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Harry spent his twenty-third birthday staking out a suspected dark wizard hideout. As it stopped him from either having to work out how to go about being the center of attention or thinking, he considered working ideal. Unfortunately, stake outs involved a lot of time to think. He was sitting in the dark in a half-completed muggle luxury flat with omnioculars pressed to his glasses lenses, and unfortunately, thinking, when he realized that he was older than either of his parents had ever been.
Technically, this had been true for at least the last year and some change. (He wasn't sure when either of his parents' birthdays were off hand, though doubtless Hermione could find it in the newspaper archives if he asked.) It somehow hadn't occurred to him before.
He frowned. The omnioculars drifted a hair away from the lenses of his glasses. He had been in the habit of thinking of his parents as potentially all-powerful guardian figures who would have made life wonderful, or at least mundane and filled with only the usual sort of problems, if only they had lived. The realization that they had been, at oldest, around the same age as the junior employee at the office who had to do all the paperwork and frequently jumped when Harry caught her eye was profoundly disturbing. (Harry had never had to be that junior employee on account of either fame or experience, depending on who you asked.)
He pictured for a moment his mother sprawled in Ron's usual chair at their flat, lanky and half-dressed. He imagined her debating the merits of magically duplicating the leftover bits of Chinese takeaway in the fridge rather than trying to cook. He had a sensation that his perspective was flipping around, like trying to look at your own nose or examine your glasses without taking them off first.
The feeling was disorienting and slightly painful. He frowned.
It was exactly at this point that the room below him exploded.
Later, he reflected grimly that Hermione probably would say it served him right for daydreaming. Holding his wand on the apprehended suspect and simultaneously putting pressure on a wound to that arm with his other elbow, Harry resolved not to tell her.
There was blood trickling down his back and itching at the base of his spine something awful. The world had that numb, slightly softened feeling that told him he was much more badly injured than was quickly apparent. Soon he would find out just how badly when he fell down.
Also, he had a horrid feeling his eyebrows had been burnt off again.
"Just look at the bright side," Hermione said eagerly from his bedside at St. Mungo's several days later. "You'll be able to go back to Hogwarts! I bet it'll be fascinating to see it from the perspective of a teacher instead of a student - did you know, something like three quarters of the castle isn't in active use? We can't possibly have explored much of it." She frowned. "I almost wish I was going myself!"
"Let him talk, Hermione," Ron said, laughing, from the next chair; but affectionately.
So the two of them were apparently speaking again. They had been on again, off again from about five minutes after the war ended. Harry was in the course of giving up keeping track of the causes and status of their various fights. He and Ginny had made up several bingo cards to aid in the process of learning not to care.
"Yeah, I guess it'd be nice to have a look around again," Harry agreed. "Weird without Dumbledore, though."
"Weird," Ron echoed.
"Mostly I wish I could get my hands on this fellow who's supposed to be making the explosives for this group," Harry said, making a violent hand gesture with his less damaged arm. "Hermione, make sure to tackle him into something heavy when the team tracks him down, won't you?"
Hermione grinned. "I'll discuss it with him, don't worry. You looked better with eyebrows."
But the amount that the two of them could actually discuss about an ongoing investigation in front of Ron was limited. As a result, the conversation inevitably turned back to the temporary job offer Harry had just received.
"Guys," Harry said, after several minutes of speculative lesson planning and discussion of the current staff roster. "I haven't even accepted the Defense position yet."
They stared at him.
"What are you going to do?" Ron said incredulously. "Say no?"
"You love teaching," Hermione said. "Remember the DA? You were wonderful at it, too."
"You're not going to be back at work for months otherwise," Ron said. "And I love you, but I'm not having you skulking around the flat, eating takeaway out of the carton in boxers until after Christmas. Last time you were laid up you were practically arrested for stalking Pansy Parkinson because you had nothing better to do."
Harry winced. The whole thing hadn't been one of his finer moments. "I could do something else," he said. "There are desk jobs at the department, you know. They might not even give me leave to go to Hogwarts. Or I could help Ginny with her book."
