Chapter 1: Are we out of the woods yet?
Chapter Text
“What persuaded you to apply for this position, Mr Potter?” Professor McGonagall looks at Harry over her large, intimidating desk, so reminding him of his first year at Hogwarts that he swallows nervously. He loves her dearly, as his former teacher and a friend, but right now her expression is firmly set on ‘no nonsense headmistress’ and he has to remind himself that he is not an eleven year old who snuck out of bed at night but a man of nearly twenty-five who is applying for a job.
“Well, obviously I’m passionate about Defense against the Dark Arts,” Harry says and immediately hates the words as they come out of his mouth. Conscripted into a war at eleven doesn’t exactly translate into ‘passionate.’ “Uh, I mean to say that one of the most inspiring teachers I ever had was for DADA. Re-...Professor Lupin’s lessons were always well taught and interesting and he made time for students if they had a problem or were struggling.” Without meaning to, his mind flashes back to sitting in Remus’ office, drinking tea and talking. He’d never had a teacher like that before. Like they were friends. Like his opinion meant something.
“I guess I’m saying that I’d like to make a difference like that in someone’s life,” Harry finishes, hoping he’s getting his message across. Applying for the position was always a risk. McGonagall wasn’t going to be one of those to give him what he wanted just because he’s Harry Potter. With a pang, he thinks that maybe she won’t give him the job because he’s Harry Potter.
“Why did you decide against becoming an auror?” McGonagall asks curiously, eyes gentle behind her glasses. Surely she already knows the answer - or at least can guess at it - but she’s giving him a chance to be truthful.
“Because I’ve had enough of fighting,” Harry says, honestly. And that right there is the core of everything. That’s all he’s done his entire life - fighting to survive, fighting Voldemort - and he’s sick to the back teeth of it. He’d left school with his excellent NEWTs scores and when faced with the offer for the ministry, hadn’t been able to stifle the panic in his belly. The letter had been shoved in the bread-bin and abandoned. Every time he’d tried to look at it, he’d broken out in sweats. He lay awake at night and when he did sleep, he dreamt of flashes of green light and endless screaming. The thought of late nights stakeouts and cruelty and flying curses...being an auror wasn’t too different from his year hiding out with Ron and Hermione. And it had taken a lot of time for him to realise that it wasn’t what he wanted anymore.
“Mate, it’s alright if you don’t want to do this,” Ron had said, brow creased with concern.
“Harry, do you think that maybe it’s alright for you to take a break, just for once?” was Hermione’s contribution after she’d found the scrunched up letter shoved behind a loaf of Hovis.
“You’re an idiot,” Ginny had said ruthlessly, plying him with Molly’s homemade biscuits. “Why are you forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do?”
So he hadn’t. And the day he’d sent an owl back, turning down their offer had been the day he’d finally slept all through the night.
“It’s all I’ve ever done,” Harry continues. He fiddles nervously with the sleeve of his smart robes. He’s aware that he’s being a lot more open with his former teacher than he would normally be in an interview. But after all they’ve been through, he reckons that she deserves it. “And I decided that I wanted the chance to do something else for a change.”
“Which you certainly have done,” McGonagall says, with a carefully raised eyebrow. ”Charity and travel, public appearances...several temporary jobs. You worked in Mr Weasley’s shop for a while, didn’t you?” Harry’s ears burn as he meets her gaze.
“I did,” he says. He’s worrying at his sleeve so much he’s probably fraying it. Molly won’t be happy if he goes to her with holes in his best robes. “George offered me one during a slow patch. I don’t like sitting around. He said as I was an investor, I should maybe put some work in.”
“And you didn’t choose to stay at any of these enterprises because?” McGonagall pushes, looking at him over her glasses. Harry has the unnerving feeling that she’s looking for something. Some answer that will let her know whether he deserves this job or not.
“Because…” Harry says and then pauses, looking for the right words. He could probably spend the rest of his life without a steady job, Merlin knows he has the money. But he hadn’t wanted that. He’d had a brief vacation and then flung himself into whatever he could find. Volunteering at St. Mungo’s, doing research for Hermione about rehabilitation in wizarding London, even baking with Molly...he took on every task, trying as many things as he could, feeling like he had to make up for the time he’d lost. He’d enjoyed many of them and they all made him feel like he was doing something worthwhile.
But the problem was, none of them were right for him.
“Because they weren’t where I was meant to be,” Harry says firmly. “Ron was always meant to be an auror. He’s a strategist, he’s brilliant at it. And Hermione is clever and determined to make a difference to the laws we have, so she was easy too. All of my friends had a calling, somewhere they were meant to be when they left school. All of them,” he says, thinking of George making the world laugh and Ginny making a name for herself at Quidditch and Neville going to do research on magical plants.
“Turns out I’d always been where I was meant to be,” he says, finally turning his eyes to his right where he knows the portrait of Dumbledore is watching. As he suspected, the old man was watching him carefully from the frame. He’d tried his best when he’d set foot in the door to not look at his former Headmaster. But he did what Dumbledore wanted him to do. The rest of his life is up to him. “It took me a little while to realise it but I want to be what Lupin was. A teacher. A good one.”
McGonagall tilts her head slightly and then sighs heavily.
“Thank you, Potter, that will be all,” she says crisply, tapping her wand on the piece of paper in front of her so that it curls up and turns black, finally vanishing into a wisp of smoke. Harry feels dread curling in his stomach. They’ve barely been here ten minutes. He hasn’t had a great many interviews but he feels like that’s not how it’s supposed to go. Surely he can’t have failed that badly?
But McGonagall is pulling herself up from her chair, rising elegantly. She collects her wand and stows it away up her sleeve before gesturing to Harry.
“If you’d like to follow me please?” she asks and feeling cowed, Harry obeys. He takes one last look at Dumbledore’s portrait and wonders if maybe he really has let his former mentor down. Sure, he defeated Voldemort and saved the Wizarding World but it looks like the world outside of school is a different matter.
He follows McGonagall down the stairs and through a corridor to the grand staircase. Hogwarts is silent, it being the summer holidays and the only creature they see is Mrs Norris, quietly licking her paws. She watches them cross the quad balefully, golden eyes never moving until they’ve vanished through the archway.
He thinks at first that maybe they’re going to the Gryffindor tower but they don’t make the turn for the staircase. Instead, they wind through the corridors to a very familiar room.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom hasn’t changed much since Harry’s time here, five years ago. The dragon skeleton hasn’t moved from its place on the ceiling, overlooking the neatly arranged tables and chairs. The previous teacher must have removed most of the personal effects as the walls and surfaces are mostly bare, leaving it a blank slate for the incoming teacher. With the professor changing every year, Harry had seen everything from magical creature posters to all of those large smiling portraits of Lockhart.
“Well?” McGonagall asks expectantly. Harry looks at her in confusion. He’s not entirely sure of what she’s asking.
“There’s an office to the back, up those stairs,” she says, gesturing. “Although I’m certain you already know that. And the quarters are attached to the office. They’re not much but they’re comfy enough. Private bathroom, small kitchen should you not feel like coming to the great hall. They’ve been left empty a while so I expect they could all use a good, hard clean,” McGonagall says, with a delicate wrinkle of her nose. Harry stares at her, open mouthed.
“Sorry, Professor,” he says. “But do you mean to say...I’ve got the job?” McGonagall’s mouth splits into a rare smile.
“I do mean to say,” she confirms. “Honestly, Potter, I’ve known you since you were a boy. I know what kind of person you are and what you stand for. I think Hogwarts could use someone like you. And besides, you had excellent marks when you had a...competent teacher.” Again her nose wrinkles in disgust, no doubt remembering the likes of Lockhart, Umbridge and Quirrell. “And no one here would doubt your real world credentials. Over all, you have a good knowledge of dark creatures, curses and potions, as well as their practical use and counterspells. I think the students will be lucky to have you.” Buoyed by her praise, Harry returns her smile.
He’s done it. He’s the new DADA teacher. Hogwarts is his home again. Although, he backtracks slightly, he will have to make a stop to Grimmauld Place to pack and make arrangements. And clean, if McGonagall’s description of his new quarters is accurate. And he has to tell his friends...He’s not supposed to see Ron and Hermione until Friday but can he wait that long to tell them?
Harry exhales and turns again to look at the classroom, his mind ticking over with ways to make it his. More books, he thinks, and some informative posters on the walls. He wants to rearrange the desks, so they can easily be pushed back for a space to practice wandwork in. Maybe he can even get a grindylow for his office, like Lupin had.
“I’ll make you proud,” he promises, and he could be talking to McGonagall, Lupin or even Dumbledore. He wonders briefly about the Snape portrait up in the Headmistress’ office, yet another DADA teacher that passed through these halls, cursed to only hold the position for a year.
“Uh, Professor?” he asks, frozen by a sudden thought. “Why did the previous teacher leave?”
“Minerva will do just fine now that we’re going to be colleagues,” she chides him gently before clicking her tongue. Clearly she can see his train of thought. “And Professor Sinclair left because her husband is an American Wizard. They've returned to his native country and as she held the position from Hogwarts’ rebuilding to now, there is no need to worry about that curse, Mr Potter!” Harry grins, no longer as scared of her as he was sitting across from her in her office.
“Just wondering, Professor. Minerva,” he corrects himself, the name not quite falling off his tongue. Still, he’ll get there.
“We expect all teachers to arrive a week before the beginning of the school year,” Minerva says briskly. “To set up classrooms, have lesson plans prepared and be there to assist with the incoming students. Will that be quite alright with you?” Her tone suggests that any other answer than a positive is not acceptable but Harry has no problem with that. The last week of August is a little over four weeks away. Four weeks until he’s back in the first place he truly called home. Until he’ll be known as Professor Potter.
“That’ll be just fine,” he says.
“Harry, this is really great,” Hermione says admiringly, as she slides another of his brand new textbooks onto the shelf. Harry just beams at her, too delighted to say anything.
The last four weeks have been a whirlwind. Harry has barely stopped since he’d arrived back at Grimmauld Place after his interview. But it’s been worth it, Harry thinks as he looks around the classroom. This is all his now.
Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real. He’s certain that he’s going to pinch himself and wake up at an auror’s desk, slumped over paperwork and utterly miserable. Or even back at Grimmauld Place, trying yet again to figure out where he’s meant to be. But instead he’s here, with his friends, making the final adjustments to his new classroom. His birthday had passed by in the chaos, celebrated only by a small dinner at Ron and Hermione’s. Hermione predictably bought him a planner for the new school year. Ron just bought him Firewhiskey. ‘In case the little shits drive you to drink,’ he’d said before Hermione returned with the cake.
“More books,” Ron groans, stumbling in the door, carrying yet another box. “How many do you need?”
“I may have gone a bit mad,” Harry admits sheepishly. “But they had so many I’d never read and I wanted to cover all of the bases, you know? Dark creatures and spells and potions…” Ron dumps the box down by Hermione, who doesn’t waste a moment breaking into it and pulling out the first book she sees.
“Dark Curses and Protections in Wizarding Ancient Egypt,” she reads out, before flicking open to the first page. “Can I borrow this?”
Ron not so discreetly rolls his eyes. “I’ll go get another box. Try to keep her from bringing all of your reference books home, okay?”
“I’ll try,” Harry says, not entirely confident in his ability to keep Hermione from something she wants to read. Filling the shelves wouldn’t have taken her so long if she didn’t keep stopping to investigate every book. However, at least she is doing something. He appears to have lost half of his unpacking team. Ginny went to fetch another box twenty minutes ago and hasn’t returned, and Luna is lost back in his private quarters. He just hopes she’s not trying to set up protections against nargles or something. “Where the hell did Ginny get to?”
Ron shrugs. “Skiving off from lifting the heaviest boxes?” he suggests, halfway out of the door.
“I’d believe if it Ginny weren’t stronger than you,” Hermione counters, not even bothering to look up at her boyfriend. Harry suppresses a smirk at Ron’s scowl, although he doesn’t counter it. All that Quidditch training has made Ginny incredibly strong.
“Seriously though, where is she?” Harry asks, putting down the posters he had been holding and heading towards the back of the classroom. Maybe she’s been in his new living quarters, filling the cupboards with tea bags and Molly’s good biscuits. Molly had somehow managed to get him to accept a box filled to the brim with food, somehow under the belief that he would forget to feed himself. He thinks she’s exaggerating a little bit but is still grateful. This week promises to be full on, starting with meeting his fellow teachers and ending with the arrival of thousands of new students. Students he has to teach and inspire and discipline. He hasn’t told anyone but that’s the part he’s most terrified of. At the end of the day, they outnumber him and he has his own memories of the teachers he disliked, mistrusted and outright hated. He wants to be like Lupin. He can even deal with being like Moody, minus the whole ‘Death Eater in disguise’ issue. So long as he tries to do everything that Umbridge wouldn’t do, he figures he’ll be okay.
Which is fine in theory. In practice, he’s still terrified.
His new living quarters reveal nothing other than Luna in his new kitchen, carefully stacking tins by colour. She has an intense look of concentration on her face as she decides whether to stack the pineapple or sweetcorn first. Having his food in a particular order isn’t of vital importance to him but it seems to make her happy.
“Have you seen Ginny?” he asks and she looks up, startled. Her new earrings - tiny planets - spin in place with the sudden movement.
“Not recently,” she says, pink lipsticked mouth twisting in a frown. “She was here, unpacking your clothes but I haven’t seen her for a while. I think she went to get another suitcase?”
“Okay,” Harry says. “Thanks, Luna.” He heads back, through the office and down the stairs, where Hermione has her head buried in yet another book. Presumably Ginny got waylaid on her way back. The floo in his office was temporarily taken offline, as his predecessor apparently hadn’t liked having one so close to her living quarters. Unfortunately, this meant bringing everything through to the Transfiguration classroom. It was the closest option they had but it didn’t feel like it when they had to move stacks of boxes and furniture through the corridors. Luckily, the Transfiguration teacher hasn’t arrived yet, so at least they’re not disturbing anyone.
“I’m going to get another box,” he says to Hermione, who only nods distantly. He suspects that she hasn’t actually heard a word he said. He also suspects he’s not getting that copy of ‘A complete guide to Lethifolds’ back.
He heads out of the classroom and swings a right down the corridor. It’s a fairly straight shot past the courtyard to the Transfiguration classrooms. Profess….Minerva no longer teaches so he doesn’t know who teaches there now. He knows a good few of the staff from his time at Hogwarts have moved on, mostly to retire or to pursue other interests. He hopes that a few of the newer teachers will be in the same boat that he is and be more amenable to making friends.
The Transfiguration door is open but the room only contains Ron, shifting boxes about. The room is considerably fuller than the last time Harry was here so presumably George has sent more through from the other end of the Floo.
“I didn’t know I owned this much stuff,” Harry says, uncertainly and neatly sidestepping a potted plant. Ron grunts and heaves a heavy box out of the fireplace as it flares a bright green.
“Maybe it didn’t look all that much in Grimmauld Place,” he says. “Also you bought tons of crap when you got this job.”
“It’s not crap,” Harry says in amusement, slightly protective of his new teaching equipment. Maybe he did buy more than he needed but he wanted to be sure he had everything. He’s had a vision of what his classroom would look like since the moment he applied for the job. “I need that stuff.” Ron gives him a stern look, that’s slightly ruined by the pink flush of exertion on his face.
“And you absolutely weren’t going overboard at any point,” he says dryly. “Is the fetal pig absolutely necessary?”
“Maybe not,” Harry says defensively. “I just thought it looked cool.”
“Well, I will give you that one,” Ron says with a grin. “It is pretty cool. Hermione would never let me have one in the house.”
“She would not,” Harry agrees. It’s a testament to their love that Hermione allows so much Chudley Cannons merchandise to clutter up their London apartment but he thinks it won’t allow for a dead pig. “Hey, have you seen Ginny? Luna said she came to get another suitcase and she’s pretty much vanished.”
“No, she wasn’t in here when I came in,” Ron says, straightening up with a groan. “But with Ginny who knows where she might have got to. Maybe she’s off meeting your new colleagues.”
“She’s been gone a while,” Harry notes. “Although it sounds about right that she’d make friends with my colleagues quicker than I can.” Because that was how it had always been. Fun-loving Ginny had no trouble settling in with new people. After a few days with her new Quidditch team, she had them all over for margaritas and karaoke. But years of being in the limelight and endless discussion of ‘what is Harry Potter up to now?’ has made Harry suspicious of new people.
“You share a castle with your new co-workers,” chides a voice behind them. “You should actually try and get to know them.” Ginny stands in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. Her dungarees bear dust on both the knees and she has an old flashing Holyhead Harpies badge pinned to her chest.
“Where have you been?” Harry asks curiously. Ginny merely flicks a strand of red hair over her shoulder, unbothered.
“I went to the kitchens to ask if they could bring us some drinks. And yes, I asked for food as well,” she adds, catching sight of Ron’s hopeful face. “I think mum has raised your expectations too high of having food available at all times. Hermione isn’t going to stand for that.”
“It took you a long time,” Ron points out. “We wondered if a staircase had devoured you whole or something.”
Ginny quite sensibly ignores him, while Harry mouths ‘that doesn’t even make any sense!’ at him over her head.
“Get another box, Ron, and stop complaining. I just...ran into someone. That’s all,” she says, with a casual shrug. She easily heaves a bag over her shoulder and scoops up a small box into her arms.
“Someone?” Harry and Ron say at once. It’s not like Ginny to be so cagey.
“Just someone I wanted to talk to,” she says and it’s clear from the set of her jaw that she’s not willing to give anymore details. She vanishes out of the door with her load, in a whirlwind of red hair and disdain.
“Shit. What’s with her?” Ron says, looking equally stunned at Ginny’s unusual attitude. Ginny is many things: a flirt, wild, occasionally brutal with her teasing...but never distant. Something has rattled her. Something that she’s not willing to share.
“Couldn’t say,” Harry says, bending to pick up a box and then abandoning it when it’s also labelled ‘Books.’ Fuck, how many did he buy? Another box that has ‘shoes’ scribbled on in Sharpie looks preferable. He envies Ginny’s strength, naturally built up from training and clinging onto a broom in all weather. He misses playing Quidditch, not getting many chances and even less to have a proper game. These days it’s just a case of messing around on brooms in the Weasley’s garden after Sunday lunch, and no one puts in much effort after being too full of Molly’s roast lamb. It’s fun and chaotic and ends with them drinking hot chocolate on the lawn in an exhausted heap but somehow it’s not the same as the rush of an actual game. He can watch the games here, he realises with a jolt of excitement. Of course, he always could before, no one was going to dissuade Harry Potter in the stands watching his old house play but he can have that full experience again as a teacher.
