry).
Draco himself had been grateful for the bustle. He had barely glimpsed Potter besides at breakfast, and he had been taking his lunch and dinner in his rooms whilst he prepared; keeping his brain from replaying their conversation and searching it for misdemeanours.
McGonagall had escorted him to his classroom on the day after his introduction and Draco had swept in like a bat, casting a disappointed eye over the furnishings.
‘Well this won’t do at all.’ he murmured, unsheathing his wand. ‘Minerva, if you are so determined to have me teach, I will not have such out of date equipment in my classroom. I will not have any accidents that could be blamed on me, or students injured.’ He swept his wand, and the rickety old desks and chairs vanished.
‘I will put in an order at once for some custom equipment - all fitted out with the latest safety measures, naturally - and I’ll need a new selection of cauldrons in the French style. Tapered lip, and far more ergonomic shape for brewing more volatile potions.’
McGonagall gave her bemused consent, and Draco sent an eye watering cheque to Diagon’s finest magical furnisher without a second thought.
When the desks arrived, Professor Flitwick visited the classroom, and examined the charmed wood closely. By the end of his observation, he shook Draco’s hand, stated that he would make a fine professor, and invited him to the next head of house tea party in the staff room, before leaving the room in a rush of enthusiasm. Draco needed a cup of strong tea and a bath in his rooms to settle down again.
The rest of the prep went far smoother, and Draco felt confident in his lesson plans by the end of the week. He had gone over Slughorn’s disgraceful notes, organised them the humane way (by unit and specialism, with a subset for ingredient and effect type), and placed them in a colour coded magical folder that recited his schedule to him in a squeaky, popping voice.
The start of term feast arrived on a squally September first, with rain battering itself wildly against the windows. Through the streaming droplets, Draco had watched all the carriages hauling their way up the driveway, pulled by the thestrals he could now see.
As he watched, his eyes were drawn to the students; how many more than usual seemed to skirt the thestrals purposefully, or gaze apprehensively into their dark eyes.
It was with that sombre image in mind that he watched all the students file into the great hall and take their seats from the high table. It might have been his imagination, but the Slytherin table seemed sparser and quieter than usual.
After the sorting ceremony (and a creative limerick from the sorting hat about inter-house unity) Professor McGonagall rose from the golden chair at the centre of the high table, and the babble of the students evaporated like smoke.
She made her usual notices; Draco, beginning to sweat under his formal silver robes, listened half heartedly while fiddling with his soup spoon. The eyes of the students were sharp and questioning; he stood out like a torch with his white blonde hair, and wished he hadn’t worn such an eye-catching fabric.
‘A few more interesting notices to begin. You all may have noticed that Professor Slughorn, our long serving Potions Master, will not be retaking his post this year.’
Draco glanced at the Slytherins. Many of them seemed to be exchanging nervous glances.
Minerva continued, ‘We are delighted to announce our newest addition, Professor Malfoy, who will be taking over as Potions Master, as well as stepping up to the role of head of Slytherin House. I’m sure you will all join me in wishing him the best.’
At a nod from Minerva, Draco rose smoothly from his chair.
For a moment, there was silence. The students stared at him, their expressions ranging from shock to contempt. Many more were staring at Minerva as though she had betrayed them.
A loud clapping to his left shocked Draco into glancing. It was Potter, his green eyes piercing into Draco’s own as he applauded. Minerva and Penelope joined swiftly, as well as the rest of faculty, and the students eventually followed their lead with a smattering of polite applause.
Flitwick, to Draco’s chagrin, whooped. A few students laughed, and the tension was broken.
Minerva continued with her usual speech. Draco returned to his seat, head spinning slightly, no longer hearing.
‘Hey.’ Penelope hissed from next to him, elbowing him hard enough to jostle his wine. ‘If Potter vouched for you, you’ll be fine.’
Draco nodded, staring into his warped reflection in his golden plate. His face looked wrong; the paleness of his hair and skin blending into a reflected mass of beaten light that flickered in the candles.