Ginny had signed on with the Hollyhead Harpies earlier that year and become almost immediately consumed in the politics of women's sports. She was now writing a book intended for girls interested in playing professional Quidditch. While Harry had only a vague notion of most of the social and professional elements, he was familiar with the constraints of playing a rigorous sport which you could not practice at home as a child.
Ron gave him a strange look.
Hermione coughed and looked at the ceiling.
When Harry failed to either recant or change the subject, Ron said reluctantly, "You aren't hoping you'll get back together with her, are you?"
"No," Harry said wearily, and heartily wished Ginny would hurry up and get around to telling her family she was a lesbian. Then he could at least explain the real reason they'd split up. There was entirely too much fuss about it any time the two of them spoke, between the family members who thought they were better off apart (Ron; Percy) and those still hoping they would change their minds (the most ferocious of which was Molly). He had hoped coming out as bisexual himself would serve as a distraction, or at least reassure Ginny about their reactions, but it had not worked that way so far.
"Look, I'll write to the head of the department and ask what he thinks of the Hogwarts offer, seeing as I'm still his employee. Maybe he'll say no. Once I find out if I can I'll decide."
This was probably a pointless thought, given the prestige of a teaching offer from Hogwarts and the Ministry's eternal desire for control there. At least it stopped them harassing him about it.
In fact, not only was he given permission to take the job a few days later, but he received a strongly worded suggestion that he had better do it. At least, if he wanted his old job back once he was cleared for combat, he should. Whether the Ministry seriously expected him to interfere on their behalf at Hogwarts - well, he'd find out.
At least this spared him the need to actually choose a course of action.
Harry had made very few actual decisions over the past few years. He was aware this would have to stop at some point, but he saw no reason for it to be now. He had gone on into the Aurors because he hadn't had any better ideas after the war was over, and he supposed he might as well do what he knew.
For the same reasons he had accepted the department's suggestion that he participate in the newly formed unit for liaising on international Dark Wizardry. Ostensibly this was because of his role in the war against Voldemort. Actually - as Hermione would have told him if Harry hadn't realized it himself - it was because of politics, departmental and otherwise. It had been obvious to both Harry and his trainers that he was dedicated to an abstract ideal of good rather than, say, than the specifics of that ideal as pinned down in British Wizarding law, but firing him for insubordination would look terrible.
Also, he was awful at filling out his paperwork. Being on the special task force meant someone else had to do most of it for him.
But the long and short of it was that ulterior motives involving spying aside, the department would be probably be perfectly happy if he were to discover a vocation for teaching and quit the Aurors at Christmas instead of returning. He supposed it was possible. He had enjoyed the DA. But the thing about the DA was, he hadn't had to grade papers.
He arrived at Hogwarts two weeks before the start of term, briefcase in one arm. His actual luggage had been sent on already to his quarters, which he hadn't yet seen. Looking out over the grounds from the gates, seeing the towers rise in the distance, he felt strangely mixed.
He hadn't anticipated that. Every time before, arriving at Hogwarts had been coming home - from the Dursleys, or from brief stays with the Weasleys or others, or that last, horrible time from being on the run. His real life had been at Hogwarts for six years.
Actually, if he counted that last year as away, he had spent more time away from Hogwarts than in school. That was difficult to grapple with. The castle still seemed more like home to him than the series of flats he had rented after the last few years - the first one, with Ron and Hermione immediately in the aftermath of the war; the next couple of years after he had moved in with Ginny; and the most recent with Ron alone, although Hermione was still a frequent visitor whether or not she and Ron were currently dating.
He supposed that sooner or later he would get his own place, probably some day buy a house. It was the sort of thing adults did, and he was gradually edging forward in time so that he could not avoid thinking of himself as one. But he had always assumed he and Ginny would get married and find somewhere together and eventually have children, until she told him she was gay, and that had been about as far as his plans for the future extended.
It sounded terribly lonely, living in an entire house by himself. Presumably Hermione and Ron - and Ginny and George and Neville and all of the others - would visit, but they couldn't be over all of the time.
It was on this thought, which was transforming rapidly into a daydream of arranging his hypothetical future home into a sort of revolving door guest house of everyone he had ever met, that he arrived at the castle - not the great front doors, but a smaller, side entrance that he had been directed to. At this point he had to go in to meet Headmistress McGonagall as planned.