“So...uh,” Ron starts and Harry can see the tips of his ears go red, which usually means that Ronis trying to bring up an uncomfortable topic. “You and her haven’t talked recently?”
“Talked?” Harry says, feigning ignorance and not as though he and Ron have had this conversation about six times over the last year. Without fail, it comes around every few months, usually after Harry and Ginny have been getting along especially well or fall back into their natural banter. He’s not entirely sure why Ron would bring it up now.
“Yeah. About…” Ron pauses, looking for the right words and dawdling by looking for a box, despite the fact that the floor is littered with them. He clearly doesn’t want to have this conversation where they can be overheard, especially as Hermione would probably just tell him off again. “Well, about you two,” he finishes awkwardly.
Harry shifts the box in his arms with a groan and briefly debates putting it down again. “Why would we talk about us? And what about her being prickly just now suggests that we have?”
“Just that maybe she meant ‘someone’ when she said someone,” Ron explains sheepishly. “There’s other teachers here, maybe people our age. She might have bumped into someone and not wanted to say that she got distracted flirting.” Harry gives a huff of laughter and drops the box back down. Clearly they’re not going anywhere.
“Ron, we broke up over a year ago,” he points out. “Ages ago. We’re good friends now, and we’ve been on dates with other people. I think we both know that eventually we’re gonna meet someone else.” Ron looks deflated. Despite his reservations when Harry and Ginny first got together, Harry thinks that Ron probably liked the idea of his best friend becoming a permanent member of the family. Harry had liked it too. But it hadn’t worked out that way.
“But you got on so well together,” Ron says mournfully.
“We still do,” Harry says defensively, and quite rightly because fuck, did they work at it. Their break up had been pretty mutual but even so, Harry had had to stay away from the Burrow and lunches for a while. They hadn’t been able or ready to see each other for a few months and Harry had missed her. They weren’t meant for each other but she was still one of his best friends. Finally being able to be in the same room as each other was a relief, as though a limb he’d been missing had returned.
“I know,” Ron says. “I just thought…”
“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. He’s a little bemused. He’d thought that after he’d dated that Irish witch for a few months that Ron would be past this. “Ginny’s free to date who she likes. Although one of my new colleagues might be a bit weird,” he amends. “We’re used to the idea of dating other people, I’m not sure either of us want it right in front of us.”
Ron nods and hopefully that seems to be the end of this round of ‘Why don’t you and Ginny get back together?’ But there’s still the matter of boxes and boxes littering some poor Transfiguration teacher’s office.
“Do you think we can levitate all of this instead?” Ron says, wrinkling his nose.
They stop for lunch amidst the collection of boxes and loose cardboard and assorted lamps that litter the half finished classroom. They don’t bother with the countless chairs that are lying around, instead pulling out a blanket from Harry’s luggage and laying it on the ground. They eat sandwiches and scotch eggs and mini eclairs, as though they are sixteen again and not people in their twenties, with budding careers and home lives.
“That cheddar is to die for,” Ron swoons, as he manages to fit a slice and half a pork pie into his mouth at once. Ginny wrinkles her nose.
“If you chew with your mouth open, that can be arranged!” she threatens and Ron hurriedly clamps his mouth shut. Harry hides his smile behind a sausage roll but honestly, he agrees with Ron. He’d forgotten how good Hogwarts food is. There are even miniature treacle tarts.
“You’d think you’d be used to it by now,” Harry says instead.
“Used to it, yes. It’s still gross,” Ginny says, folding a slab of cheddar and chutney inbetween a piece of crusty bread. She seems to have cooled since earlier, although she’s still not willing to discuss who she ran into on her way to the kitchens. When the house elves turned up with their lunch, he caught her looking at him with a strange, worried expression, but it was gone when she pulled out her wand to shift the tables and chairs back.
It would be entirely stupid and presumptous to think that after all this time that she’s having a change of heart. They have dated other people, but sparsely. Harry went on two blind dates - both disastrous - but at the beginning of this year he did manage a few months with Siobhan, a healer at St. Mungo’s. She was perfectly lovely but it just fizzled out. They didn’t have enough in common to keep going.
Ginny, on the other hand, appears to have dated much more frequently. With her job and naturally outgoing personality, she meets far more people. Harry only met Siobhan because he turned up at St. Mungo’s needing his wrist to be reset, after a particularly icy winter morning and his front steps. Ginny gets invited to parties and outings and Quidditch matches that she’s not even playing in. However, it’s either worrying or comforting that she also hasn't had a significant relationship since they split.
He doesn’t think that he wants to get back together with Ginny. They get on well together and he is the first to admit that she’s beautiful- even now, in her dungarees with dust on the knees and a dot of chutney on her lip. Their relationship had been fun and easy, it was just…
Harry frowns. Even now he’s not sure how to explain why their relationship fell apart. It was just missing...something.
“I miss Neville,” Luna says distantly, looking at a tomato as though it holds all the answers. She’s been a little quiet today. Harry isn’t surprised that them all being together would make her miss Neville. While she gets on very well with all of them, she and Neville have always been close, two gentle souls together.
“I know, Luna,” Harry says, patting her knee. “We do too. It’s not quite right without him here.”
“I’d say he doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, but he’s probably happy as a pig in shit, in some rainforest, collecting specimens,” Ron says bluntly. Hermione rolls her eyes.
“That’s a lovely turn of phrase, Ronald,” she says primly. “But you’re probably right. He loves magical flora as much as….well, Ginny loves Quidditch or…”
“Ron loves bacon?” Harry suggests. Ron makes a face before considering it.
“I do love bacon,” he admits, eyes flickering over the diminished spread in front of them. “This is definitely missing some bacon. ‘Mione, do you think-?”
“No,” Hermione, Harry and Ginny all chorus. There's a considerable attempt on their part to reduce Ron’s intake of bacon, out of fear he might not live to see forty otherwise.
Ron wrinkles his nose, looking put out. “Fine,” he sighs. “No bacon.”
Harry watches his friends eat, feeling terribly fond of them. He spent so long without family that sometimes it feels strange to count all of the people who love him. People drift after school,he knows that much, and while there are friends he doesn’t see or talk to often, he’s grateful that didn’t happen to these few people. He can’t live without seeing Hermione and Ron on Friday nights or Ginny talking about her latest matches at Sunday lunch or Luna sending him a batch of her latest strange baking creations. He has letters on his corkboard from Neville, detailing the beautiful wild flowers he’s found on his research trip. Postcards from Seamus and Dean in Ireland and boxes of new products from George arriving in the post.
“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asks, catching sight of his face as she refills their drinks.
“Just happy,” Harry says, holding out his own goblet. All of those pork pies have made him thirsty.
“We should have a toast,” Ron insists, holding up his now full goblet and, bemused, they all scramble to do the same. He clears his throat, all ceremony. The regal air clashes with his bright Holyhead Harpies t-shirt.
“To us - and Neville. May things only get better from here, whether our futures lie in sports, politics, government, magical flora or fauna or molding young minds. Please try to not fuck that last one up, Harry.” Harry makes a face of mock outrage.
“So long as you're not Umbridge, you’re fine,” Ginny advises him, echoing his earlier concern back at him.
“Or Quirrell.”
“Definitely not Lockhart!” Ron mutters with some distaste.
“Or Snape!” Luna finishes, looking horrified.
“Christ,” Ron says, horror dawning on his face. “It’s a miracle we got a good education. Did they not have very good hiring procedures when Dumbledore was alive?”
“I still reckon that he met Lockhart and just thought it would be a good laugh,” Ginny says, darkly.
“Knowing him, that’s probably horrifically true,” Harry says, draining the last of his pumpkin juice.
“I swear to be better than the terrible teachers we had at school. Acceptable?”
“You’re going to be brilliant, Harry,” Luna says softly. Harry pats her hand, touched by her certainty. His friends responded to the news with overwhelming joy, all absolutely sure that Harry is where he’s meant to be. But that doesn’t stop the fear that creeps up Harry’s spine every so often. And tonight he meets some of his new colleagues for the very first time.
“Merlin, I hope so,” he says and swipes the last eclair out from under Ron’s nose.
Harry attempts to smooth his hair yet again before finally admitting defeat. He’s going to have to meet his new colleagues with wild hair. Start as you mean to go on, he supposes. He’s pretty sure he’s had messy hair all his life and it’s not about to change.
He takes one final look at himself in the mirror and hopes dearly that he’s going to make a good first impression. Aside from the hair, he doesn’t look half bad. New robes, new glasses, neatly shaved...he almost looks like a professor.
‘I am a professor,’ he thinks to himself, as though it might stick. “Professor Potter.’
Nope. Still weird. With a sigh, he stashes his wand in his robes and turns away from the mirror. Dinner will start soon and he doesn’t want to be late. Minerva had stressed the importance of this night, when all of the teachers have dinner in the Great Hall and meet each other for the first time. There are several new teachers this year, so he won’t be alone, but it’s daunting that most of the present faculty already know each other. He won’t even have the advantage of recognising a lot of them from his own time here. Quite a few retired after the war, so many so that it worries him he’ll only have Professor Binns to chat to. He hopes dearly it won’t come to that or he’ll die in the middle of dinner out of boredom and join the ranks of ghosts.
His friends had left him a few hours earlier, Hermione and Ron first (Hermione leaving with at least six books and he’s only lucky that she didn’t take more.) They both have work the next day and after giving up their whole Sunday, he doesn’t blame them for wanting an evening to themselves. And when Luna made signs of wanting to leave, Ginny did too. It hurts a little but he wonders if she’s that uncomfortable with being alone with him. They never have before, always surrounded by family or friends or her Quidditch teammates when they’re together.
She’d paused right before she’d followed Luna out of the door, looking as though she was on the brink of saying something. In the end, she’d merely hugged him and vanished, to the Transfiguration classroom so she could floo to the Burrow, before apparating back to her flat. It had left Harry feeling confused and a little lonely.
“We’re not getting back together,” Harry mutters, under his breath, in a strange fierce mantra. “We’re not. And I’m not going to cave because I have a new job and it’s scary and I’m away from my friends.”
Speaking of which...he really should leave. He checks his appearance, yet again, even though it can’t possibly have changed in the last few minutes and steps out of his bedroom. His living room/kitchen are fairly organised, thanks to Luna. His office will need some work before the students arrive and Hermione and Ron worked like ogres setting up his new classroom, but somehow his bedroom has been neglected. There’s only so much you can do in one day and so long as his bed has fresh sheets, he can deal with the mess. It’s not like anyone is going to see that room. If ever.
It has occurred to him that he may meet someone here. But if it didn’t work and they broke up, sharing a castle might be hard. Maybe best to not get involved with co-workers.
But he’s never going to find out if he doesn’t just fucking go.
His stomach is churning with nerves as he steps into the Great Hall. It seems strange to walk in and it not be filled to the brim with children, eating and filling the hall with noise. Instead there’s a small group of distinguished adults clustered near the top table and Harry has to find his nerve, before he walks down to meet them.
Hagrid is the first to see him, face crinkling with joy. Harry had raced out of the castle down to Hagrid’s hut not long after his interview had ended, so Hagrid was the first person to officially hear of the news. It felt right - after all, Hagrid was the one to bring him to Hogwarts all those years ago.
“Harry!” he booms, delighted and pats Harry on the shoulder. “Good to see you.” Harry takes the ‘pat’ with the tiniest wince. Hagrid still doesn’t quite know his own strength.
“Am I late?” Harry asks but Hagrid shakes his head.
“Not at all. We’re still waiting on some teachers, especially the new ones like you. Merlin, Minerva’s not even here yet!”
“That doesn’t sound like her,” Harry says, letting Hagrid draw him closer to the cluster of witches and wizards at the far end of the hall. Now that he’s closer, Harry can see several familiar faces and a flood of relief sweeps through him. “I’d expect her to be first.”
“Ah, she’s a busy lady,” Hagrid rumbles. “Don’t know what we’d do without her. She doesn’t teach anymore, did yeh know?”
“I think so,” Harry says. Weird. He’d have expected Minerva to be the first here. Even weirder will be meeting her replacement. He certainly wouldn’t like to have applied for that role. It was scary enough applying for a different subject. Minerva has high standards, especially when it came to her lessons. She wouldn’t expect anything less than perfect from her replacement.
Several of his former professors are first to come up to greet him. Flitwick beams with delight from behind his beard.
“Happy to have you here, Harry!” Flitwick enthuses, as Harry bends to shake his hand. “Wonderful to have some young blood!”
“Speak for yourself,” grumbles Hooch but her eyes are warm when she shakes his hand. “I expect you’ll take an interest in Quidditch, hey, Potter?”
“You’ve no idea,” Harry agrees, with a grin. “ I’ll be at every match I can get to.”
“I’d expect nothing less from one of our best seekers,” she says, taking a step back for Madam Pomfrey to take her turn.
“Of course, we’ll be Filius, Rolanda and Poppy to you now,” Madam Pomfrey says. “It might take some getting used to. Just please, turn up less in the hospital wing than you did in school.”
“I had good reasons for those,” Harry says defensively. “Dementors and willows and...well, Lockhart.” Poppy rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
“Well, I will give you that last one,” she admits. Rolanda’s hawk-like eyes narrow sharply.
“That Lockhart was a complete fool,” she says contemptuously. “As if I’ve never had broken bones on my Quidditch pitch before!” Poppy pats her arm.
“I believe you never had the joy of being taught by these good people,” she says to Harry, gesturing to the people behind them. Harry turns his attention to the crowd of witches he vaguely recognises from his school days.
“Aurora Sinistra - Astrology.” This is the dark skinned witch, with high cheekbones and a copper coloured hat. “Bathsheda Babbling - Ancient Runes.” This is an older witch, with sharp eyes and greying hair pulled back in a tight bun. And Septima Vector - Arithmancy.” This is a dark haired witch in ruby robes. All three smile and shake his hand.
“Hopefully, I’ll get to know all three of you better,” Harry promises, as he leaves them to resume their conversations. There’s something of a clatter as a young witch in bright aquamarine robes hurries down the Great Hall. Harry doesn’t recognise her and judging from the panic on her face, she’s also new.
“I’m not late, am I?” she asks, heart-shaped face flushed with red. She must have dashed all the way here.
“Not at all,” Poppy assures her. “Harry here has only just arrived as well.” The witch smooths back her thick blonde curls, wild from her race across the castle and beams.
“Thank Merlin,” she proclaims. “That wouldn’t be a good first impression. I’m Harper Scott. I’ll be teaching Muggle Studies.” Harry takes her hand when she offers it.
“Harry,” he says, deliberately missing out his surname. “I’ve just started too. Defense Against The Dark Arts.”
It’s as Harper is introducing herself to the others that another witch arrives. This one sweeps in gracefully, in robes of deep scarlet that flatters her golden brown complexion and matches the lipstick she wears. She pauses, lingering on the edges of the group, not as willing to insert herself as Harper had. But the Arithmancy professor notices her hesitation and steps forward.
“Stella!” Septima says warmly, placing a hand on the new witch’s shoulder and pulling her into the circle. “Harry, Harper, this is Stella Imago. She teaches Divination.” Stella nods coolly at them, her dark eyes appraising the new additions. She appears to be a young woman in her thirties, her long dark hair pulled back into a professional, complicated plait. She’s a far cry from the Divination teachers that Harry is used to.
“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, offering her his hand. After a beat, she takes it.
“And you,” she says and Harry is surprised by the subtle French accent in her voice.
“We’re still waiting on quite a few people, aren’t we?” Aurora says, with a frown. “It’s very unlike the Headmistress to be so late.”
But as soon as she’s finished speaking the doors open, revealing Minerva. She looks harried, mouth set in a small, thin line.
“Are we all here?” she says, when she arrives at the group. As one, it seems the assembled company decide to not comment on her crooked hat or the lines in her forehead. “Should we take our seats?”
Septima is the one who speaks up. “We’re missing several teachers, Minerva. Are they not coming?” Because they are indeed, several staff members short. Looking around, Harry tries to work out what teachers might be missing. The new Transfiguration teacher, that’s for sure, and as Professor Sprout retired, there must be a new Herbology teacher.
“I’m afraid that our new Alchemy teacher is unwell and won’t be joining us,” Minerva announces. “Our Herbology professor is on route from his research trip and will arrive later in the week. And I’m afraid Jasper has been held up with family business.”
“What about the Potions professor?” Harry asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
“He has declined to join us this evening,” Minerva says, mouth pursed with displeasure. She strides past them up to the table. “Now, shall we begin our meal? I see no reason to delay it any further.”
“Yikes,” Harper mutters, under her breath. “Who do you think pissed her off?”
“Not sure,” Harry says, as the group begins to take their own seats, quietly chatting to themselves. Minerva is at the Headmistress’ chair, back ramrod straight, even though her eyes are distant and unfocused. She may be here in body but Harry suspects her mind is elsewhere. Whatever happened while she was out of the room has rattled her. “Braver person than me, though.”
She giggles, although Harry suspects it’s half out of nerves than anything else. It’s something of a relief to know he’s not the only one to find all of this intimidating. Stella has drifted by to take her seat at the table, as cool as a cucumber, and is now chatting calmly with Aurora.
“She is a bit scary, isn’t she?” Harper agrees. “I thought I’d have grown out of that. I haven’t been taught by her in nearly thirteen years and yet somehow one look turns me back into a quivering first year!”
They climb the steps of the platform to the top table, and look for their seats. To his relief, the seats were marked with tiny, golden placards, so he doesn’t have to worry about sitting in someone else’s seat. The DADA card was marked with a silver Patronus emerging from a wand. Harper’s is labelled as Muggle Studies by a drawing of a muggle telephone. To his right, the card bears a bubbling cauldron. So he’s sitting next to the less-than-social Potions professor. Fun.
“You went here?” Harry asks, tearing his attention away from the place settings “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you.” She grins, looking slightly mischievous.
“You wouldn’t,” she agrees. “I was long gone from Hogwarts when you arrived. I’m actually thirty-four.” Harry blinks at her in surprise. She’s actually older than he suspected. The blonde curls and youthful face had led him to believe that she was his age, not nearly ten years older.
“I know, I get that look a lot,” she says, smoothing down a strand of golden hair. “I suppose I play it up a lot.” It certainly explains her fashionable robes and neat makeup.
“Handy,” Harry comments. Their conversation is cut short by Minerva clapping her hands together and rising from her golden chair.
“I’d like to say a few words before we begin,” she says, looking from one end of the table, where Hagrid sits, to the other. Her eyes rest on each teacher briefly and Harry is somewhat reminded of when Dumbledore had that chair and it always felt like he was speaking directly to you.