Harry, seeing no alternative he found more appealing, opened the door.
"Professor Potter," McGonagall said from just inside, and he nearly leapt out of his skin. She gave him a thin smile. "Better get used to it as quickly as possible.
"I'm sure you remember the general layout of the castle. I'll show you your new rooms. We can have a word about a few last things and go down to lunch.
"Thanks, Prof- Headmistress," he said, awkwardly.
"Please call me Minerva," she said, already starting off. "I find it helps remind former students I am no longer about to take House points."
"Right," Harry said, and resolved to do his best to never address her by name. "Harry, then." That much was automatic. "I'm near Gryffindor Tower, then?"
"Indeed. I've had a look at the sample lesson plans you sent with the acceptance," she said, and Harry's stomach appeared to apparate out the window before she went on, "They were very good. A little sparse on some of the details, but I imagine you'll work those out as you get experience. I notice you've purchased a quill that takes dictation."
"Yes," Harry said, wondering if he had committed some unknown transgression.
"Good. Your handwriting as a student was awful."
Harry winced, and she must have seen because she smiled, a little more sympathetically.
"It's a common issue with Muggle-born and Muggle-raised students. Of course you don't get the childhood practice your classmates start with, and since quills seem difficult and messy, you go on using pens and pencils whenever you can get away with it. The Ministry insists that we insist on quills, but I've been discussing at least instituting some support for basic penmanship... Ah, you'll hear about this at the staff meeting Monday."
They turned a corner, and McGonagall stopped in front of a door made of cherry wood. A painting hung on it displaying two mermaids, chattering on a rocky coast. Harry, who had been subject to Hermione's efforts to force him to acquire at least something of a cultural education since graduating, gamely guessed they were Neoclassical.
"The current password is Atargatis," she announced. "Girls - this is your current inhabitant. You can change the password whenever you wish, you'll just have to give them the old one first." The mermaids giggled and whispered; the one in front, who had red hair, said, "Well? Password?"
"Atargatis," Harry repeatedly obediently, and the door swung inward.
Harry went forward to find out what he was in for. "Ah," he said, recalling McGonagall had planned to wait. "Do you mind if I take a minute--" He bit down on 'Professor' at the last minute.
"I'll see you at lunch, then, Harry," she said. "You're in the same classroom that Defense was taught in while you were a student, although some - changes were necessary after the battle, during repairs. Your office, likewise, is the same. You may change either as you see fit during your tenure, though any large or structural changes shall have to be reversed before you leave."
Then she left him.
Harry had not been in many teachers' quarters during his time at Hogwarts and wasn't sure what to expect. As it turned out, he had several rooms done in a light blue, with wide windows looking out over the grounds. His trunks and boxes had been stowed in a neat pile in the room the door opened in on, which was clearly fitted out as a living room. There was also a bedroom and a private office. No kitchen, although, as he had been told to expect in the orientation packet for new teachers, there was a fireplace he could use to Floo the kitchens with requests.
He was going to miss cooking for himself; he had found that without Aunt Petunia hovering over his shoulder he rather liked it. Well, it wasn't as if teachers had to remain on grounds when they weren't working. He could always go visit Ron or Hermione and insist on making them dinner. Hermione in particular would be grateful. Unspeakable hours were, well, unspeakable.
It would have been nice to get some time to unpack and adjust to the odd tangle of emotions settling into his back teeth. But he had probably better go down to lunch. McGonagall had implied it was mandatory, and anyway, he should find out what the exact staff roster was these days.
Harry felt terribly conspicuous walking into the Great Hall, even without the students there. In fact, with only the one long table set in the center of the room, and the hall so quiet that his footsteps echoed, it was perhaps worse that way. He felt a sudden urge to go out again and check himself over in the closest mirror, just in case.
Normally he wore either Auror robes, which were conveniently uniform, or muggle clothing when at home. He had possessed one pair of reasonably nice dress robes which he had purchased with the assistance of Molly Weasley, back when he and Ginny were still together, mostly for the purpose of things like job interviews and ceremonies. He occasionally had to go undercover, but truthfully it was almost always in situations where muggle dress was more useful, and anyway the department provided the clothing.