“This is a year of great changes. This is the most significant shift in staff that we have seen since the end of the war. I am delighted to have new blood in the faculty, both from other schools and previous students. I guarantee that if you give all you have to Hogwarts, you will gain everything back and more. I myself became a teacher here not long after leaving as a pupil and it has given me family, a home and a purpose.” Minerva looks a little distant, no doubt remembering her time as a young witch. Harry wonders if she was as scared as he was when she’d first arrived.
“Hogwarts has not always had an easy time. You all know the difficulties we’ve faced. Even in the darkest times, Hogwarts has stood together against all odds. And I hope that no matter what trials and struggles we face this year, that we can face them together. The past is the past. It’s time to face our future.”
The plates fill with food and there’s a clamour of noise as people chatter and scrape serving spoons against plates. Harry stares mutely at a plate of roast beef, as Harper prods him.
“Can you pass those potatoes?” she asks, gesturing to the dish to Harry’s right. He hands her the bowl, with an apologetic smile. She serves herself several spoonfuls before dumping a few onto his plate as well.
“Get started. You must be starving,” she says, concern in her deep blue eyes. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Harry fibs and reaches for the roast beef. “Fine. Long day. Do you want some of this?”
The food had been delicious enough that Harry’s worries had faded after a few yorkshire puddings. He’d spent his time chatting with Harper and Madam Pomfrey, who sat two chairs over to his right. The treacle tarts were just as delicious as before and now Harry is sitting in a contented daze, sipping his coffee.
He catches sight of Stella on the other side of the table. Her dark eyes are focused on her own coffee cup,and her hands worry at the end of her long braid.
“Do you know her at all?” Harry asks Harper. She frowns, and tips a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
“Not really,” she says vaguely. “I ran into her in the North wing earlier. She went to Beauxbatons, I think? Her mother is French but that’s about all I know. She’s not very friendly, is she?”
Harry looks at Stella, alone between Filch and an empty chair, the missing Alchemy teacher’s spot.
“Maybe she’s just shy,” he suggests. “Not everyone is good with new people. I know I’m not.” Harper shrugs and swipes her finger around her pudding bowl before sticking the chocolate-mousse laden finger in her mouth.
“I guess,” she mumbles. “If you want, we can ask her to have afternoon tea or something tomorrow.”
“That’d be good,” Harry agrees. “I mean, we’ve got to stick together, don’t we?”
She removes the finger, looking vaguely bemused. “Is this your thing? Like, I’d have thought the whole rallying, inspiring the troops fuzziness was just a war gimmick but are you this nice all the time?” He flushes under her slightly pitying gaze.
“I just know what it’s like to not be good at making new friends,” he says defensively. “I got my best friends by accident, I suppose. And Ginny was Ron’s sister and I shared a dorm with Neville. Oh, and then Luna became one of us somehow...so I ended up with all these friends without trying and then I went out into the real world and it didn’t happen so easily. Approaching new people is hard.”
“Alright, alright, simmer down,” she says, mouth twitching in a badly restrained smile. “We’ll be buddies. I think she’s a little odd but maybe that goes with the job.” Harry thinks back to Professor Trelawney with her large spectacles and dramatic proclamations of death.
“It’s definitely a Divination thing,” he agrees. “Is she much of a seer?”
She wrinkles her nose, unsure. “I didn’t ask. I don’t believe much in all that stuff anyway. My future’s my own and I don’t think some soggy tea leaves are going to tell me any different.”
Harry declines to reply. He knows better than anyone that prophecies can be very real. As batty as Sybill Trelawny was, she actually was gifted. But he can understand not wanting to know, wanting some control of what’s in front of you. He’s had enough of other people trying to set out his life for him. He had loved and admired Dumbledore as much as you can for another person but there will always be that small part of him that resents being moved like a chess piece. He was eleven, for Merlin’s sake, not a soldier.
Someone yawns - he’s not sure who - and it starts a chain of people yawning and stretching. Minerva smiles and Harry doesn’t know how she resisted the impulse. It’s probably not done for the Headmistress to yawn. No matter who does it, it’s never a dignified motion.
“Shall we retire?” she says, looking around at the full, sleepy-eyed group. “We have all of this week to get to know each other further and prepare for the hoards of students about to enter our doors.”
There’s a flurry of people rising from their chairs and Harry knocks back the last of his drink before doing the same. After a moment’s hesitation he reaches out and swipes the placard from the table and tucks it into a pocket. He wants a reminder of his first night back at Hogwarts.
People leave slowly in small clusters. Hagrid gives Harry a hug before heading out to his hut, but not before making Harry promise to come visit for tea one afternoon. He sees Stella quietly slip away out of the door before he can call out to her. No matter. They share a tower. He can climb up to the Divination classroom tomorrow and ask her if she wants to come for a cup of tea and some of Molly’s biscuits.
“I’ll see you around?” Harper asks, when they reach the Entrance hall. She’ll take the stairs to the first floor and Harry will cross the quad to get to the DADA classrooms. He intends to shove a few boxes aside and fall into bed. The coffee is doing nothing to keep him awake.
“Probably tomorrow,” he tells her. “I’m going to unpack a bit more and make some lesson plans but do you want to come have tea in my office at about two? I’m going to ask Stella.”
“Tea for three at two then,” she says, with a grin. “I’ll see you, Harry.”
“Night!” he calls after her, as she trots up the stairs. He watches her blonde hair vanish from sight and turns around just in time to see a cloaked figure vanish down the stairs that lead to the kitchen.
There are two people in the castle who missed dinner and he’d place bets on the late night snacker being one of them. Either, the Alchemy teacher or the Potions teacher as the other two haven’t even arrived yet. He’s tempted to follow them down and introduce himself but the urge to climb into bed proves to be too strong. He wearily winds through the corridors, across the dark quad and into the quiet of his classroom. He has enough wits to lock the doors behind him and brush his teeth in his small bathroom, before he pulls off his robes and falls into bed, wearing nothing more than his underwear. He tugs off his glasses and drops them onto his bedside table before burrowing his head into his pillow.
But he doesn’t fall asleep as quickly as he expected. Something about the different smells, the strange sounds of the castle are enough to remind him that this is something new he’s about to embark on. Maybe if he was in Gryffindor tower, he’d be able to sleep but his rooms still smell vaguely musty and unused. Nothing like his bedroom back at Grimmauld place.
Harry sighs and rolls over onto his back. He tries to summon back the sleepiness he’d felt at the Great Hall, the warm feeling of having just finished a large meal. But something prickles at the back of his mind until he’s forced to address it.
Minerva’s speech hadn’t sat quite right. While it was very similar to the speeches that Dumbledore had given, there was no need for it. There was no war anymore, no one trying to sow discord from inside or out. Why had Minerva felt the need to express her desire for them to come together, no matter what trials they may face?
“The past is the past,” Harry mumbles aloud to the empty room, echoing Minerva’s earlier words. What had she meant by that? Because if she meant the war, Harry had no problem putting that behind him. But somehow, he has the feeling she was referring to something else.
Frustrated, Harry punches his pillow and tries to settle down again. Would it be too much to ask for one year at Hogwarts without a mystery?
Chapter 2: Sacred new beginnings
Chapter Text
“Do you know where I could find a boggart?” Harry wonders aloud, as he places his new box of quills into his top desk drawer. Harper doesn’t even look up from the copy of Witch Weekly that she’s reading. Apparently, hat pins are coming back into fashion and it’s commanded her complete attention ever since she sat down. She’s sprawled out in the comfy armchair that Harry has earmarked for guests or students, just in case anyone wants to visit his office. He didn’t quite intend for a thirty-something Muggle Studies professor to hog it but honestly, he likes the company. He’s never been good left to his own devices.
Yesterday she’d turned up after lunch to have a cup of tea and that chair has been claimed as her’s ever since. However, despite Harry’s best efforts, he hasn’t been able to pin down Stella. The Divination tower has been locked every time he’s tried...and she didn’t turn up to dinner yesterday. Neither did the mysterious potions professor. They’re so many teachers short and it’s starting to worry him a little.
“Filch will probably know,” she says, turning the page. She’s wearing red converses under her robes. Hopefully McGonagall won’t spot them. “There’s bound to be one in a castle this big.”
“I suppose,” Harry says, reaching into the box. Several days into his time as a Hogwarts professor, he’s finally had to cave and unpack his new office. It hadn't seemed such a huge, dull task when his friends were there so he’d bribed Harper to come keep him company as he unpacks quills, parchment and the various muggle stationery that Hermione had packed for him. He’s not sure that he’ll need it all but he can appreciate her thoroughness. “I think it was Filch who found the one we used in our third year.”
“You had an actual boggart?” Harper says, finally tearing her eyes away from the magazine. “Your teacher must have been cool.”
“He was,” Harry says warmly. “The best. He taught me the Patronus charm and told me stories about my mum and dad.”
“Was?” Harper echoes, confused before her face morphs into an expression of understanding. “I’m sorry, is he…?” Harry swallows the lump in his throat, something that happens when - like all too often - he forgets that Remus or Fred or Sirius are dead. It’s gotten easier over time but it will never quite go away.
“He died during the war,” he says briefly. “So did his wife.”
“I’m sorry,” Harper says and Harry knows that she means it. They’ve spent a lot of time together over the last few days and he’s learnt that she comes from a muggle family in Oxford and that her wand is hawthorn with a dragon heartstring core. She is the youngest of three children and the only magical child. He also knows that her brother died several years ago and she still struggles to talk about it.
“We lost a lot of good people during the war,” Harry says heavily. So many good people and he misses every one of them every day. Some days it’s an easier burden to carry. Some days he drowns in grief.
“Do you blame yourself for it?” Harper asks, her sharp blue eyes curious. She’d known who Harry was right away, but thankfully, she has never pushed him for details. Harry wants to be just Harry here and thankfully, everyone has responded in kind. “For any of them?”
Harry has been through this question many times, most crucially in therapy. Luna had been the one to suggest it and share her own experiences of talking with someone about her mother’s death. To his surprise, it had helped. There was regret and guilt and resentment buried deep inside himself that he hadn’t realised was there. Left alone, it may have begun to fester and affect his life and relationships. But the realization that he did blame himself wasn’t an easy one to deal with. Logically, it wasn’t his fault. It was a war that was put into motion by events long before he was even born. Without Trelawney's prophecy, he would have grown up just another child in war time. Voldemort would have never known his name and would never have sought them out in Godric’s Hollow.
But the fact that those events did happen does not mean any of the casualties are his fault, no matter how much he tries to take that burden on himself. Moody nor Cedric, not Tonks or Dumbledore, none of these deaths and the countless more besides are his fault. Working through Sirius’ death was the hardest. If he had just waited, or used the mirror...he should have known it was a trick. Losing his godfather still weighs heaviest because he can’t shake the feeling that if he had reacted differently that maybe Sirius wouldn’t have died.
“Sometimes,” Harry says, honestly. “I know it wasn’t really my fault. I tried my best to save everyone but I was just a kid. It’s just hard to not think that I should have done better, you know?”
“We all tried to protect the people we loved,” Harper says softly. “My family are muggles. They didn’t really understand what was going on and I was the only one who could protect them.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” Harry says, dropping a packet of post-it notes into the drawer. “My friend Hermione even wiped her parents’ memories...but I guess that was a bit extreme.” This causes Harper to crack a weak smile.
“To be fair, she’s your best friend,” she says. “I think she had to take that precaution. Who knows if the Death Eaters would have used her family against her?”
“It’s weird that kids will be coming into the school this year who have no idea about the war,” Harry muses. “I mean, they didn't really live it, you know? To them, it’s just something that happened, an event in history.”
“Hopefully it’ll stay that way,” Harper says, folding up her magazine and dropping it onto his desk. “Although, you should probably prepare for all the questions you’re going to get.”
“Questions?” Harry asks. She gives a snort of amusement at his confused expression.
“Harry, you’re teaching their DADA class,” she says, voice heavy with meaning. “It’s like Beyoncé teaching music class. I know you forget sometimes, but you’re kind of a big deal.”
“I don’t want to be a big deal,'' Harry says mulishly, dropping into his desk chair. “I want to be a normal teacher.”
“You’re not going to get that,” she says, with a smirk. “You’re Harry Potter. You need to get used to the fact that students are going to ask you questions and they might not have a filter. You need to deal with it in a polite but vague sort of way.”
“I could just not deal with it?” Harry suggests but Harper shuts that down with a firm shake of her head.
“They’re kids, Harry,” she says bluntly. “Did teachers telling you that you couldn’t know about something ever stop you?”
Harry is struck by the memory of sitting at the table in Grimmauld Place, protesting that at fifteen he was old enough to join the war and fight. Molly’s protests certainly hadn’t slowed him down.
“Good point,” he says begrudgingly. “Shall we go get lunch?”
But lunch turns out to be more eventful than Harry is expecting. It’s Tuesday August 30th and in two days time, the Hogwarts express will arrive in Hogsmeade. Boats will bring the wide-eyed first years to the castle, while the rest will arrive by carriage, ready for the sorting. Harry can’t help but be excited now that he’s just about unpacked everything. He’s as prepared as he’s ever going to be.
But the castle is still short of several teachers. The Potions and Alchemy teachers haven’t turned up to any meals so far, much to Harry’s curiosity. All he knows is that Minerva gets very stiff when he asks her about it. Since then, all he can do is speculate.
Which is why he’s so surprised to see Minerva climbing the front steps into the entrance hall, followed by a strange man and a very familiar face.
“Neville!” Harry says in delight and rushes forward. Neville only just manages to drop his bag to the ground before Harry pulls him into a hug. It’s been months since he’s seen his friend in person, only having letters and postcards.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell ripe,” Harry says jokingly, when he steps back. Neville only laughs.
“It’s been a long trip back,” he says, sweeping his hair back off his forehead. “You would stink too if you’d been travelling for two days straight. I literally just got back from Brazil.” Despite the stench, Neville looks great. His hair could use a cut but the extra length actually looks good on him. Time in the sun has given him something of a tan and being active in the rainforests has added muscle to the growth spurt that Neville hit in their last year of school.
“How are you back?” Harry asks suddenly, looking up at Minerva. Her mouth only twitches so Harry turns back to his friend. “I thought you were meant to be over there for a year. How are you here?”
“Well,” Neville says sheepishly. “It was great. We found some incredible rare magical plants and we’re working towards their preservation...but I missed home. And a few weeks ago, Minerva sent me a letter saying that Professor Sprout had retired…”
“You’re the Herbology professor!” Harry exclaims. “That’s fantastic!”
“Just a bit,” Neville says, with a smile. “It took a lot to get everything wrapped up and come back. I wasn't sure I’d make it in time for the start of the school year and I still have to have my belongings sent here from storage.”
“We’re very grateful for your effort,” Minerva says calmly. “When Pomona said she intended to leave, I couldn’t think of a better replacement.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Harry says, in disbelief. Minerva’s face finally creases into a satisfied grin.
“I wasn’t entirely certain that Neville would be able to take the position until recently,” she says. “And when I did know there was too much to do for the start of term, as well as a few other...complications. Still, I know you will work well together and be able to support each other as new teachers.” Harry doesn’t miss the tension around her eyes as she says ‘complications’ and wonders exactly what she means by that.
“And speaking of teachers, this is our Transfiguration professor, Jasper Sangrey,” she continues, gesturing to the dark-skinned man in the indigo robes besides her. He’s incredibly handsome, with short black hair and a wide mouth that immediately cracks into a grin. As Harry takes his hand, he notices the glint of a gold earring in his right ear.
“Good to meet you, Mr Potter,” he says warmly as he pumps Harry’s hand up and down enthusiastically. “We’re going to have a great year.”
“I hope so,” Harry says, unable to resist returning his infectious smile. “Minerva said that you were delayed due to a family crisis. I hope everything is alright?”
“Just my daughter,” Jasper says, ruefully shaking his head. “She’s young and a little too reckless on her broom. We had to whisk her to Mungo’s pretty sharpish. But she’s made of stern stuff and when I knew she was going to be alright, I had to rush here.”
“I thought those toy brooms didn’t get that high off the ground?” Minerva says curiously.
“Don’t get me started,” Jasper says, with a groan. “It could go six inches off the ground, instead of six feet, and she’d still have an accident. We’ve learnt to roll with it or we’d never leave the house again.”
A shadow falls over the group but it’s only Hagrid, easily carrying five or six bags. As Neville is clutching two large duffels, Harry can guess that they’re the rest of Jasper’s belongings.
“You’ve only got two days before students arrive,” Harry says to Neville. “Will you be able to get everything sorted by then?”
“We can help,” pipes up Harper, who’s been standing quietly and watching the scene with interest this whole time.
“Oh, Neville, this is Harper,” Harry says, keen to introduce one of his oldest friends to his newest. “She’s the Muggle Studies teacher and she’s new too.”
“Hi,” Neville says, offering her a hand. “Sorry about the dirt. But yeah, I’d appreciate any help I can get. Minerva says I can floo to Diagon Alley to get some crucial supplies. The big thing is if my luggage arrives in time.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Minerva says crisply, and Harry doesn’t doubt her abilities when it comes to making sure everything runs to her schedule. “Now I suggest that we all get indoors and have some lunch. There’s a lot to be done.”
“Where are we going?” Harry says and grabs one of Neville’s bags.
“My new office is in the greenhouses, but I think my rooms are actually in the East wing,” Neville says. “Although, I think when the mandrakes were nearly at maturity, Professor Sprout slept out there too.”
Harry thinks back to their second year with a wince. He can imagine their former professor sleeping out amongst the plants, to be sure nothing happened to the mandrakes that would ensure everyone would be unpetrified.
“East wing, it is,” Harry says, choosing to push the darker memories away. “We’ll dump your stuff, you can clean up and then we’ll eat. You must be starving.”
It doesn’t take them long to locate the locked rooms that are meant to be Neville’s. One unlocking charm later, they’re looking around the dusty space. The main room looks to be an office as well, complete with a desk and bookshelves. However, unlike Harry’s office, it connects directly to a small kitchen that boasts several countertops, a stove, some cupboards and a steadily dripping sink. Investigation of the only connecting door reveals the bedroom, a bathroom and a wardrobe.
“We’ll help you clean up, of course,” Harper says, swiping a finger across the dusty desk with a look of distaste. “I’m guessing Professor Sprout kept a lot of plants in here?”
She’s right - the space smells green, that soft, wet smell of vegetation. Even empty, the smell lingers. But Neville doesn’t seem to mind, rolling up his sleeves and pushing open the drapes with a cheerful look on his face.
“Suits me,” he says. “I’ve got a few cacti that would like this shelf. And Luna gave me a Moondew that needs bringing back to full health.” Despite the stench coming off Neville, Harry impulsively pulls his friend into another quick hug.
“I’ve missed you,” he says. “And I know Luna has too. Have you told her?”
“Not yet,” Neville says, locating the sink in his kitchen - one that’s even smaller than Harry’s - and dunking his hands under the tap. It’s going to take a lot to remove the mud from under his nails. “Nor Ron or the others. It all happened so quickly.”