Hogwarts professors did not have a uniform, but naturally Wizarding dress was required. He had scanned his memory of the idiosyncratic and variable dress of his teachers during his time at school and decided it was no help. He then immediately discarded the idea of talking to Ron, who greatly admired George's penchant for dragon skin; decided consulting his ex-girlfriend was too embarrassing a prospect; and finally asked Hermione for help.
He had been a little wary of this, as Hermione wore the same combination of muggle dress and work uniform most of the time. But he also had recalled her transformation during the Yule ball, and on several subsequent formal work occasions, and decided it was worth the risk.
It had turned out that Hermione managed Wizarding fashion, when she had to, the same way she did nearly everything else: a large amount of research supplemented by experimentation and consultation of experts. What this meant was that they spent several hours looking up style guides for male wizards - he was comforted by Hermione appearing about as uncomfortable as him over the way the models winked at them and all of the exclamation points - and then went to visit a competent tailor. Hermione had assured him this had always worked for her.
He still carried with him, however, the childhood suspicion that any new action would be punished. So while he was fairly certain that his navy dress robes were in fact discreet professional wear of the correct - male - cut and formality, his first thought when everyone turned to look at him was that he had done something very, very wrong getting dressed this morning.
Surely McGonagall would have mentioned it, he thought, and bravely pushed on. He attempted to distract himself by tallying the occupants of the table. McGonagall, of course, sat at the head as Headmistress. Hagrid, too, was seated at the table near the other end, conversing with a woman he vaguely recognized as the Arithmancy professor from his years at school. A wizard he didn't recognize was nodding, fork in hand, clearly trying not to listen to Trelawney's prattle, and on her right side was--
Harry nearly stopped dead. The man's back was to this side of the hall, and therefore Harry had missed him before, but he half-turned and Harry saw his face in profile. On Trelawney's other side was Draco Malfoy, wearing gray robes and discussing animatedly something requiring large, dramatic gestures with Pomona Sprout across the table.
Harry could not imagine her being amused by any of Malfoy's crueler imitations during his school years. Nevertheless she was smiling faintly, nowhere near as caught up as Malfoy was but nodding along agreeably enough.
He forced himself to keep a neutral face and keep walking. He had testified on behalf of Malfoy's mother, feeling he owed her that much, immediately after the war. He had heard later that while Lucius Malfoy had been convicted and sentenced to life in prison, his wife and son had been acquitted. Other than that, and his brief encounter with Pansy Parkinson several years back, he had not thought of the Malfoys at all.
He had had no idea Draco Malfoy had been hired at Hogwarts.
Harry wondered what position Malfoy taught. He supposed Potions had been open at the end of the war. Skimming the table, he saw that he couldn't identify teachers for Muggle Studies or Charms, either, and of course it was always possible that someone had finally exorcised Binns. In addition to the wizard talking to Trelawney, there was a second unfamiliar face, a witch seated next to Aurora Sinistra and skimming her mail.
He had reached the table and therefore had to sit. With horror, he spotted the closest empty seat, next to Malfoy on the opposite side from Trelawney. He considered detouring around the table to sit next to the unidentified witch, but it would be too obvious he had done it on purpose.
That was no way to start a new job.
He had worked with Theodore Nott once, who had been hired by the Ministry archives. It had been awkward, but bearable. He reminded himself of this, took a breath, and went to sit down. If Malfoy turned out to be absolutely awful, Harry could always claim an urgent need to finish unpacking, or perhaps a consultation from another Auror that couldn't wait. Alternatively he could cast a good, messy looking combat charm on himself and pretend to have unexpectedly relapsed...
"Excuse me," he said, reaching the table. Vector - that was the Arithmancy professor's name - moved her chair a bit to the right to afford him room; he murmured a thank you and sat.
At that moment Malfoy half-turned and recognized him.
A moment of terrible silence followed. He was clearly just as surprised as Harry, and no more pleased; his mouth opened and closed, silently. One hand finished the gesture he had just been making, a kind of diagonal swoop down, open-handed. Harry could not quite imagine what it had been meant to illustrate; had he been discussing Quidditch with Sprout?