“So that’s two down, two to go,” Harper says thoughtfully, as Neville scrubs. When he turns confused eyes onto her, she grins.
“Our first night here, four teachers didn’t turn up to dinner,” she says. “Two hadn’t even arrived yet - you and Jasper - but we still haven’t seen the other two.”
“The potions teacher and the alchemy teacher,” Harry adds. “No idea why. Minerva won’t even tell us.”
“She gets very scrunchy when we try,” Harper agrees, surprising Harry. He hadn’t known that she’d also asked after their missing colleagues. She hasn’t exactly seemed overly keen to make friends. Other friends anyway. Maybe she’s just like that and will do so in her own time.
“I’m sure there’s a good reason for it,” Neville says, shaking his hands dry. “Now can we go? This is my first Hogwarts lunch in nearly six years and I’m not going to waste a second.”
“Damn it,” Harry mutters, watching Filch’s coat vanish through the Great Hall doors. He’d been too slow to catch the caretaker before the end of lunch, and now he’s missed his chance.
“Well, if you hadn’t eaten that last slice of cheesecake, maybe you’d have caught him,” Harper says, brutally. Harry sticks his tongue out at her but he’s got no one to blame but himself.
“I’m going to run after him,” Harry decides, pushing back his chair. It makes an awkward scraping sound that causes several other professors to look up but Harry barely notices. He’s running out of time before term starts and the Fifth years are supposed to start with a Magical Creatures refresher for their OWLs.
“We’ll see you in Neville’s rooms after, yeah?” Harper checks, still lingering over her coffee. She never seems to be in a rush anywhere, so presumably her classroom is all in order. She seems perfectly happy to read Witch Weekly and clean up Neville’s new living space. “He’s got a lot to do to catch up in only a few days.”
“I’ll be there,” Harry agrees. “It shouldn’t take me too long.” With a wave to Neville further down the table, Harry hurries down the Great Hall as fast as he dares. Lunch was fairly quiet, most teachers opting to eat in their own rooms this close to September First. They all have so much to do and Harry can see why the staff arrives early.
He doesn’t see Filch anywhere outside the hall so he sets off towards the caretaker’s office, on the off-chance that he might find Filch there. But the dim little room is empty, the filing cabinets looking like tombstones in the dark. It’s changed very little since Harry was there in his second year. He wrinkles up his nose at the sardines smell and shuts the door quietly behind him.
Frowning, Harry decides to check a few spots where Filch is known to spend his time. Before the students arrive, there’s not as much for Filch to do to keep the castle neat and tidy. Even so, there’s a good chance that the caretaker might be polishing trophies or dusting portraits.
Harry is just retracing his steps back to the Great Hall when he catches a very familiar voice echoing off the walls. He stops dead, suddenly aware that two people, lost in conversation, are heading towards him.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Minerva says, sounding wary. “He won’t be reasoned with. I was hoping that maybe…”
“Of course, of course,” rumbles a deep voice and it takes Harry a few moments to place it. It’s Jasper, the Transfigurations professor. “Maybe he’ll respond better to me.”
“I hope so,” Minerva sighs. In a few seconds, they’ll turn the corner and be right on top of Harry. Something in him - perhaps the lightning quick reflexes that served him so well as Seeker - knows that he must not be caught listening to their conversation. Quietly as he can, he opens the door behind him and slips inside, back into the fish-scented dark. He pushes the door just in time, leaving only a sliver so he can see Minerva and Jasper pause, just outside the door.
“I was hoping that this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Minerva says, shaking her head in frustration. “It’s been so long. We’re all adults, for Merlin’s sake! And yet, he’s being completely unreasonable!”
“He’s still young,” Jasper says, soothingly. “Besides, you were once his teacher. That may make it a little harder to get through to him.”
“I was hoping it would make him see sense,” Minerva says. There’s a few more lines in her forehead than normal. Whatever has been plaguing her the past few days has not been resolved. “But he’s just so stubborn. That certainly hasn’t changed since he was at school!”
“We may grow up but that doesn’t always change who we are inside,” Jasper says ruefully. “I will speak to him. Surely he can be made to see reason.”
“I hope so,” Minerva says, her mouth forming a tight little line. “We are two days away from the students arriving. There’s no time to replace him. If only I’d been able to tell him before he found out by other means…”
Harry waits, hardly daring to breathe as they move off again, presumably towards the Transfiguration classrooms. Once he can no longer hear their footsteps, he slips out of Filch’s office with a sigh of relief at the fresh air.
What was that all about? It’s been all too easy to see Minerva’s anxiety the last few days, but she hasn’t been forthcoming with the details. Even Aurora and Poppy - who Harry had tried to probe about it - hadn’t been able to answer him the cause behind their Headmistress’ troubles. Either because they didn’t think it was his business or that they genuinely don’t know.
Minerva must trust Jasper a great deal to confide in him like that, Harry thinks. And this other person that they were discussing must do as well, if Minerva thought that Jasper might make a difference.
Shaking off this new tidbit of information, that only adds to Harry’s confusion, he dashes off towards the Trophy room with the hope of finding Filch. He can worry about this little mystery when he gets back to Harper and Neville.
It takes him a good twenty minutes and a hot, breathless dash over half the school before he finds Filch muttering about flooding in one of the bathrooms. It was only thanks to the acoustics off the tiles that Harry heard the man’s voice.
It hadn’t been an easy conversation - Filch never being the most cooperative of men - and Harry was standing in about four inches of water but he had a skip in his step as he left regardless. He had a boggart. Filch knew of one in an empty classroom. In a wardrobe, to boot. Perfect.
He’s busy trying to shake water out of his shoes when he stumbles straight into someone.
“Shit!” Harry says, without thinking. He wobbles precariously on one wet foot when someone grabs hold of his forearms and pulls him back onto even footing.
“Thanks,” Harry says gratefully, to the man who is both his hit-and-run victim and his rescuer. “I’m really sorry.”
The gentleman releases his grip on Harry’s arms and smiles nervously. “No problem, old chap. Happens to us all.” The words are tinged with the faintest accent, one that reminds Harry of Victor Krum.
“Wet foot,” Harry says, lamely sticking out a leg to demonstrate that he is soaked to just above the ankle. He immediately feels no better than an awkward thirteen year old. Merlin, you’d think he’d grow out of stupid small talk.
“I see,” the man says, looking bemused. He’s an interesting looking fellow, with blood red robes and a ponytail of long mahogany hair. He’s certainly handsome but there’s a definite pallor to his skin and dark circles under his eyes.
“Oh!” Harry says, putting the pieces together. “Are you the Alchemy teacher?”
“I am,” the man says, offering Harry a well manicured hand. “Kristopher Mortenson. And you are…?”
“Harry,” Harry says, taking the outstretched hand and firmly shaking it. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“Of course, you’re new this year,” Kristopher says, interest lighting up his pale blue eyes. “Should you need any advice, I’d be happy to give it. I’ve been teaching for many years, although I am not often called to Hogwarts.”
“It’s an elective, right?” Harry says, trying in vain to remember when the classes had been held during his time at school. He knew that Alchemy was only offered if there was enough interest in it and was sometimes offered by the Potions master themselves.
“Yes, Hogwarts doesn’t offer it as standard, as Durmstrang does,” Kristopher explains. “It was actually during my time at school where I gained my interest in it.”
“Well, it’s good to have you here,” Harry says, gamely trying to create connections with another of his new colleagues. “I’m afraid that I don’t know much about Alchemy. I didn’t take it at school. I’m not even sure it was offered.”
“It was,” Kristopher says quietly. “I believe Professor Snape often taught it when he was here. However, Professor Slughorn did not. I was brought in to teach that year in 1996.”
“Oh,” Harry says, thrown. He hadn’t known that Snape had known Alchemy, or that he’d taught it. But he’d spent as little time on Potions as he’d been able, lacking any interest in it due to the unpleasant methods and attitude of the teacher. And his Sixth year had been so full of Quidditch, Ginny and trying to find out what he could about the Horcruxes that the whole year of classes feels like a blur.
“I didn’t realise,” Harry says, weakly. “Did you know Snape?”
“Only by name and reputation,” Kristopher says, with a weak smile. He’s tugging anxiously on his robe sleeves, which Harry hopes isn’t down to this conversation with him. “I saw him briefly during my time here but he was never...well, I’m sure you know all too well what he was like.”
“Sort of,” Harry responds. Yes, Snape was never very friendly but given what he knows now about the man, he feels a little uncomfortable badmouthing him. Surely, some day in the future he’ll be able to make a few jokes about their prickly Potions teacher. But right now, only a few years on, it feels like bad-mouthing the dead.
“A very talented man,” Kristopher muses, with a touch of sadness. “But very lost.”
“Yes. I think so,” Harry agrees. Because what would Snape have achieved if he hadn’t been lost in bitterness and swayed by dark magic? If it hadn’t been for his mum, Lily, then Snape never would have returned to their side at all. It was only her loss that changed Snape and made him turn against Voldemort.
“Sometimes there is only grey,” Kristopher says, with a rueful smile, as though he can read Harry’s thoughts. “It’s all too easy once someone has died to remember them as a devil or a saint. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Harry, I must return to my classroom and you’d best dry that foot.” He gestures to the shoe that still squelches when Harry leans on it.
“Thanks,” Harry says absently. “It was nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Kristopher says, taking a step past Harry. “And remember what I said. I’ve been teaching for nearly twenty years. I’d be more than happy to offer advice.”
Harry watches him vanish out of sight around a corner. Three down, he thinks. Hogwarts is a collection of interesting characters this year. Nice but...odd.
“I’m back!” Harry announces when he steps through the door to Neville’s rooms. Harper looks up from where she’s using a few careful cleaning charms on the windows and makes a face.
“What happened to you?” she asks, wrinkling up her nose at Harry’s wet trousers. Despite his best efforts, he’s still dripping water. Which isn’t good, as it will not only annoy Filch, but it’s undoing the good work that Neville and Harper have already achieved. The kitchen has been cleaned and the surfaces have been dusted. The desk looks to be in good condition now that it doesn’t have a thick layer of dust coating it.
“Oh. Found Filch in a flooding bathroom. Overbalanced and put my left foot right in the worst of it.” With an exasperated sigh that reminds him strongly of Hermione, Harper waves her wand with a quick drying charm. A short burst of heat on his leg later, Harry once again has a dry foot.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully. He’d never been any good at the sort of spells you’d find useful around the house. If you wanted spells for duels, then he’s your guy. But warming charms have always escaped him.
Neville appears around the corner from one of the backrooms, with his sleeves rolled up and his wand stuck behind his ear. Presumably, they divided the work and he’s been busy trying to clear up what will be his bedroom.
“Hi Harry. Did it go alright?” he asks. The cleaning clearly hasn’t helped his overall appearance. There’s a large smudge of...something on his shirt and there’s a cobweb stuck in his hair.
“Fair. Oh, I got a boggart!” he says, much to Harper’s delight and Neville’s confusion.
“You’ve got a boggart?” Neville asks and Harry realises that maybe he forgot to clue his friend in to a few things.
“I need one for my classes,” he explains, drawing out his own wand. He may not be great at cleaning charms but he can try. The sooner they get this space clean, the sooner Neville can stock it with the necessities. Neville will have to dash to Diagon Alley if he wants the best supplies for the school year. Hogsmeade just doesn’t have the variety of stock - Harry knows full well that the nearby Wizarding town just can’t compete with what Diagon Alley has to offer. It might have contributed to his own extreme level of purchasing.
“Like Lupin,” Neville says, thoughtfully as he brushes the cobweb out of his hair.
“Yeah. Sorry, you probably don’t have the best memories of that lesson,” Harry says sheepishly. The lesson had seemed all fun and games at first, until Snape and the Dementors and the moon had shown that peoples’ fears can be very revealing. While Snape in that hat and handbag had been very funny, the fact that a student was terrified of a teacher distinctly wasn’t.
“Long time past now,” Neville says, briskly. Clearly his attitude to the past is the same as Harry’s. “But hey, have you thought about what your boggart might be now?”
“Still a Dementor, I’d guess,” Harry says, very aware of Harper opening the windows and very obviously trying to not look like she’s listening. She fails spectacularly, as this last statement causes her to drop the window she’s propping open with a loud clang.
“I’m sorry but did you say Dementor?” she cries, turning to face them with a look of shock. Neville looks dismayed.
“Can you not damage my windows?” he says, mournfully...not that Harper hears him.
“It’s not a big deal,” Harry says awkwardly. He’s become good friends with Harper so quickly that sometimes he forgets that part of his life might seem a little strange to her. After all, she wasn’t there for the Dementors, the giant chess set, riding a Dragon out of Gringotts…
Hmm. She probably wouldn’t believe that last one.
“Not a big deal?” Harper squeaks. “Are you telling me you’ve come across a Dementor?” Neville and Harry share a look, before Neville holds up his hands.
“You tell her,” he says. “I’m going to unpack what luggage I’ve got.” With that, he vanishes back through the door, leaving Harry to explain.
“It was a thing. My third year,” Harry tries, doing his best not to laugh at her indignant face. “That was the year that…”
“Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, yes, I remember,” she says, tugging her blonde hair back out of her face. Despite the cleaning, she hasn’t bothered to tie it up and it floats like a soft, blonde cloud. She’s going to have fun washing the dust and grime out of it later, if she’s not careful. “And they put Dementors around the school. But they were supposed to be not allowed near any of the students!”
“It’s a really long story,” Harry says lamely.
“I feel like you have a lot of those,” Harper retorts, with a carefully arched eyebrow. “If you say that every time, we’ll never get anywhere. Spill, Potter.” With a groan, Harry perches himself on the desk.
“Fine. I was at Hagrid’s with a few friends and we ended up at the Whomping Willow. Uh, a lot of stuff happened and our professor - Professor Lupin, the one that I told you about? - was a werewolf and he’d forgotten to take his potion that made him docile. So he transformed and Sirius Black tried to fight him to keep him away from us. But he got hurt and I left Hermione and Ron and went after him. Only there were dementors everywhere.”
Harper seems entirely unaware that her mouth is hanging open. “But how did you get away?” she asks.
“Patronus charm. Somebody cast one...I don’t really remember who,” he mumbles vaguely. It seems easier than explaining the time turner incident and all the questions that come with it.
“That’s pretty intense,” Harper says, shaking her head. “Is that why you learnt the Patronus charm?”
“No, actually Remus taught me that because the Dementors came for me before,” Harry says. “On the train to Hogwarts when they were searching for Sirius and at a Quidditch match and…” he trails off, seeing Harper’s face.
“You,” she says, slowly. “Haven't exactly had a normal life, have you?”
“Understatement,” Harry says ruefully. “But the Dementors liked me more than most.”
“At least you won’t have to see one again any time soon,” Harper points out, finally turning back to the windows. This time she successfully pushes it open and latches it in place, letting the cool late summer air in. “They were removed from Azkaban, weren’t they?”
This was a controversial decision on behalf of Kingsley, even though it shouldn’t have been. While most of the Magical community approved, there was a small faction who feared that without the Dementors there would be even more breakouts, despite the constant presence of Aurors. They seemed to look past the breakouts - and the switch that the Crouches had made - that had happened while the Dementors were on guard. Not to mention their siding with Voldemort during the worst war the world had ever seen. Kingsley had made the right decision sending them away.
“I’m sure they’re still out there somewhere though,” Harry says aloud. “They had to have gone somewhere, right?” Harper shrugs.
“Probably. Hopefully the Ministry knows. I’d hate to think of someone stumbling across a dark corner of the world and finding an endless sea of Dementors.” She gives a violent shudder at the idea. “I can’t believe you’ve actually seen one. Was it as awful as they say?”
She can’t possibly know what this question does to Harry and maybe a few years ago, he’d have snapped at her for this innocently insensitive question. But he’s been through therapy and had time to work through his trauma. Besides, she can’t possibly know that he hears his mother’s dying moments whenever they get near. How cold it feels. The terror he felt when they were drawing in on him and a weak Sirius.
“Yeah,” he says, finally. “It’s pretty bad. You feel so awful. Like you’ll never be happy again.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to feel like that ever again,” Harper says, optimistically. “None of us will.” Harry tries to summon a grin, despite the churning in his stomach. The past is being dragged up a lot today and he’s not sure that he likes it.
“Onwards and upwards,” he says, trying in vain to match her upbeat tone. He fails somewhat and he can see it in her eyes. He doesn’t want to slip down into a funk, not now he has this new adventure in front of him. But maybe that’s to be expected. It’s big and it’s scary and he’s mostly doing this on his own. Never mind the familiar faces and the new friendly ones, he’s the one who has to step into the shoes of a professor and do it successfully. Save for walking into that dark forest to meet Voldemort, nearly everything he’s done has had someone -whether his friends or Dumbledore - at his back.
But if he can go to meet the most feared wizard in history, then who’s to say he can’t do this?
“So,” he says, reaching for his wand again. “Shall we try and clean the kitchen?”
As they clean and dust, Harry finally tells an enraptured Neville and Harper about the strange encounters he had while looking for Filch. He’s not sure what they’re more interested in: Minerva’s odd behaviour or the enigmatic Alchemy teacher. Both stories have mystery and good gossip-potential. But the encounters only serve to intrigue them more. Kristopher’s frequent absences are still unexplained and there’s the big question of who exactly Minerva and Jasper were referring to.
Harry doesn’t think that it’s a teacher. He’s racked his brain and came up with no reasonable candidate that would require Jasper’s intervention. Of course, they could mean Kristopher. After all, the quirky Alchemy teacher has not been seen in the three days since Harry arrived. It’s entirely possible he’s refusing to socialise with the others at meal times.
Of course, this is not the detail that interests his friends the most.
“I can’t believe he knew Snape,” Neville says, shaking his head. He’s putting away the few tins of food that came back from the rainforest with him. Harry makes a mental note to shift some of the overflow from his own kitchen into Neville’s. There are a great many things that Neville needs to get between now and September first and tea bags and an emergency tin of soup shouldn’t be priority on that list. Molly gave him so much, he has plenty to spare. “Or that we even had an Alchemy teacher at Hogwarts.”
“I learned Alchemy when I was here,” Harper pipes up. “I was always good at Potions so I decided it would be a good class to take. Well, it was!” she says defensively, seeing Harry and Neville’s faces.
“Well, we sucked at Potions,” Harry says, with a shrug. “Snape was always terrifying and only favored the Slytherins anyway.”
“I thought you did it for Sixth year?” Neville says, looking surprised. “Weren’t you pretty good at it? I thought you won that potion. The luck one.”
Harper turns to him with a look of respect. “You won a bottle of Felix Felicis? Damn, Potter.”
“I’m sure that was a fluke,” Harry says hurriedly. Merlin, he doesn’t need a reputation for Potions, especially as it was all a lie.
“You won it over Hermione so maybe it was a fluke,” Neville says, good-naturedly ignoring Harry’s middle finger.
“Is she as clever as they say?” Harper asks curiously. “I mean, her chocolate frog card…” They’re nearly done and Neville’s rooms look far better than they did before. They’re still bare, lacking any personal touches, but no doubt Neville will fill it with pictures and books and plant life in no time at all.
“Cleverer,” Neville and Harry say as one. Harper laughs with delight.
“I’ll have to meet her sometime then,” she says, with a flash of teeth. “You know, for some intelligent conversation.” This comment results in her being given the finger but it only makes her laugh more. It makes Harry amused at the contrast between Neville, who is easy-going and pragmatic, and Harper, who is not adverse to a sharp word and a bit of competition. Hermione might like her, he decides, and if they team up for pub quizzes, they’ll dominate.
“We should move if we want to be in time for dinner,” Harper says, when she’s done cackling, casting a quick tempus. “I should wash up.”
“Agreed,” Neville says. “I didn’t think there was so much dust in here until we had to shift it all. Thanks for your help, I wouldn’t have managed it so quickly otherwise.”
“Thank Harper,” Harry advises, because the witch had been the one to deftly clean windows and chase away cobwebs with a mere sweep of her wand. Harry had tried but had been left with a large brown spider laughing at his efforts. Or so he insisted.
“I will gladly accept all praise,” Harper says, with a flick of her wild golden mane. “But I’m going to wash my face before I’m seen by other people. I’ll see you guys at the Great Hall?”
“See you in a minute,” Harry tells her, as she vanishes out the door. Neville waits until her robes are out of sight before he turns to Harry.
“You made a friend quickly,” he comments and Harry feels somewhat unnerved by the observation. Maybe not unnerved exactly...perhaps a little bit offended?
“I suppose so,” he says, the words coming out more defensively than he means to. He can make friends...but no one seems to understand that it’s just a little bit harder when he’s never sure that people want to be friends with him and not the Boy-Who-Lived.
“Calm down,” Neville says mildly, stowing away his travelling bags into an available cupboard. “I was happy for you, that’s all. She seems nice enough. She didn’t have to help me but she did.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, before airing the thought he’s had since he first met Harper. “Bit sharp though, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, well,” Neville says, with an uncomfortable, small cough. “Ginny can be too, at times.”
“Fair,” acknowledges Harry as he finally pulls himself up from the chair he’d flopped in. “We should see if we can have a night down at the Three Broomsticks and then everyone can see you, and meet Harper.”
“Good idea,” Neville says, trying to stifle a yawn and failing. Even with portkeys and apparating, it must have been quite a trek for Neville to arrive back in the country on such short notice. “It’s been ages since we were all together.”
“Luna’s missed you. We all have,” Harry adds. Neville gives him a soft smile.
“I’ve missed you guys too. It was really hard some nights, being so homesick,” Neville muses, dropping with a grateful sigh onto one of the transfigured chairs. “I almost couldn’t believe my luck when McGonagall sent that letter, asking me to come teach.”
“How come you got a letter and I had to do that nerve-wracking interview?” Harry grumbles. Although he can’t imagine a world where Minerva McGonagall would even consider him being allowed any sort of special measures. Skeeter - and the rest of the press - would have a field day with that one. ‘IS THE HERO OF THE WIZARDING WORLD TOO ACCUSTOMED TO SPECIAL TREATMENT? INSIDE SOURCES AT HOGWARTS SAY SO!’ It would be on the front page, just above the adverts for Sleekeazy’s hair potions.
“She interviewed me too. Sort of,” Neville amends. “I think via floo was probably less nerve-wracking than her frowning over her glasses at me in person.”
“No comment,” Harry says, reluctantly pulling himself up. He’s tired already but that doesn’t stop his stomach reminding him that lunch was actually a very long time ago. He’ll eat and then get a goodnight’s rest - he’s only got one more day to get ready for the new term. “I’d better go clean up. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can go to bed.”
“I hear that,” Neville says, yawning widely yet again. “I still have to meet the other teachers. Do you think Kristopher will come to dinner today?”
“Unsure,” Harry says, still not quite able to read the strange man he’d met earlier. Something in his head is ringing a little like deja vu...but he’s too tired to really think or worry about it. Maybe they’ve met before, maybe he did get a glimpse of the man during his sixth year. A tiny nagging feeling in his gut is hardly cause for concern. He’s been wrong before.
“Maybe Stella will come too,” Harry says, thinking of yet another strange person. “I haven’t seen her since that first night.”
“It wouldn’t be Hogwarts without some slightly eccentric characters though, would it?” Neville points out. With a groan and a visible crick, Neville pulls himself up and studies his shirt, which is verging slightly more on grey-and-cobweb-y than white. “I’d better change and find some robes.”
“Probably for the best,” Harry says, with a grin. His friend possibly looks even worse than he did arriving after two days of travelling. “According to Harper, hat pins are in again. Not so sure about the cobwebs.” Harry can see the question on Neville’s face before he asks it. There’s something about the deep breath he takes, the way he bites his lip as he gears up to ask something he thinks isn’t his place.
“Harry?” he says and Harry gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. “You and Harper…”
“No,” Harry says bluntly, cutting him off. “Absolutely not.” Neville gawps.
“You don't know what I was going to say!” he protests, although there’s a faintly guilty flush to his cheeks. Harry restrains a groan, but only just. Questions about his love life twice in only three days. Merlin help him.
“I do,” he says, ruthless. “Who have you been talking to? Is it Ron?” The flush deepens. Right.
“Do not,” he says, taking a step closer to stare into Neville’s eyes...or tries to anyway. Neville’s a few inches taller and he actually has to look up. “Do not listen to Ron. It doesn’t matter if I get back with Ginny. It doesn’t matter if I decided to date Harper or anyone else. But I’ll do it in my own time!” This is clearly the wrong thing to say. Neville’s eyes take on a gleam of interest.
“Are you getting back together with…” he starts and Harry finally lets out a frustrated howl.
“No, for the last time we’re not!” he bursts out. “I don’t want to date anyone. Okay?” Neville shrugs. If it had been anyone else, they probably would put this down to one of Harry’s wilder moods and treat him with kid gloves. But it’s Neville and he lets it all roll off his back.
“Okay,” he says, with an easy shrug. “That sounds fair to me. But Ron…”
“I know what Ron’s been saying,” Harry says, giving Neville a smile to make up for the shouting. “And he shouldn’t. I know a lot of people want us to get back together.”
“But that’s what they want, not what you want,” Neville says, looking like he understands. But he would. He spent most of his life trying to live up to other people’s expectations and fearing he wouldn’t. Harry’s glad that Neville doesn’t have that anymore. Because he’s the first to say that it straight up sucks.
“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “I’m good being by myself for a bit. Got enough to be going on with, you know?” Neville nods.
“Okay, no more questions. Just...Harper’s nice. You guys get along. But I suppose dating a fellow teacher isn’t the best idea, right?”
“This castle wouldn’t be big enough after a breakup,” Harry says, wincing. After Ginny, it seemed that the whole of England wasn’t big enough to escape their friends and family wanting to know why the relationship had fallen apart. And he knows all too well how the students - and staff - he are partial to a bit of gossip.
A quick Tempus is enough to let him know that they’re about to be really late.
“I’ll see you downstairs, yeah?” he checks. “Try and get the cobwebs out of your hair!”
He hurries back towards the DADA classroom, feeling oddly jittery. You’d think he’d be used to people feeling like they have a right to discuss his life by now but he isn’t. And after everything, he still can’t help feeling uncomfortable with his friends discussing him, even if it’s in a well meaning way. He knows that Ron wants what’s best for him. He’s so happy with Hermione that he wants Harry to have the same too.
“Everyone is too interested in my love life,” Harry mutters furiously, much to the shock of a nearby portrait. “I’m not going to fall in love.”
Heading into the Great Hall with Neville and Harper at his side almost makes him forget that any time has passed at all. If he doesn’t look behind him, he could be twelve years old again. But this time he’s twenty-five and he has Neville’s bulk and Harper’s blonde curls instead of Ron’s lanky frame and Hermione’s dark mane.
But still, it’s enough and a feeling of warmth spreads across his chest as they hurry to take their places at the main table. They’re definitely late and Mcgonagall gives them a stern look as they sheepishly take their seats.
“Now that everyone is here,” she says, scanning her fellow teachers carefully. Stella is here, her long sleek hair pulled back into a bun today and even Kristopher has made it down, looking even paler under the brightness of the candles and stars. “We only have two days to go. I hope you’re all very prepared and ready to welcome the students through those doors. Tomorrow is your final day to tidy your classrooms, stock cupboards and prepare lesson plans. Hogwarts is a pinnacle of teaching in the magical community and I have no intention of that changing any time soon!” With that fun little pep talk over, she claps her hands and the plates are overflowing with food. Harry immediately reaches for the beef and begins loading his plate.
“They certainly look like they’re conspiring,” Harper whispers suddenly and Harry turns to stare at her. She nods furiously at behind him and he twists to see Minerva and Jasper speaking in hushed tones. She’s put food on her plate but she seems quite content to move it around with her fork.
“I don’t know about conspiring,” Harry responds, but it’s true. No one else hasn’t taken notice, too interested in the food and the chance to chat with their fellow teachers but Minerva and Jasper have closed themselves off to the others. Jasper looks more troubled than he had earlier. Something must have gone wrong.
“I guess whoever he wanted to talk to wasn’t exactly happy about it,” Harry guesses. Harper takes a baked potato and proceeds to cover it in butter.
“Hey, we got so distracted with the whole...dementor thing,” she says, dropping her voice on the word as though she might summon one by saying the name. “That we never really stopped to think about what they were so worried about.”
“I thought it might be Kristopher,” Harry says. But Kristopher is here and chatting quite happily with Flitwick. He isn’t eating much however, having only a few pieces of beef and a bowl of soup in front of him.
“Filch perhaps?” Harper guesses but Harry dismisses it right away. Filch is like the spiders or the cranky old portraits...part of the castle. The miserable old man is liked by nobody but Hogwarts must be as home to him as it is to Harry.
“I don’t think he’d threaten to quit,” Harry responds. Indeed, the caretaker is at the other end of the table, eating a sprout. Occasionally however, a handful of food makes its way under the table. Harry wonders if Minerva knows about it and decides that she probably does. Mrs Norris sends more time sleeping than lurking these days and he doubts his old professor would complain about a little old cat being fed chicken.
“Potions then,” Harper decides, filling her fork with buttery potato.
“Must be,” Harry agrees and wonders for the hundredth time about the missing professor. Slughorn had held the position for a few more years after Harry had left, if only to help with the rebuild and lend some stability to the school. For all his faults, the old man wasn’t made of bad stuff.
“We could follow him,” Harper suggests, eyes alight with mischief. “After.” Harry looks nervously down the table at the Transfiguration teacher.
“That feels a bit wrong,” he says and the words feel strange. After all, he spent his school years lurking and watching and generally suspecting everyone of being up to no good. But Jasper isn’t one of those people and he feels a bit off about it. Harpers rolls her eyes.
“Alright then,” she sighs. “But aren’t you a bit curious?”
Harry chews on a large piece of carrot so he doesn’t have to answer. And to his eternal annoyance, the answer is definitely a yes.
He shouldn’t be. He should know to leave well enough alone of other people’s business. A child wandering the castle, looking to uncover wrongdoing is one thing. He’s a grown man for Merlin’s sake. He shouldn’t want to stoop to old habits of hiding behind corners to find out things people don’t want him to know.
But he does want to and it’s grating.
The dinner plates eventually give way to dessert and then to yawns, as the full and sleepy teachers pull themselves up to go to bed. Harry’s eyes are scratchy with tiredness...or perhaps with all of the dust they found in Neville’s room.
“I’ve got to floo to Diagon alley tomorrow,” Neville says, through a particularly wide yawn. “Are either of you free to come with me?” Harper perks up.
“I can, if you need someone to carry stuff,” she says. “Or for company. I don’t have a lot left to do.” Harry thinks to his classroom and what he has left to do.
“I might be able to as well,” he hedges. “I’ll check. What time are you going?”
“Before lunch,” Neville says. “Actually, as early as possible, without me having to get out of bed too soon. I’ve got way too much to do.” The castle feels a little cool with the setting sun and Harry has to hold back a shiver. It’s too early for a September chill. He hopes that the summer can last a little longer.
“We’ll help,” Harry promises again. He and Harper are mostly done and he can spare a little time helping Neville get ready. But tomorrow, after a long, deep sleep.
The main entrance is quiet, the three of them being the only ones using this way as means to get back. Harper will climb the stairs to return to her quarters and Harry and Neville will cross the quad. It would be shorter for Neville to slip out of the Great Hall another way to the East wing but Harry can understand not wanting to separate. It’s comfortable, the three of them, and Harry can tell that it’s going to be a good year.
But Harper stops dead, just short of the stairs leading down to the kitchens.
“Can you hear that?” she hisses, tilting her head towards whatever sound she can hear. Neville and Harry look at each other in confusion.
“No,” Harry says bluntly and then presses a hand to his ear. “Oh, wait, yes I can! It’s my bed calling to me.” Harper’s expression is a sight and she merely stalks off towards the stairs, without looking behind her to see if they’re following.
Neville and Harry exchanged a silent but emphatic conversation before Harry gives a reluctant huff and sets off after her. Just in case she happens to be hearing a giant snake in the pipes. Unlikely to happen twice but Harry wouldn’t trust Salazar Slytherin to not have another murdering snake up his sleeve.
But as they descend the staircase to the pear painting, Harry hears what she did. Voices. Raised, angry voices.
“I told you I heard something,” Harper says, looking victorious and far too smug. Harry rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But who is it?”
The voices are both male and as they get closer, it becomes clearer that only one of them is yelling. The second voice is indeed raised but only to be heard over the racket that the first voice is making.
“No one is saying that,” the second voice cajoles and without the racket echoing off the stone walls, Harry recognises it as Jasper’s smooth, deep tones. The other voice responds, but quieter and still distinctly frosty. Something about the cool elegance makes a bell go off in Harry’s head. He’s heard that voice before.
Harper has hit the bottom step before he can tell her to stop and bounds ahead, down the corridor. They hurry after her - clearly she doesn’t quite have the practice they have, or the knowledge to hide around a corner where they can’t see you.
But it's not Harper Harry should be worried about. Because once the arguing pair comes into full view, Harry stops dead in his tracks at the aristocratic forehead and piercing grey eyes that he knows so well.
“Malfoy?” he says and his childhood enemy turns to face him for the first time in nearly seven years.
Chapter Text
“Malfoy?” Harry says in disbelief, staring at a man that he hasn’t seen in years. Malfoy returns his gaze with an equal amount of disdain, an unhappy twist at the edge of his mouth. That and the steely grey eyes haven’t changed. But everything else….Malfoy is taller, leaner, the sweep of ice blonde hair less rigid, strands falling over his forehead. He’s wearing dark trousers, a crisp white shirt and a purple waistcoat that startles Harry almost as much as the man himself. He can barely remember seeing Malfoy in actual colour. It suits him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Malfoy gripes back, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. He’s not surprised to see Harry, merely resigned. “I’ve been the potions master here for two years now.”
“Two years?” Harry says, unable to believe his ears. How the fuck has Malfoy - Malfoy! - been the Potions teacher here for two years and it has not been splashed over the front page of the Daily Prophet? Because surely they’d take great delight in Minerva allowing a former Death Eater to teach Potions. Not only that but letting Malfoy take over from another Death Eater, one of the most infamous to have ever existed? Despite Harry’s efforts, the general population seemed unable to move past some of Snape’s shadier actions...especially the murder of Dumbledore.
“Now, Harry,” Jasper says, holding up his hands as though he expects the two of them to start blasting spells at each other. Which, given their history, is not unlikely. “I know this may be a surprise….”
“A surprise?” Harry scoffs.“Are you fucking joking me?”
“If you don’t like it, you can leave,” Malfoy says, with a nasty glint in his eyes. The defiant expression on his face, as always, makes Harry want to punch him. It’s been years and they’ve both fought in a war but he doubts that the feeling will ever go away. No one gets under his skin like Draco fucking Malfoy.
“I’m not the one throwing a goddamn tantrum!” Harry says, hotly. His fingers have clenched into fists at his side. “Didn’t you threaten to quit when you found out I was here?” Malfoy’s face goes pale and Harry feels a stab of satisfaction at the hit.
“Okay, Harry, maybe you should back off,” Neville says gently, placing a hand on his arm. Harry glares at Malfoy and resists the urge to childishly shrug it off.
“Longbottom,” Malfoy says, but it lacks the usual disdain it had carried in school. Neville nods back. Neither of them look too surprised to see each other.
“Alright,” he says, briefly, before resuming trying to pull Harry away. “Harry, it’s late. Don’t get into this now.”
“Get into what?” Harry says hotly. Merlin, why is he always being treated like a bomb about to explode? And perhaps during his school years it had been a bit like that. Therapy has taught him to recognize his more negative traits and how to deal with them. He’d hoped that he’d grown out of it.
“Fisticuffs?” Harper suggests. She’s been lurking behind them, watching the proceedings with interest. Her voice makes Malfoy’s eyes flick towards her and for a moment there’s a very intense blonde stare-down where Harry is pretty sure they’re trying to achieve dominance. Harper wins, much to Harry's satisfaction.
“I think he’s referring to your bad habit of stalking and fights and…” Malfoy begins, before Harry pushes Neville away and stalks forward, shouting angrily. He doesn’t really know why he’s shouting or what about, but the words ‘snakes’ and ‘Umbridge’ and ‘Dumbledore’ are all mentioned and it makes Malfoy go pale with rage and possibly something else. Something Harry wasn’t sure Malfoys could feel.
“Okay,” Jasper says, diving smoothly in between them. “I think Neville is right and it’s late and you’ve both had a long day. Let’s go to bed and discuss this in the morning. You both have to work together…”
“Who says?” Malfoy hisses, eyes dark slits and Harry smirks.
“Gonna quit, Malfoy? Running away is pretty common for you,” he says and then has to step back as Malfoy tries to lurch past Jasper at him.
“What is going on here?!”
It isn’t a shout - it doesn’t need to be. McGonagall has never needed to really raise her voice to command attention and the sound of her voice stops all of them dead in their tracks. Harry has no idea how she knew to come down here, when she was supposed to be tucked away in her office.
“Oh no, look what you’ve done,” Harper mutters under her breath, even though just moments ago she was watching the fight with an interested gleam in her eyes.