Hagrid's enthusiastic greeting and invitation to tea that weekend was a nice distraction. He had in fact seen Hagrid just a few weeks ago, but gratefully clutched this life line.
"I'd love to," he said brightly, and to the table at large, "Nice to be back at Hogwarts."
"It's very strange, isn't it, coming back as an adult?" Vector said. "I remember my first year teaching. I had an awful time getting the students to listen, I was only a couple of years older than them."
"Very strange," he agreed. "Have you, er, any advice about that?"
"You need to be strict," Vector said. He vaguely recalled Hermione's mountains of Arithmancy homework, as well as the occasion a Gryffindor sixth year had burst into tears over one of Vector's tests and had to be taken to the Hospital wing for a Calming Drought, and took this advice somewhat doubtfully. "Otherwise they walk all over you, the most ridiculous excuses--"
Malfoy, unfortunately, rallied and joined the conversation. "Personally, I found the key was making an impression. You remember Professor Snape's lecture, the first day of first year? Riveting."
"I didn't necessarily, ah," Harry said without thinking, "Find his teaching style one I'd want to imitate."
To his surprise, Malfoy laughed. "Oh, yeah, never. But you have to admit you always paid attention in his classes. Of course they learn more if they're not afraid you might bite them."
"What do you teach, then?" Harry asked, relieved by this small sign of normalcy and taking a piece of chicken from a serving dish.
"Charms," Malfoy said. "You remember - well, you can't have forgotten sixth year, what I did." He paused here, as though expecting Harry to say something; but Harry found he had no idea what it was he should say.
Malfoy waited a bit and then went on, "The only thing I enjoyed that whole year was repairing the Vanishing Cabinet - I mean, it was frustrating at first, and any time I thought it might not work I was terrified, but when things were going well it took my mind off of everything else. After - when it was all over I thought I might like to do more of it, taught myself a lot out of book and opened a repair business. Then I heard Flitwick had retired and applied for this position. Of course I'm way too young - so are you, really - but there aren't a lot of options these days. It's--" he glanced over Harry's head, avoiding his eyes, and swallowed-- "All of the casualties from the war."
"Of course," Harry agreed. It was something he had thought himself.
He probably should say something about the war here, perhaps tell Malfoy it hadn't been his fault, reassure him; but of course it was his fault, among others. If he had trusted Dumbledore his parents might have been rescued without anyone dying for it.
But of course Dumbledore had been dying anyway; and Harry found he didn't have the energy for it, any of it. Instead he said, "Do you like teaching, so far? How long have you been doing it?"
Malfoy appeared surprised, then much reassured. "Not long, last year was my first. You've done me a great favor, I'm not the most junior professor anymore. Sometimes the kids are horrors, but I do like it--" This also seemed to surprise him. He had a very expressive face, Harry thought, that was what was so compelling about the imitations-- "At least the actual teaching. The marking's the hard part," he confided, like he was conferring great wisdom. "Everyone hates the marking."
"I was saying to Hermione," Harry agreed, feeling more like he knew what he was doing, "I liked teaching at the - the DA, but of course I didn't have to do any paperwork then."
"Hah. Now you're in for it," Malfoy said, and "Pass the rolls, would you?"
Harry passed the rolls, and Hagrid said something about the thestrals that Harry gratefully seized on as an excuse to stop paying attention to Malfoy, and somehow or other he survived lunch.
At the end of the meal, just when he was thinking he'd escaped without incident, Malfoy turned to him without warning. He said, "So, I can't blame you if you'd rather not think about it for the two weeks you have left. But if you want to know just what you're in for, I've a stack of last year's third year essays I misplaced under a house plant for three months. Want to come have a look?"
Harry would have liked just about anything, including shoveling thestral dung and feeding Blast-Ended Skrewts, better than this. But a voice which sounded suspiciously like a combination of Molly Weasley and Hermione spoke from deep inside his head, saying Be professional, Harry. "Sure," he found himself saying, and standing. "Might as well crush my hopes and dreams early, why don't you?"
"That's the spirit," Malfoy said. Harry found himself, bafflingly, following Malfoy out of the Great Hall, down a flight of steps and to the left and into his private quarters.