“So,” Minerva says, once she stops short of the scene, her eyes quickly flicking over the expressions on their faces, Harry’s clenched fists. “Now you know.”
“When were you going to tell me?” Harry demands and because he doesn’t have Minerva’s calm, he is shouting and not giving a damn who hears. The purse of Minerva’s lips is enough.
“Come up to my office,” she commands. “Both of you now! I shouldn’t have had Lady Blackwood come upstairs to tell me that two of my teachers are about to get into a physical altercation, just before the start of term!” Harry turns his head to the right to see a slender young woman arrive back in her portrait. She smiles sheepishly and then turns her back to them, under the pretense of stroking her cat.
“Rat,” Harry mutters and if a portrait could blush, this one would have. Minerva’s frown deepens.
“You two, to bed!” She commands Neville and Harper. Harry’s friends immediately turn on their heels and vanish without a word. Neville casts a sympathetic glance over his shoulder at Harry, before they disappear up the staircase.
“Jasper, thank you for trying. I should have known that this would end badly,” Minerva says, and all of the pieces that have made up the last few strange days click into place.
“Of course, Minerva,” Jasper says and finally releases Malfoy, who readjusts his clothes mulishly. He looks about as happy as Harry to be hauled up to the headmistress’ office. But they don’t have a choice. Minerva turns her gaze back to the two of them and the clench of her jaw says that she won’t be argued with.
“Upstairs,” Minerva hisses and points one bony finger down the corridor. Casting suspicious glances at each other, Harry and Draco go where they’re directed.
So much for his earlier jubilation at feeling like twelve years old again. This is some deja vu he certainly could do without.
“What,” Minerva says frostily, once the door has been closed and she’s sat down in her chair. No longer Minerva, she’s fully wearing her stern Headmistress McGonagall hat and peering at them disapproving over her glasses. “Were you two thinking?”
“Minerva, this only supports what I’ve been saying,” Malfoy starts, flinging out an arm to gesture at Harry. “He’s unreasonable!” Harry gives a hollow laugh.
“I’m unreasonable?” he says, incredulously. He can see Minerva’s frown deepen and knows that they probably should be discussing this like the two professional young adults that they are and not the two boys who hated each other so many years ago. “You threatened to quit!”
Minerva holds up a hand, effectively silencing them. “Draco, on that note, I have to ask: do you really mean to quit?” The question takes all of the bluster out of Malfoy’s sails. He deflates, looking chastened.
“No,” he says quietly. “I really don’t.” There’s something in his face, a softness that Harry has never seen before. He only ever remembers Malfoy looking smug or sneering, and this is...jarring.
“Well, then,” Minerva says briskly, holding her hands together on her desk. “I advise that we find some way to fix this little conundrum. I’ll admit that I didn’t want it to happen this way. I had hoped to sort this reasonably and tell the both of you before you found out by other means. But as it is, you did find out and predictably, both of you acted with your usual rational diplomacy!” Her voice reaches a higher pitch by the end of ‘diplomacy’ and Harry winces. Christ. He’s been a teacher for all of three days and he’s being shouted at like he’s a child. Something in him shrivels in shame, the same part that had been so proud only a few days before.
“Now, Draco, if you don’t intend to quit and Harry, you don’t intend to quit….?” she trails off, raising an eyebrow at him. Harry furiously shakes his head. He's got more sense than his teenage self - he’s not the same boy now, wise enough to know when he’d be cutting off his nose to spite his face.
“Then I expect both of you to go about the school year with some sort of respect and decency to each other. And Merlin help me should I find out that you are not! I have never sacked a teacher mid-year before but I’m sure there’s a first time for everything. Both of you live and work in different parts of the castle. Surely, that’s enough space for the two of you?” The expression on her face says that it had better be or they'd find themselves living out in the lake with the squid.
Harry bites his lip, thinking. It’s undeniable that Malfoy is a dark smear on what he’d thought would be a great year. Harry couldn’t think of a single year he’d had at Hogwarts without Malfoy making things miserable for him: either from ratting out Norbert or trying to get Hagrid fired. And both of those pale in comparison when you consider the Inquisitorial Squad, letting Death Eaters into the castle and oh yes, being an actual Death Eater.
But for some reason Minerva has let Draco come here to teach. In peace for two years, and she must have had something to do with keeping the whole thing quiet. Because otherwise there’d be headlines in every national newspaper about yet another Death Eater being hired at Hogwarts.
The Harry of a few years ago probably would have quit in a rage - anything to stay away from Malfoy. Thankfully, this Harry has the sense to remember what he’d be giving up for such a rash action. Wintery mornings where Hagrid drags the Christmas trees across the grounds, lively Quidditch games watched from the stands, drinking tea in his office while he marks essays. Without it, he returns to that same lost young man he’s been since the war ended, looking for a purpose in life.
“I suppose,” Harry says, begrudgingly. Malfoy still looks vaguely mutinous but also adds his agreement. Both of them resolutely look dead ahead, not able to even glance at each other.
“Fine, then,” Minerva says curtly. The tension hasn’t quite left her brow, to Harry’s guilt. She must have had a horrible few days dealing with Malfoy, and this little spat hasn’t made it any easier. She must not quite trust that the two of them will behave, despite being grown men.
Actually, he’s not sure he trusts them either. He’s grown but judging by his attitude down by the kitchens, he’s not that far removed from the teenage Harry. And he’s guessing that Malfoy isn’t either.
Minerva truly must have had a different plan in mind for this year. After all, she hired Harry for the job, despite knowing his and Malfoy’s history, not to mention the fact that they’ll very likely never get along. She must have intended to tell him, but she delayed it in case Malfoy followed through on his threat to quit.
Which begs the question - how did Malfoy find out?
“Dismissed, both of you,” she says, waving a hand at the both of them. Her tone is final: no more, do not pass go, don’t you fucking dare try to argue with me. “Go to bed. Tomorrow is the last day to prepare for the students. Do not waste it.” And that’s it, they’re dismissed.
The journey down the staircase is silent and Harry can feel Malfoy’s bad temper rolling off him in waves. This doesn’t help with his decision to be good and charitable.
“How did you find out?” Harry blurts out when they hit the end of the stairs. He’s unable to help himself, the question burning inside of him ever since he thought of it. It’s entirely possible that Malfoy had seen him around the castle the day he moved in. After all, it was that very first dinner where he refused to join them, no doubt not wanting to be anywhere near Harry.
Malfoy’s eyes narrow into little grey slits, before opening again in surprise. “Oh,” he says, as though he’s had a sudden realisation. “She never told you.” Harry shifts uncomfortably. There’s something vaguely gleeful about that last statement.
“The young Weasley,” Malfoy says, sweeping a sleek strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. Harry has never understood how people who aren’t Veelas have hair so pale. Maybe Malfoy is part Veela. Maybe that would explain the horrific shrieking Malfoy is prone to when he doesn’t get his way. “I encountered her that first day, when she was walking to the kitchens. She knew...but I’m guessing by your face that she didn’t tell you?”
No. No, she hadn’t. With new clarity, Harry remembers Ginny’s strange behaviour on Sunday. Her vanishing for a significant period of time, her strange behaviour on her return. She’d known. She’d gone to get them lunch and somehow walked into Malfoy, established that he would be a teacher here, and came back and never fucking told him.
“No,” Harry says, feeling oddly betrayed. He wonders if she’d still been his girlfriend whether she’d have rushed back to warn him and if this means she intended it as some sort of snub.
Malfoy is watching him with strangely soft eyes. “It’s jarring when people you trust don’t quite do what you expect them to, isn’t it?” he says, looking briefly distant. Harry wonders what he’s referring to, whether this is about some strange slight that Crabbe or Goyle had committed in school or whether he means the far more significant roles his mother and Snape played during the war. But Harry doesn’t feel like asking, even if Malfoy would tell him.
“Something like that,” Harry mutters and turns on his heel back down the hall. He’s too wound up to go to bed. Any trace of tiredness has faded away, wiped out by the adrenaline and indignation. He debates going to Muggle Studies to find Harper- no doubt she wouldn’t mind hearing the full story - but with this hour, he’s better off letting his friends sleep. They’re going to Diagon Alley tomorrow. He can tell them then.
In the meantime he might just prepare a very angry howler for one Ginevra Weasley.
Diagon Alley does not improve his mood any. Although, that could be the three coffees he’s had in an attempt to keep himself awake. Sleep had not come easily and when it had, it was the same jarring, unrestful sleep he’d used to have after the war.
“Another?” Harper asks, watching him carefully. She looks as perfect as always, golden hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. But then again, she probably slept, the deep sleep of someone without worries and enemies.
“No,” Harry says, shoving the cup away. He’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he has any more. It’s not even helping him wake up, just making him more anxious. He hasn’t seen Malfoy this morning, thank Merlin, but he knows he’s there. It’s like there’s a dementor everywhere he goes, sucking any joy out of Hogwarts. Even this beautiful summer day, sitting and watching the people pass by isn’t how Harry imagined it.
“Come on, Harry,” she says, in an uncharacteristically gentle way. It’s only been a few days but it’s enough for Harry to have learned that Harper isn’t soft, despite her appearance. She doesn’t show affection that way. Hermione can be the same, showing her love with books and knowledge and practicality. “Don’t let him ruin the day. The last day. Tomorrow, it’s all being responsible and setting a good example. Have some fun.” Harry scowls. Being told to have some fun apparently has the same effect as being told to calm down. Harper rolls her eyes.
“Fine, then don’t,” she says, back to her usual sharpness. “Sulk all you want, just don’t take it out on me and Neville.” This takes the wind out of his sails, enough for him to look up and catch her eye.
“I’m not…” he starts and then stops, because it’s a lie. “I don’t mean to.”
“I know,” she says, a corner of her mouth twisting down. “But you are. So fucking stop, okay?” He nods mutely.
“Good,” she says, briskly. “Now eat your cake.” As if to make a point, she stabs her strawberry cheesecake with her fork and shoves the gooey mess into her mouth. Neville had gone to Madam Malkins and neither of them fancied tagging along. If anything, it further reminds Harry of Malfoy and the first time he’d been made to feel out of place and unwanted by him.
Chastened, Harry does as he’s told. Christ, this is another thing he can blame on Malfoy. He thought he’d grown out of the moody teenager bit, the part where he snaps at everyone and tries to keep to himself. But one flash of those cool grey eyes and Harry immediately doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“I just don’t like…” Harry says and then pauses, because the obvious end to that sentence is Malfoy. But that doesn’t encompass everything, all that Draco fucking Malfoy represents. Hogwarts is the best part of his youth...and also some of the worst. It was home to Hermione petrified and Ginny possessed and Dumbledore’s death. He had hoped that this time, he’d make some memories in the castle that weren’t burdened with pain.
“I know,” Harper says again. She licks strawberry juice off her lip and turns her head to watch the passing crowds. It’s the day before school starts so it’s crammed. People having one last day of fun, parents who’ve promised their kids one last ice cream, and those who’ve started packing and inevitably forgotten some item or another.
Somehow, this is still another reminder of the war. Especially with where they’re sitting, eating cake, as though nothing is wrong.
“Did you know Florean?” Harry asks, because apparently he’s in a really masochistic mood this morning. Harper pauses in her eating, hand stalled in reaching for another bite, but she doesn’t look at him.
“Sort of,” she hedges. “I saw him when we came to get ice cream, after our shopping trips each year. He was always nice. Why are you asking?”
“Just wondered,” Harry says and tilts his head back. The sign hasn’t changed - Fortesque’s Ice Cream! - but everything else has been given a new lick of paint, the whole place has a new face. The new owner, Florean’s cousin or niece, some distant relative, kept the sign, even though she expanded the menu. To be fair, the praline and caramel cake is pretty amazing.
Neville waves through the tables and drops his bags into a spare chair, followed by himself. He gives a heavy sigh as he does so, the task of news robes clearly a burden.
“I hate shopping,” he muses aloud, face unusually drawn. Harper pushes a plate bearing a slice of carrot cake across the table at him.
“Thanks,” Neville says gratefully, picking up a fork to dig in. “Not long to go now.”
“What’s left?” Harper asks curiously and Neville wordlessly fishes a piece of parchment out of his pocket. She unfolds it and flicks her eyes over the page.
“Quills, check. Books, check. New robes, check,” she says. “Various weird plant-care items, check.” Neville rolls his eyes, mouth still full of cake.
“Entirely necessary,” he declares, once he’s chewed and swallowed. Both Harry and Harper wrinkle their noses - the items may be necessary to Neville but the bags by his feet smell a little odd and Harry was pretty sure that one of them moves. Considering the nature of some of the plants in the Hogwarts greenhouses, it’s entirely possible a few of them do eat things that move. As curious as he is, he doesn’t think he really wants to look to find out.
“Anything else?” Harry muses, tipping his head back to enjoy the late summer sun. “Toothbrush? Hairbrush? Underwear?” Neville chokes briefly on his cake.
“He probably has those covered,” Harper says dryly, folding the list back up and unceremoniously shoving it into Neville’s pocket.
“I was just checking,” Harry says. “I don’t know what survived the trip back with you.” Neville thumps his chest, in an effort to dislodge the stuck piece of cake.
“Surprisingly enough, underwear was a priority,” Neville says hoarsely. Harper pushes her glass of water at him.
“Drink,” she commands. “Don’t choke. So, are we done?” Neville takes a few careful sips, before clearing his throat.
“I think so,” he says, with a thoughtful crease in his brow. “I can visit Dogweed and Deathcap for anything I’ve forgotten.” Harper and Harry share a glance. Hogsmeade’s local herbology shop was not a place either of them had ever visited in school.
“Cat? Owl? Toad?” Harry says, before remembering with a wince the sudden death of Trevor a few years before. But Neville doesn’t seem to mind the mention of his former pet.
“No, I think I’ve got enough to get on with,” he says. “Maybe an owl next year? Neither of you have animals, do you?”
“No,” Harry says shortly. He’s never managed to replace Hedwig, even though he’s thought about it many times over the past few years. It’s lonely in the house without the soft hooting of an owl but every time he looks in the window of Eeylops Owl Emporium, something in his gut tells him he isn’t ready. So he’s never made it past the front door.
Logically, he knows he’s not replacing her. In his heart, it feels like he is.
“Nor me,” Harper says, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her hand. “No time. But yeah, maybe next year.”
They sit in silence, watching the streams of people flood by. Without saying anything, they all know that they are trying to appreciate this moment - the calm before the storm.
“How badly do you guys want to puke right about now?” Harper says suddenly, breaking the peace and finally airing what all of them have been thinking and carefully not saying all day.
“Pretty badly,” Harry says, considering the levels of nervous energy that has been running rampant in his body since he woke up this morning.
“Seconded,” Neville agrees. “But...I think we’ll be okay? Just got to get tomorrow over and done with. It’ll be better after that.” Harry can hear the note of hope in his voice. In all honesty, it probably won't get easier, not for a good while. They all have big shoes to fill and it's not going to happen overnight.
“I hope so,” Harper muses, watching a small child hitting her brother with her hat. “When I was a kid the professors just all seemed to know what they were doing, you know? I remember looking at them all my first day and not one of them looked as scared as I did.”
“I think being an adult means you’re better at hiding it,” Harry says, flicking some stray sugar off of the table.
“I’m not very adult-y then,” Harper says with a sigh. She blinks up at the bright blue sky and for a moment she looks her age. But then she blinks again and it’s gone, the tiredness and worry gone from her face. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Harry says mournfully. The day has vanished in a whirlwind of shopping and moping. Now it’s time to return to the castle and the evening will be devoured by dinner and preparing, and an early bed. But none of them move just yet, letting the sound of chatter wash over them.
“Just a few more minutes,” Harper says pleadingly, sounding very like a young girl dreading the first day of school. Harry smiles and leans back.
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Just a few more minutes.
Notes:
This one was difficult and took me a long time. Also, after I posted chapter 2 back in November I had a change of manager and the new one was a nightmare. Ian, you're a lazy bastard and I still hate you. Thank Merlin you quit or I'd have bashed your head in.
I couldn't resist naming this one after Taylor's new song 'Mr Perfectly Fine.'
Chapter Text
It takes all of two minutes into his first proper lesson for Harry to decide that the staring is even worse close up.
At least last night at the feast it had been at a distance. True, there had been hundreds of eyes on him then but now the thirty or so feel far more piercing because there’s literally nowhere to hide. Every single face has intently been turned towards him since he opened the door to let them in. They had sat down at desks, watching him, and when he walked to the front, all of their heads had swiveled as one, like tiny gawking owls.
Now he’s standing at the front, trying to find his voice or any sort of courage. Not that they’ve noticed that they’re three minutes into the lesson and their professor seems to be dumbstruck.
He knew this would be hard. His name and face are recognized everywhere, from grumpy old wizards drinking their Ogden’s Firewhiskey to little kids on their training brooms. He can’t blame the students for reacting exactly how he expected them to, when they arrive back for the new term and find out their teacher is one of the most famous wizards to ever exist.
But that doesn’t mean Harry was ever going to be ready for it. He hates sometimes that this is who he is, who he’ll be for the rest of his life. Harry Potter will never be a name without fame and recognition. It’s likely that every year, the first years will look at him with the same awe that the whole school has right now. He just hopes that he gets better at it.
Malfoy had been an unwelcome distraction at the feast. He turned up at the table, mere minutes before the students flooded in, presumably to avoid Minerva’s wrath and to escape spending any extra time with Harry than needed. As his childhood enemy sat down mere inches from him, Harry had to wonder if the seating placements were designed by Minerva on purpose. He’d considered asking her to change it but he knows that all too well she wouldn’t. He’s pretty certain that he’d only be asking for a lecture on how it would be a good test of their maturity and that sitting together for three hours a day shouldn’t be beyond their capabilities.
That’s all very well in theory. In practice, Harry has to endure someone lemon scented in expensive black robes wrinkling up his nose at everything Harry does. To make matters worse, Malfoy looked completely at ease. The students barely blinked at the former Death Eater. Even the first years - although that could be down to Harry being the shiny new toy.
Oh Merlin, one kid even has his mouth open.
“So,” Harry starts and then clears his throat nervously. “I’m Professor Potter and I’ll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts. This was my favourite subject in school and...yes?” he says, startled by one child abruptly thrusting his hand into the air. He’s too flustered to consider that maybe he shouldn’t be taking questions this early on. He’s barely even gotten through his - admittedly useless - introduction.
“Mr Professor Harry Potter, sir?” the boy says in a rush and Harry tries to hide his smile.
“Professor Potter will do fine,” he corrects gently. “And your name is?”
“Justin, sir,” the boy says, flushing furiously. The other third years seem to be watching with bemusement, most of them incredulous that Justin has actually interrupted him. “I just wanted to know...why are you our teacher?”