This portrait guardian was a medieval and rather anatomically implausible dragon. Malfoy said, "Regina Fong," and the portrait swung open.
The name sounded vaguely familiar. A suspicion developed as to why.
Malfoy's quarters were - nice, actually. Not at all what he would have pictured. The walls were a plainish sort of white, but the rooms were packed with what seemed to be repaired antique furniture, presumably things Malfoy had taught himself with. A trunk with a rather alarming set of silver teeth set along its opening sat under a window, with several large house plants on top of it. Two couches had been put across from each other in the sitting room, with a table in between them. The table had one leg replaced in a subtly different wood, and runes carved along the edge of the surface.
Surprisingly, but in line with the password, a bookshelf full of what looked like Muggle VHS tapes and a few of the newer DVDs was against the wall to one side. Next to it was another with rather more typical books.
"Well, here we are," Malfoy said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway to the next room. For possibly the first time in his life - or at least the first time not directly involving Voldemort - he looked anxious, eyebrows furrowed. "I'll get a book and be very occupied with it if you like, and you can look around and establish I'm not, you know, evil."
Harry blinked. "Is that why you asked me here?"
"Well, I wasn't lying about the essays, I can find them if you want, but I thought--" Malfoy closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Sorry, I had these conversations loads of times right after the war, and again when I was hired here last fall, but I'm out of practice. You don't really have to see anyone working at Hogwarts, not adults who aren't staff. I don't even go grocery shopping anymore."
"What, you went yourself?" Harry asked in disbelief. He was more acquainted with the culture of wealthy Pure-bloods than he had been as a student.
Malfoy smiled, genuinely. "Oh, if you're asking, my mother's still at the manor being waited on by the family house elves. But we had a bit of a disagreement and - I mean, she's come around some, I go home for dinner every so often. But I was living on my own for a few years before I came to Hogwarts. In the Muggle world, actually. Had to get a friend to show me how to make tea by myself and sweep a floor. Bit of an embarrassment, that."
Harry considered this; the password Malfoy had given; and the titles on some of the books, all very subtle but a few he had read himself. "Was the disagreement over you being gay?"
Malfoy blinked a few times. "No, actuallly. It was over politics. I'm quite sure you can guess."
"Sorry," Harry said, realizing he had been tactless. "I just, I was trying to figure out where I'd heard Regina Fong before, and I remembered." It was the name of a drag performer who Harry vaguely recalled had died recently, having seen the obituary in a community newsletter.
"If you're worried I lured you here under false pretenses," Malfoy said, turning it into a more typical mocking drawl instead of a worried question about halfway through the sentence.
"No, no, it's fine. I mean, I am, too. Bi, not gay," he clarified, and searched desperately for a subject change. "How'd you get the movies to work in Hogwarts? You must have a way to play them."
"Oh, that!" Malfoy rallied. "It was a challenge, you're right. There are some established procedures for getting small electrical devices to work around magic but they tend to fail at Hogwarts. There's so much magic here, I mean. But I had a look at a couple of the patents published and read a few books on the subject and--"
Harry understood very little of the explanation that followed. It was a bit like talking to Hermione that way. But Malfoy certainly seemed pleased to give it, and for Harry to nod agreeably and make impressed-seeming 'mhmm' and 'hmm' noises every couple of sentences.
A long-haired cat precisely the slate color of Malfoy's robes wound her way out of the room behind him at this point, miaowed plaintively, and rubbed against his legs. He bent to pick her up, not missing a word: "--so I apply the charm to every movie I bring in, along with the one on the actual device for playing them and of course I had to do two totally different versions for DVDs and videos, but it's working now. Mostly. I make sure I have more than one copy of anything I apply it to because every so often they explode--"
The cat squirmed, and Malfoy absently let her down, not missing a beat.
"Don't worry," Harry said, without thinking. "Your hair's light, I bet you look a lot better than me without eyebrows. Probably no one would notice."
Malfoy stopped. Harry briefly was concerned he was offended, but then he burst out laughing.
"What?" Harry said. The cat came over, and he bent tentatively, offering a hand. She sniffed it, tail twitching behind her, then wandered away towards the couch.