“I…” Harry says and stops. “I applied for the job?” This causes a ripple of laughter to go around the room and the red creeping up Justin’s neck only increases.
“Yes, sir,” he says, looking very much like he regrets ever putting his hand up. “But why?”
The laughter stops. Every head flicks back towards the front.
“Because I wanted to?” Harry tries weakly, aware that this won’t be enough. It’s not.
“But you’re Harry Potter,” another child says, with enough reverence that it makes Harry want to smash his head on his desk.
“I thought you’d be an auror,” a girl in the front row comments and there’s a murmur of agreement.
“I didn’t want to be an auror,” Harry says firmly. Fucking hell, he hates this question. Every time someone chirps ‘you’re supposed to be an auror!’ He feels like jamming a quill in their eyes. He was supposed to be a lot of things. An orphan and poster boy for a war wasn’t it. He hates that everyone feels the need to have an opinion on his life.
“I want to be an auror,” another boy chimes in and there’s yet another little flurry of chatter. Clearly auror is a popular career choice. Harry remembers that feeling, being thirteen and thinking that being an auror would be the best thing in the world. But he grew up and being surrounded by death was no longer so appealing.
“I didn’t want to be an auror,” Harry repeats and then sighs. Harper, in all her wisdom, was right. They have questions and they won’t stop until they get answers. He’s going to have to face this head on after all.
“I was tired of fighting,” he says, as patiently as he can. They all watch him with wide, eager eyes and Harry suspects that he’ll have no trouble keeping their full attention...for a few weeks at least. After that, the novelty may wear off. If he removes some of the mystery and loses that mythical Boy-Who-Lived glow he’ll just be Professor Potter to them. It’s an ideal scenario. “I did that all through the war and honestly, it felt really like I’d been doing that since I was eleven years old. And I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t even really know what I wanted to do until I found out there was an opening here.”
“It’s not as cool,” a kid mutters and Harry grins. That he understands too.
“Probably not,” he agrees, pulling his wand out from his sleeve. “But I’ve had enough excitement. I want to mark homework and watch Quidditch matches and teach you DADA so you can pass your exams.” The mere mention of exams causes the room to erupt in indignant groans.
“Professor, it’s the first day,” a girl points out mulishly. “Can we not mention exams yet?”
“As you wish,” Harry says, flicking the sheet off of the tank next to his desk. The Grindylow is there, tiny claws pressed against the glass, almost as if it were waiting. A few people gasp as it bares its sharp little teeth and this time Harry’s grin is tinged with satisfaction. “But for now you can open your textbooks to page fifty-three. We’re going to start with Grindylows.”
Somehow, the morning flies by. The third years absorb the lesson about Grindylows like oxygen and when they pile out, they’re still chattering on about it. Harry doesn’t have much time to breathe before the fourth-years begin to pile in. They openly stare less than their younger counterparts but Harry has learned his lesson by now. He adjusts his opening speech and adds to it, feeling that he can give a bit more detail to the older students. And after that, they have no problems. Some of them still watch him suspiciously, like they can’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily want to teach when he could be an auror or on the cover of Witch Weekly. But he’s supposed to start with revision of dark creatures and then later in the term, they’ll cover the dark curses. The promise of working with an actual Boggart in future lessons seems to garner him some respect and they work well enough reading up about Red Caps.
By the time the seventh years arrive for their lesson on non-verbal spells, Harry has it down pat and is practically giddy by the time they’re let out for lunch. He doesn’t skip down the stairs but he feels like it.
The bubble of joy pops when he sees a familiar figure coming out of the dungeons. Malfoy does a better job of hiding his displeasure but Harry can see it in the tightness of his eyes.
“Potter,” Malfoy says, his tone verging on cold. Harry nods curtly, determined to keep his promise to Minerva. Not to mention they have to sit together three times a day for the rest of the school year. And every year after, until one of them quits. It’s a sobering thought.
“Malfoy,” Harry returns and they walk in silence to the Great hall. Both are mindful of the scores of children swarming around them, several of whom have taken an interest. It’s well known they were on different sides of the war and not all that difficult to find out that they were enemies as teenagers. Harry refuses to feed the gossip mill.
They walk in silence to the top table. Harper is already there, watching them curiously. Minerva is pretending not to but Harry can tell from the way that her eyes flick towards them every so often that she’s watching too, quietly appraising the situation. She’s hoping that she’s correct, Harry realizes. She’s placing a bet on both of them acting like mature adults, who can cohabit a castle together but she’s not entirely sure. Given their history, Harry isn’t either.
Harry smiles at Harper and she returns it, before her eyes flick cautiously to the pale wizard at his side.
“Professor,” she says politely. Malfoy nods back and tugs out his chair. He’s clearly already written Harper off as being in Harry’s camp. The same is probably presumed for Neville. Harry watches as Malfoy fills his goblet with orange juice, wondering if the Potions master has any friends here. He hadn’t truly had any as a student. Lackeys don’t count.
Harry fills his own goblet as Harper chatters happily about her first morning of lessons. Her’s have been just as successful, even though last night her mouth was pinched with nerves. The hall begins to fill steadily, hungry students taking their seats and waiting expectantly.
“So how was your morning?” Harper says and Harry realises guiltily that he barely heard a word that she’s said.
“Fine. Well, it got better. The first five minutes were pretty awful,” he says. To his joy the plates in front of them are filled with everything from pork pies to large chicken legs and fresh bread. There’s a brief silence while they help themselves and a short scuffle when Harry tries to swipe the largest piece of sausage roll. Harper eventually drops it onto her plate with glee.
“I’ve got siblings, Potter,” she reminds him. “I fight rough when it comes to food.” Harry grins and picks up a thick piece of ham instead. Merlin, he loves Hogwarts meals. He can cook the basics but he never quite got the hang of it. Plus, it feels like a lot of effort for just one person when it’s only going to be devoured and then there’s all the washing up. He thinks he can understand why Molly loves to cook when it’s devoured and appreciated by many happy faces.
“Yeah, so,” he says, meaning to pick up the rest of his story. “First five minutes. The staring.”
“Not surprising,” Harper comments, smearing her pork pie with mustard. “Did they not get enough last night?”
“Apparently not,” Harry mutters. Now that he’s stopped to look, there’s still quite a few students watching him. None of the ones he taught this morning, he notes. He’s going to have to keep at his little speech and eventually he’ll be able to eat in peace.
“Hell, they’re looking at me again,” Harry grumbles and there’s a snort of derision to his left.
“Of course they are,” Malfoy mutters, wrinkling his delicate nose. Harry struggles to smother the urge to break it. It’s a very pure-blood nose, all straight and thin and good at turning its end up at people. Could do with a nice bump in it.
Harry scowls and opens his mouth.
“Jealous, Malfoy?” Harper says, before Harry can embarrass himself with an inelegant and badly worded response. She looks mildly amused and there’s a teasing glint in her eye. “Because last I checked, all of those little faces aren’t looking at you.”
Now it’s Malfoy’s turn to scowl and unlike when they were children, it doesn’t make his face look mean and pinched. Much to Harry’s chagrin, the thin, pale faced little bully has turned into quite an attractive man. The cool grey eyes are surrounded by long, pale lashes and he’s grown into his cheekbones and sharp eyebrows. The pale blonde hair is no longer slicked back off his head and the pops of colour that he’s begun to wear suit him. Today he has on emerald green robes that flatter his pale skin and hair. Expensive, as always. Far better quality than a teacher could afford so Harry knows that the Malfoy family fortune can’t have been that damaged by the war. He wonders what they’re doing now, Lucius and Narcissa. Any mention of them all but vanished from the papers and Harry can't be sure whether that’s by design on their part or that even the Daily Prophet wouldn’t deign to write about a family wanted by neither side by war’s end.
“I did what you said in the end,” Harry confesses, once he’s sure that Malfoy has lost interest in them and resumed his lunch. “I was honest about their questions. Pretty certain they think I’m thick for not becoming an auror but…” Harper gives him a flash of teeth.
“I am the best,” she says calmly, reaching for the chutney. “And so very wise, and you should remember that!”
“Promise,” Harry says. It’s the same rule that he has with Hermione, so it shouldn’t be too hard. From further down the table he overhears a familiar voice, reminding him that he hasn’t caught up with their friend. Neville’s face is flushed red from being outside and he waves when he catches Harry’s eyes. “Wonder how Neville’s getting on?” Harper shrugs.
“Didn’t get a chance to ask before lunch started,” she says, cutting up a slice of roast beef. “But he looks more relaxed, don’t you think?” She’s right. Last night, Neville had been as grey and tired-looking as they had. Today he’s smiling and chatting amiably to Filius. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair, Harry notes with amusement. Some things don’t change.
They still haven’t had time to tell anyone that he’s back in the country, nor that he’s the new Herbology professor. So much has happened in the past week that Harry had only managed a few hastily written letters to assure Hermione and Ron that he’s still alive and mostly sane. He misses being able to drop by their flat on an evening to catch up over a cup of tea and inevitably stay for dinner. He misses the huge pots of something spicy and warm that Ron would make, Hermione muttering over her work at the table until they forced it off her. Plying her with wine and chocolate until she forgets it entirely.
Hogwarts is home and he’s glad to be back. He just never realized until now how much Ron and Hermione had made it home.
They’ll arrange something, Harry decides. Several somethings, as often as they can. Getting to Hogsmeade won’t be hard for any of them. It’ll be different and a struggle to account for their schedules but they have to try. And with his floo reconnected he can slip away on an evening or a weekend if he chooses. Minerva emphasized that his free time is his own. And he’s intending on making the most of that by leaving for the weekly Weasley roast dinner this Sunday.
Hagrid catches Harry at the end of lunch, with an invitation to come to tea, which Harry eagerly accepts. Harper is introduced to his oldest friend while Neville is greeted with a hug that just about swallows him.
“Both of yeh come too, o’ course,” Hagrid adds eagerly, finally letting Neville drop back to the ground. “Always welcome!”
“We’d love to,” Harper says, although she looks a little thrown at being invited, just because she knows Harry. Tough, Harry thinks. She'll have to get used to it. Once she meets the rest of his friends, she'll be invited to tea parties and barbeques and baby showers just because. That's how they are now.
Hagrid claps a massive hand down on Harry’s shoulder and it takes years of practice for Harry's knees not to buckle under it. “Best be off. Got some excited third years waiting to see the Nifflers!”
The bell clangs overhead, reminding them all that they’re going to be late, and Harry and Harper both have to dash up the stairs. Harry only just has the time to slow his breathing and smooth down his hair before there’s the clatter of feet outside, signaling the arrival of his next lot of students.
His sixth years are polite about their staring but Harry gives them the speech anyway. These kids are old enough to know a little more about the war, although like his seventh years, they weren’t in the thick of it. No students here endured the cruelty of the Carrows, the threat of Voldemort or the dark, unsafe spaces that had filled Hogwarts his final year. And they never should have to. Hogwarts should always be how he first experienced it, magical and lovely, full of pumpkin juice and ceilings of stars and crackling fires in common rooms.
“This year, we’re going to be covering curses, non-verbal spells and a refresher on dark creatures,” Harry says, after he’s made sure that no one has any questions. He’s learning that the younger classes are more inclined to ask him about the war and what led him to being professor here but the older students don’t. Chances are, a good few of them lost people to the war and they don’t want to rehash it any more than Harry.
“You only have end of year exams but it’s not bad to make sure you have a good foundation for next year,” he says. Not that he’s really one to talk about NEWTS and studying, what with the whole ‘taking exams late due to being on the run’ but they don’t have to know that. Between Horcruxes and Ginny and Dumbledore’s murder the entire sixth year feels like a gaping black hole. He very carefully doesn’t add Malfoy to that list. The less he thinks about that prick, the better.
“Today, we’re going to see what you guys know about Lethifolds and Dementors.” Harry swipes a book up from his desk, intending on a little surprise quiz. Not exactly gonna make him popular on his first day but he needs to gauge their level of knowledge and how he can fill in any gaps.
He makes it a competition, splitting them into two teams and keeps it short. It gets heated, the students cheering when they get answers right and booing when the other team does the same. Harry hides his smile behind his book and uses his wand to make another mark on the board.
“Alright, the score is about even,” he notes. “Not bad. Let’s mix it up a little. Kerry, the banshees are native to what country?”
“Ireland,” she answers easily and Harry makes another mark. The opposing team immediately erupts into hisses. Kerry twists in her seat to smugly stick out her tongue at them.
“What potion is effective against a banshee?” Harry says, flicking his eyes across the class to see who hasn’t answered in a while. “Nathan?”
“A laughing potion?” Nathan says, hesitantly. He doesn’t relax until Harry makes a mark for his team on the board.
“Still even,” Harry says, quickly counting the scores. “I’m impressed. You guys know your stuff. How about we call it quits for the day?” There’s groans from the class, none of them too happy at having their fun taken away.
“We’ll pick it up another day,” Harry promises. He’ll make a note of the teams’ scores and he’ll do another round. Anything he can do to make studying more fun will be beneficial to them in the long run. Only Hermione seemed to thrive on reading from dusty old tomes for hours.
“For now I think it’s time we move around a bit. Everybody up! Wands out!” The students hurry to comply, eager now that they know the remainder of their lesson will not be spent staring at their textbooks. Harry gathers them at one end and uses his wand to send the tables and chairs to be stacked against the walls.
“Alright, I think we have a bit of practice with shield charms. Disarming spells only,” he hurries to add, catching a wicked gleam in a few eyes. The last thing he needs is a casualty on his first day.
“Pair up and I want...hmm, maybe half the class to have a go first. We’ll do five minutes and then we’ll trade. Pair up, people!” He waits until the class has sorted itself out and then selects about seven pairs to use the space. He watches them critically for a moment or two, before he moves among them, changing an arm position here and there and offering suggestions where he can.
Araminta gets a good Expelliarmus through Kerry’s shield charm and sends her wand flying. Kerry hurries to fetch it, minding the flying spells of her classmates as she goes.
“Not bad,” Harry says, approvingly to Araminta and she flushes with pleasure. “But Kerry, you’re going to have to put a bit more into the spell,” he adds as Kerry returns with her wand.
“Yes, Professor,” she says and resumes her position. Harry moves her arm and encourages her to properly pronounce the word.
“I had trouble with this one when I first started,” he confides to her. “My friend always got past me with this one jinx. You’ll get it.”
“I hope so,” she mutters, looking a bit embarrassed at having her wand flung out of her grasp in front of her classmates. Harry grins.
“Hey, it’s better than a jelly-legs jinx,” he offers. “Try again.” This time, Kerry’s Protego withstands the charm and now it’s her turn to disarm Araminta.
Harry makes a swift loop of the dueling pairs before calling for the switch. They swap places and Harry lingers by the wall to get a reading on the new batch before he moves in with corrections.
“...don’t you think?” Harry catches the tail end of a conversation but he wouldn’t care if he hadn’t caught the furtive glances thrown his way by a cluster of six year girls. He knows that look, remembers it all too well from his school years. It came up pretty often just before the Yule ball.
“Yeah, but what about Professor Malfoy?” comes another voice and it takes everything in him to not turn his head and see who said this. Ugh. He’s clearly going to spend his life being compared to that miserable prick.
“No way!” a third voice cuts in, sounding disgusted. “Professor Potter is far more…'' The rest of the sentence is lost to hushed murmurs, much to Harry’s chagrin. Not that it would do him any good. He can’t throw whatever sixteen year old girls have said in Malfoy’s face.
Unless they unanimously agree that he’s hotter and then that’s a thing he might do.
“Malfoy has nice eyes though,” says the second voice, somewhat defensively.
“So does Professor Potter,” protests the first and it sounds a little like Araminta. Good to know he’s made such an impression on her. It’s just not the one he was hoping for.
The girls tried really hard the year they had Lockhart, if Harry remembers rightly. But he’s still not sure he wants that kind of attention, even if they hand in homework on time because of it.
“Malfoy is a bit lush,” offers another voice, giggling nervously. “You’d have to be blind to not…” Merlin, can’t they speak up? If they’re going to discuss him, he’d at least like to hear all of it and not just bits and pieces.
“Good body,” suggests another girl and fuck, he thinks that’s Kerry. Good grief, is this all teenage girls do, debate the sexual appeal of their teachers? He hopes not, thinking back to the decidedly unfit teachers he’d had in school. No one was going to be comparing Snape and Professor Moody.
“Really good body,” adds the nervous girl, with another high pitched giggle. Which begs the question, how have these girls gotten a look at Malfoy? The robes aren’t exactly revealing, not even Malfoy’s well fitted ones.
Harry shakes his head, trying to dislodge any weird thoughts that he really didn’t fucking ask for and moves forward to advise the students. He’s going to have to get used to this too; teenagers gossip and speculate and talk behind your back. They may make remarks on his hair, clothes, any choices he makes. Odd that he voluntarily chooses a profession where he’s going to be judged.
“Alright,” he says, striding forward and then has to throw up a non-verbal shield of his own as someone isn’t careful enough with their disarming charm. The room stops as one, the girls by the wall even falling silent.
“Better aim, perhaps?” he says wryly and the student in question flushes red and hastily apologizes.
“Blood hell, Professor,” mutters a boy from behind him. Harry’s not sure if he sounds impressed or surly. “When are you going to teach us that?”
“Non-verbal spells are later this year and believe me, you’re a long way off from casting anything on that level. It takes power and concentration. Merlin knows it took me a while to grasp. No, I will not be discussing it!” he adds as the noise level immediately rises. “When we reach that section I will tell you my own experiences but not today! Alright, let’s try something else. You and you in the center and everyone else against the wall. Show us what you’ve got.”
Harper finds him at the end of the day as he tidies up the classroom. The sixth years began the devastation with badly aimed spells and then the fifth years had outright trashed it learning hex deflection. He’s got a mangled chair to try to fix in a moment but mostly it’s tidying up the scattered furniture and debris.
“You had a good first day,” she comments, slipping in through the door and closing it behind her.
“It...wasn't bad,” he admits, flicking his wand so that the fallen books jump back onto the bookshelf. “I had a few issues but I think that was as good as it could have gone. You?” She rolls her eyes and drops gracefully into a chair that isn’t missing two limbs.
“Mostly okay,” she says, lifting up a strand of her hair and studying it intently. He suspects that it’s just needing something to do with her hands. She never seems able to sit still. “You’d think we’d be past all of this pure-blood stuff.” Harry can’t help the hollow laugh that escapes him.
“It’s not been that long,” he says, closing the top drawer of his desk and looking around. Aside from the battered chair and returning the rest of their desks to their original positions, his classroom looks the same as it did before the first lesson. “Even with Voldemort and his supporters dead or in Azkaban, the ideology they support isn't going to vanish overnight.”