"That's just what Pansy said, is all," Malfoy said, still laughing. "Look, are you going to search my rooms or not?"
"No, but I might take a look at your movies if that's alright. Why are you even offering?" Harry asked, proceeding to the bookcase.
"Well, in the beginning I did a lot of apologizing," Malfoy said, tone glib in that deliberate way Harry was too familiar with by now. "You know, "I'm sorry I insulted-slash-tormented-slash-assaulted you-slash- your insert family member here on date. My family was being held captive by Voldemort, but I understand that I could have resisted-slash-at least been less enthusiastic about it. I have come to understand the magnitude of my actions and wish to do anything I can to atone, signed, Draco Malfoy." But after a while it was hard to make it come off very well because I was having the same conversation over and over, and of course it was always new to them.
"And I've found that what people really want is some assurance I don't want to go back to doing it - I mean, that or they want to punch me in the face and scream swear words at me, but in that case there's not really anything I can say that will help, is there? And you're an Auror, so I thought you might want to look for physical proof.
"I had a speech planned, you know," Malfoy confided, going over to the couch and sitting down next to the gray cat to scratch her chin. She headbutted him and began purring. "There was an apology and a list of things I'd done to you in school and, you know, some things about how heroic and brave you were in contrast--"
"What," Harry said.
"I thought you wouldn't be very impressed if I told you I was afraid to die, since you obviously have never experienced fear. I had a speech," Malfoy repeated. "I was going to go avoid you until you'd had time to find out about me and resign yourself, then go find you with it. But then you went and sat next to me at lunch and I couldn't say any of those things in public, I planned to avoid you and then show up at your office fifteen minutes before a class. That way you'd have to keep a time limit on the yelling and couldn't chase me across the castle to hex me."
""I don't usually hex people," Harry started to say, before remembering a certain incident involving Sectumsempra and hastily repeating, "Anymore. I'm sorry, too," he said. "About that. I had no idea what it would do, and yes, I know how idiotic and reckless it was to find out that way."
"Oh, that," Malfoy said, apparently surprised. "You're right, that was awful of you, wasn't it? I accept your apology for being awful. I understand if you can't accept mine. I mean. I hurt a lot of people who weren't you, too."
"Dumbledore was going to die, anyway," Harry said, suddenly realizing he had no idea if anyone had ever told Malfoy this. "His hand - he'd managed to slow down the curse, but it would have killed him soon. That was why he let you kill him."
Malfoy sighed, heavily. He was fondling the cat's ears, staring intently at them. "I found out a year or two after the war, but thank you for telling me."
"Well," Harry said, awkwardly. "You're right that what you did was awful, and you could have gone to Dumbledore. But I - I understand why you didn't, and we were kids, really, all of us. I can't blame you for the war. I accept the apology. And I don't need to search your quarters."
"Oh." Malfoy said, sounding disconcerted.
An unexpected feeling of pleasure at causing that - at having broken through Malfoy's usual inability to take anything seriously - came over Harry. He shook it off and went to flip through the tapes, several of which were labeled--
"Malfoy," he said, delighted beyond belief. "Is this your performance video?" He thought for a second, he would have to tell Ron, it was so perfect. But of course he couldn't tell Ron, not if Malfoy was private about it in the Wizarding world.
"It is," Malfoy said, looking both embarrassed and proud all at once. "I guess you've watched a few if you recognized my password, haven't you? But that's not the best one, here, take a look at this--" he came over and flipped through several, "It was my first time in heels over an inch and I actually fell off the stage--"
"I bet you're good at it, nobody could ever stop watching you in the Great Hall even when I wanted to kill you for it--" No more than he could stop watching Malfoy now, he thought, and immediately suppressed it.
"You noticed?" Malfoy beamed. Harry supposed he should probably be thinking of him as Draco, much like the rest of the staff, if they were on speaking terms now. "I was such a little shit, wasn't I?" He took the video from Harry and proceeded into the next room, where there proved to be a small TV set with an odd configuration of wires and levers attached to a box on top of the video player.
"Terrible," Harry agreed. There was nowhere to sit but the bed, which seemed too - intimate. Harry stood, awkwardly, by the door while Malfoy - no, Draco, crouched, sliding the VHS tape in and poking the second box with his wand, muttering at it.
Probably he should leave. Professionalism had been accomplished, and he would probably be able to pass by Draco in the staff room or the halls without being so awkward in the future. But he had agreed to watch the video, and he had to admit to a certain curious amusement at the thought of Draco falling off a stage in high heels.
An image flickered on on the TV set, finally, and Draco sat back with a cry of triumph. Harry gave in and went to sit on the bed.
The image showed a crowded muggle bar, and a short stage. It was the kind of place Harry had seen occasionally in the past few years, going with Ginny in solidarity or a few times by himself after they had broken up for good. It shook a few times before steadying, apparently under the control of an inexpert director.
Harry searched for Draco and didn't see him until the music started; then he spotted a pale-haired performer in a lilac dress that put him in mind of Hermione's clothing at Bill and Fleur's wedding and very high golden heels at the edge of the screen, marching determinedly for the stairs.
He did not look particularly excited or expressive; if anything he looked rather like he might be sick. But he looked over his shoulder, seemed to notice the camera, and morphed instantly into something at once more and less recognizable: grinning a bit maliciously for the camera - that might be Harry's imagination - and walking in an exaggerated way, aware of the crowd in a way he hadn't been a moment before, ascending the stairs with unusual care and turning with relief as someone announced the act--
And promptly missing the stage and toppling off again.
Harry winced, but both on the screen and in the room with him Draco laughed hysterically. On the screen, Draco straightened, reassuring the crowd he was fine, then discovered he had broken a heel and cursed. He took the shoe off and waved it at the crowd. The present Draco reached for his wand, waving off the video.
"I was watching that," Harry protested, finding himself teasing Draco without the conscious approval of his brain.
Of course, Draco was flirting with him. It was obvious, now that he actually let himself consider it. Harry had started it when he asked about the video. He had known it, just hadn't acknowledged it to himself.
"You don't want to watch that," Draco said. "The rest of it's terrible, I mentioned it was early, right? I can show you my recent ones," he said, placating. "They're much better. Also I am wearing fewer clothes in them."
"Oh, well, that's the important part," Harry said.
"You are being afforded a privilege, you should be grateful for it," Draco said severely, coming to sit next to him on the bed.
Harry was a little surprised, but less disturbed than he'd expected, to find himself leaning in when Draco kissed him.
"Are you sure about this?" Harry said, though an embarrassing amount of kissing had passed before he had brought himself to do it. "You thought I wanted to search your apartment for the Aurors a few minutes ago. I--"
"Yes, I am bribing you to overlook my obvious criminality," Draco said, face flushed and eyes half closed, but still able to go on endlessly, voice smooth. "You corrupt, exploitive Auror you. Any moment now, you'll discover that the cat's license is six weeks out of date and use this fact to force me to act out your darkest whims. I assume they involve Blast-Ended Skrewts, since you were so enthusiastic about them at school, and making me fill out your teaching reports. Be quiet."
"Well," Harry said, laughing despite himself. "If you're sure."
"If you don't like it we shall never speak again except to glower at each other at breakfast," Draco declared, burying a hand in Harry's hair. "And curse each other for stealing the last piece of tart."
"Don't go that far," Harry said, and Draco took his glasses off.
"Later we should talk," he murmured, perhaps fifteen minutes after this. "I mean, actually talk." They were both wearing less clothing than they had started with, and Draco had become intent on removing a few more pieces than Harry normally did on first dates. "About this. And. What we've been doing. I don't really know you. Or you me."
"Yes, of course," Draco said blithely, unfastening all of the little catches in Harry's robes it had taken him twenty minutes to manage without any trouble at all. "I'll tell you the story about when I was living with muggles, I bet it'll amuse you, one time I almost burnt the kitchen down with the gas stove. I had to tell my roommates I'd been raised in a cult. Honestly, you still go around fully dressed under these? It wasn't just pants? Hold still while I get your shirt buttons."
"Yeah," Harry said, having taken in perhaps a quarter of the actual words. "Sure." He kissed Draco again.