“I suppose not,” Harper agrees, looking crestfallen. She drops the blonde curl with a sigh. “It’d just be nice to think that someday there’ll be pure-blood students who don’t make dumb remarks about how useless it for them to learn about how cars work.”
“Maybe someday?” Harry says. He understands her frustration. He loves magic but he’s not going to give up some of the more useful muggle inventions any time soon. He likes phones and the internet and the magical community did not invent chocolate bourbons so there’s that.
“Minerva made it a compulsory requirement, did you know?” Harper says, to his immense surprise.
“I didn’t.” He scrunches up his nose as he tries his best to transfigure the chair back to its proper shape. Fuck, transfiguration was never his strong suit. If it wasn’t a spell that could be used in a fight, he never really got the hang of it.
“Just a module, for a term. For every student,” Harper continues, dropping her head back so that her glossy blonde hair falls like a waterfall down the back of the chair. Even after a long day of teaching she is lovely. Harry can understand why Neville may suggest that she’d be of interest to him. She’s soft and beautiful and smells like peaches.
“Do you think it’ll help?” Harry asks, as the front legs snap back into place. This chair may always look a bit asymmetrical but hopefully it’ll function. Maybe he can swap it with one from storage just in case it buckles under a student.
“Maybe?” she says, waving a hand vaguely in the air. “We can hope.” She tips her head back upright and looks curiously at him. It’s like she’s finally stopped to notice what he’s doing. “Harry, what happened to the chair?”
“Confusion hex,” Harry says wearily, prodding the offending chair with a foot. It doesn’t immediately fall apart, which is a good sign. Doesn’t give him a whole lot of confidence though. His work isn’t like Hermione’s. His tends to work for about a week before falling apart.
“How did a Confusion hex break the chair?” she asks in bemusement. He can’t blame her. It’s not like he was teaching Reducto or anything. He wouldn’t know how Point A got to Point B for Broken Chair either if he hadn’t been unfortunate enough to witness it.
“It didn’t,” he explains. “We were doing hex deflection and a student didn’t do it well enough. Confusion hex equals confused student equals…”
“Crashing into a chair,” Harper says, nodding understandingly. “Got it.”
“You could help,” Harry says in exasperation, well aware of her talents in this area. For a moment she just stares at him, mouth twitching with badly suppressed laughter. But then with a dramatic sigh, she unfolds herself from the chair and slides her wand from her sleeve.
“Shift over,” she instructs. “Actually, get out. Minerva wants to see you. Headmistress’ orders.”
“I haven’t done anything!” Harry says, almost on instinct and Harper bursts out laughing.
“Of course, deny everything,” she says and then shakes her head. “No, I had to go too, and Neville. Think it’s a check in of sorts. To nip any problems in the bud early.”
“Oh,” Harry says, deflated and relieved. “Okay. Do you mind?”
“Nah,” she says. “Go. I’ll fix up everything here. Afterwards, are we still on for…?” Harry nods, almost belatedly remembering Hagrid’s invite. She waves him off, encouraging him to not be late, so he leaves her to it.
It’s not until he’s halfway there that he remembers he forgot to ask for the current password. He has to hope that it hasn’t changed since he was interviewed.
It hasn’t. It opens to ‘Emeric Switch’ as it had six weeks before and Harry hurries up the staircase. Hermione would probably also use textbook authors as a password, he muses on the way up. It’s a change, after Dumbledore’s use of sweets.
The office is empty, to his confusion. He'd have expected Minerva to be here, sitting dignified behind her desk and ready to scrutinize him as she asks him about his first day. This gives Harry the chance to look around at least - he was much too nervous during his interview to really look at what she'd done with the place. A shiver of deja vu runs through him as he remembers the many visits during Dumbledore's tenure as headmaster, both the good and the bad.
The Pensieve is gone, as are all of the spindly tables and their odd little instruments. He never got to find out what they did, but knowing Dumbledore they may not even have had a purpose. Maybe he liked the sounds, or that they occasionally spat or put out smoke. Fawkes is also gone, and he finds the absence stranger than he’d like. Somehow the office doesn’t look right without the Phoenix.
There is a large cat perched on an armchair and it blinks balefully at him with curious yellow eyes. In the end, it decides he’s not of much interest and curls up to go to sleep. Minerva hadn’t always had a cat. Maybe she, too, had felt the missing presence of a familiar in the office.
There are more books than before, he notes, Minerva having must have added her own to the collection. A lot of Transfiguration books - no shock there - but what is of interest is the amount of teaching books he finds. Health and talking to children, Muggle books about development and support, and even more about sexuality, abuse and diversity. She must be trying to change the school, for both students and staff. Minerva is making her own steps to stamping out the narrow-mindedness that plagued the school, particularly Slytherin House. He wonders what other steps she’s taken, other than making a course on Muggle Studies mandatory.
Clearly, this little catch up is part of it. A one to one where you can discuss fears and problems before they fully develop. It’s a good idea. Someone particularly nervous would be hesitant to speak up in a crowded meeting.
He wanders a little more before the Sorting Hat catches his eye on its shelf. He’d seen it at the Sorting ceremony, of course, and endured a song that wasn’t too unlike the jaunty tunes it had sung in his own school days. It was the usual ‘Friends and Founders’ gibberish about the founding of Hogwarts and the traits of the houses. Valiant Gryffindor and Shrewd Slytherin. Tuh.
People are never that easily fit into boxes.
It’s his own memory of being crammed into a box that makes Harry tug it down off the shelf and yank it over his ears. The voice has not changed, as soft and candid as it always had been.
‘Mr Potter,’ the hat notes, sounding somewhat amused at this turn of events. If a hat can even sound amused. ‘Long time no see. Is there a reason you’re disturbing me?’
‘I just...I wanted…’ Harry thinks and trails off, not that it means much anyway. The Hat knows. Merlin, Harry hates Legilimency. The hat no longer falls over his eyes so he scrunches them shut.
‘Wanting to know if I stand by my original choice for your sorting?’ It asks and fuck, it sounds smug. This was a mistake.
‘Perhaps,’ Harry thinks begrudgingly. He’s not sure what he was expecting. Last time it had been a year after his Sorting and the Hat wouldn’t admit fault. He’s not sure why nearly fourteen years later would make a difference. He just thought that the loss of Voldemort’s soul might have made a difference.
‘Not a difference at all,’ the Hat replies frankly. ‘You can pretend those aspects of your personality don’t exist, that they were all Voldemort. But they aren’t. You have cunning and determination. You have ambition, although you do well to hide it. Clever and something of an ill-tempered streak to go with that short fuse…’
“Hey!” Harry snaps, voice echoing around the empty room. In his irritation, he accidentally spoke aloud.
‘See?’ the voice says. ‘It was never the Dark Lord that I was looking at. It was always you.’
Harry is tempted to rip off the Hat and fling it back on the shelf but he resists. He’s been working on his temper. But being sassed by inanimate objects is particularly aggravating.
‘Alright,’ he thinks back. ‘Okay. So say it is all me. Your decision would have always been the same?’
‘Of course,’ the Hat says. ‘I stand by my original choice for you. But is that really what you wanted to ask?’
Harry is thrown. Did he really just want to prove he’d always meant to be in Gryffindor? Or is the Hat right and he’s moved past it? Is he the only one still stuck in the past?
The Hat makes a heavy sigh, sounding exasperated. ‘Mr Potter, you truly haven’t changed all that much. You’re a grown man with far more experience and knowledge than you give yourself credit for. It will do you no good to constantly seek validation from this place.’
‘It’s my home,’ Harry thinks weakly and the Hat makes a quiet tutting sound.
‘People seek many things from their homes, Mr Potter,’ it chides. ‘But perhaps proof that you are worthwhile is not one of them. Maybe that’s a part of your time here that you should leave in the past.’
Harry takes a breath, feeling heavy in his fingers and toes. This is why he hates Legilimency and why he’s glad that it’s only a Hat that will never tell another soul. He’s been looking for approval. Because he never got it as a child from the Dursleys and when he was here, all he did was look for it from Dumbledore. From Sirius and Lupin and countless more. He never needed approval from any of them but because they’re gone, he feels like he’s never moved past it.
He wonders if he’s ever going to feel like Harry - just Harry - is enough.
‘You have more pressing things to be concerned about,’ the Hat continues, as though it hasn’t just bore witness to Harry’s internal crisis. ‘This school needs protecting, as it always has.’
‘But Voldemort’s gone!’ Harry protests. ‘We’re not at war anymore!’
‘A war doesn’t always end with a battle. The school is still at war, trying to shed the prejudices of it’s past. There are those who may take advantage of this. Beware, Mr Potter.’ The Hat falls silent, knowing, as it always has, when to end an argument.
There’s a discreet cough and Harry opens his eyes to find Minerva standing in front of him, hands clasped delicately in front of her. If she’s confused at finding one of her new teachers mid-conversation with a Hat, she hides it very well. Red-faced, Harry pulls the Hat off and returns it to its rightful place.
“I had a few questions,” he says weakly. Minerva merely raises an eyebrow and walks away to sit at her desk. Harry follows and sits at her motion to take the available chair. To his delight, it’s as comfortable as it looks.
“I believe I didn’t say anything, Professor,” she says, summoning a file from one of the filing cabinets. It lands neatly on her desk, something bright and yellow, and she places her hand over the label before he can see it.
“You often don’t have to,” he mutters. One of Minerva’s raised eyebrows can speak volumes. “Sorry, you weren’t here and I saw the Hat and just thought…” She holds up a hand, cutting him off. Which is a shame, because he knows what this looks like and he’d like to explain that he’s not completely crazy.
“I understand, Harry,” she says gently, looking at him over her glasses. “Albus did share with me how the Hat wished to place you in Slytherin House.”
“Ah,” Harry says, leaning back in his chair. He looks up at the Dumbledore portrait to find that the old man is suddenly cleaning his glasses. “Of course he did.” She makes a tutting noise.
“I was your head of house and he felt that it was important for me to know,” she explains, flicking open the file as she speaks. Harry has a feeling that it’s his file and isn’t sure if he should be relieved that it’s so thin. It probably won’t stay that way.
“I didn’t know you were still concerned about it,” she says and Harry has to think before he answers. He watches the hand on her Grandfather clock in the corner as it ticks round, trying to find the words. It’s not far off the hour and Harry sincerely hopes that when it strikes something odd pops out to cuckoo. He’s going to be very disappointed if it just chimes.
“I don’t think it does, so much?” he says hesitantly. “It did when I was younger because I didn’t want to be like Voldemort. I just thought that without a bit of his soul perhaps…”
“The traits that the Hat saw might be gone?” she guesses correctly. When he nods, she sighs gently and rests her hands on her desk.
“The Hat never admits that it might be wrong,” she says, throwing a hostile glance towards the offending item. “Even if it should be. We all know that Pettigrew didn't grow up to embody the traits deemed favourable by Gryffindor and I still doubt that the Hat would admit fault in that particular instance. It’s an imperfect system, Harry. Even the Hat can’t truly see what drives a person or who they’ll turn out to be. And as a Gryffindor and your former head of house, I promise you...no one represents Gryffindor more than you do.”
Harry nods, still thinking, not quite satisfied.
“So,” she says, returning her gaze to the papers on her desk. “Aside from the obvious, have you had any issues or concerns your first week at Hogwarts?”
“Did you not think to tell me that Malfoy was here when I was interviewed?” Harry asks, and well, subtlety has never been his strong point. And maybe that is the obvious.
“I considered it, yes,” she says frankly. “But I thought that if I gave you time to act as you normally do….” This sentence is accompanied by a pointed look and Harry shrinks into his chair. “Then you’d never even make it to your first week. And I need a good DADA teacher. I knew that was you and I wanted to give you time here before I told you. You finding out beforehand was...an unexpected complication.’
“Because you were having issues with Malfoy,” Harry says. She taps her index finger against the desk, a sure sign that this is not a conversation that she wants to be having. ‘Tough,’ thinks Harry.
“Mr Malfoy reacted with an intensity I thought you were both past,” she says, heavily. “As well as some...unusual curse words. So yes, it did make it harder for me to find the time to inform you of his position here. And to be honest, I did delay it because I feared both of you would quit and leave me two teachers short. Two very good teachers. Unfortunately, it didn’t go as planned and I very nearly lost you both anyway.”
“Sorry about that,” Harry mutters, feeling twinges of shame at nearly getting into a fight with Malfoy down in the dungeons. Minerva smiles slightly and picks up her quill.
“No matter. Maybe in another five or ten years it wouldn’t have been an issue at all. But considering your school rivalries and opposition during the war it’s entirely possible it hasn’t been enough time. Now, can we please move onto the intended purpose of this meeting?” she says, a gleam behind her glasses. Harry chews his lip.
“One more question,” he proposes and after a heavy sigh, Minerva relents.
“How did I not know Malfoy was a teacher here?” he asks, the one question that’s been bothering him since it happened. “I’d have thought that the Prophet….” There’s a tight little smile that appears on Minerva’s face.
“They are not allowed,” she says bluntly, the corners of her mouth twisting into a satisfied little smile. “To write anything about Mr Malfoy while he’s a teacher here. Lucius is being held for his crimes during the war during Azkaban but I believe Narcissa and her son escaped with some community service. It helped, of course, that Narcissa did save your life in that forest and with Draco only being a child, well…” Her voice tails off and her expression is one of someone lost in the past. But it’s not long before she remembers where she is and her eyes regain their focus. Harry doesn’t dare ask where she was.
“When Mr Malfoy applied for the job here Kingsley was very helpful in ensuring that the papers couldn’t write anything salacious, untrue, or outright malicious about him. And thankfully, ‘Former Death Eater takes position at Hogwarts’ comes under that heading. Much to Ms. Skeeter’s annoyance.” This time the grin has an edge of teeth to it, sharp fangs that aren’t too dissimilar to the feline lounging on the armchair.
“Why did he even apply here?” Harry asks, unable to stop just one more question. Because surely Malfoy could have been anything. Some high powered job, earning thousands of galleons, that didn’t involve sticky children and marking long sheets of parchment. Banking perhaps would have been a good career choice, or something fussy in the ministry. Returning to school - a school he hadn’t even really wanted to go to - didn’t sound like a very Malfoy thing to do.
But Minerva only gives him that funny little smile again and Harry’s beginning to suspect that she gives it when she’s not sure if something is funny or not.
“Probably for the same reasons that you did, Mr Potter,” she says gently and then taps her pen firmly on the desk. “Shall we?”
After the first few questions, Minerva pours them a cup of tea from a tiny, delicate tea set that she pulls out of one of the many cupboards. She also has biscuits to Harry’s eternal delight, who was beginning to feel that dinner was too far off and the gap would only be made worse by whatever scones that Hagrid had chosen to make. It becomes quite comfortable chewing on tea-dunked digestives and, after a while, the fact that this is Minerva’s office feels a little less strange. He might never truly get used to it, he thinks, flicking his eyes up to the ever watchful Dumbledore portrait, but he could get used to this. He’s especially pleased by the tiny cat that pops out of the clock and meows when the clock strikes the hour. Which is good - Minerva’s office would be too sensible otherwise.
“Have you had any problem students so far? Anyone who seems to make a game of causing disturbances?” Minerva asks, still scribbling down the answer from her previous questions. Harry waits for her pen to finish scratching on the paper before he responds.
“Not yet,” he says. “A lot of questions. But not yet. Is that likely to happen?”
“Possibly. Students push boundaries anyway, in one way or another. Even Mr Longbottom had his moments during his time here. Your status has probably granted you a reprieve but it will happen. Some students may think it fun to test your ability to control the classroom,” she advises. She looks down at the paper, considering. “Have you noticed any bullying in your classes so far?” But Harry is happily able to shake his head to that as well. Given all that Malfoy did back in the day - and got away with - Minerva taking steps to keep any eye on these kinds of issues is reassuring.
“Oh good, I wouldn’t want this to be easy,” Harry says with a sigh. He notices he’s dropped more than a few crumbs and tries to discreetly vanish them.
“Are there any other concerns or issues you may have?” she asks and Harry can’t help looking up at the hat. He hasn’t mentioned the Hat’s warning so far and he isn’t sure that he should. He looks loopy enough already.
But the little voice in Harry’s gut, the same one that’s kept him alive all these years won’t let up. What if the Hat’s correct? It made similar warnings before, just before the war when tensions were rising and sides were being drawn. He’s not sure he wants to take that risk a second time. When he looks back up, Minerva is waiting, pen inches from the page.
“Perhaps,” he hedges. It’s Minerva, after all. If he’s acting crazy, she won’t sugar coat it. “Before when I was...with the Hat...it made sort of a warning?” The Headmistress’ eyebrows vanish beneath her pointed hat.
“It gave you a warning?” She repeats carefully and her face is surprisingly hard to read. Harry isn’t sure if she’s about to burst into laughter at the ludicrousness of it all.
“Yeah, it said that I needed to be careful. Because Hogwarts was in danger again. Or something,” he finishes lamely, shooting a glare up at the Hat. He’s tempted to drag it down and make it repeat the ominous little spiel all over again.
But it doesn’t look like Minerva thinks he’s lost his marbles. If anything, she’s put the pen down and has sat back in her chair, eyebrows now knit in a tense furrow. The ball of worry in Harry’s stomach only gets bigger.
“You remember how the Hat made a warning in the past?” she says, quite casually, as though they’re once again discussing the flavour of tea that they were drinking. Harry nods, although he doesn’t remember the exact lyrics. It’s not like he’d paid much attention, with Cedric only a few months dead and half the country thinking he was a raging lunatic.
“The Hat didn’t make a similar warning this year,” she notes and Harry has to agree. The song had been very generic and he wonders if the Hat reuses songs at all. It’s not like anyone would really notice. He’d been too nervous to even take in the lyrics. “Can you guess why that is?”
“Uh…” Harry says, thrown by the question. “Because we’re not at war. Because it’s a warning for me?” He’s really grasping at straws here, unsure why the Hat would feel the need to warn him and not sing of camaraderie and impending doom to the whole school.
“The Hat isn’t all knowing, Mr Potter,” Minerva prompts him. It’s enough to remind him what he’s always known about the Hat. It doesn’t have gifts of prophecy because it’s a hat. It can only glean information from what it hears or reads from people’s minds. And last time, it knew to warn the school because of the conversations it had overhead in Dumbledore’s office over the summer.
“Because maybe it didn’t know there was going to be danger when it made the song for the school year,” Harry realises. “But it’s heard something since then. But how?” Minerva casts her own glare at the Hat. This particular news isn’t something that she’d wanted to hear. The school was finally settling into an easy peace, after all of the rebuilds and uncertainty. It was shaking off the prejudices and having Malfoy as a teacher, reformed and hopefully accepting of all kinds of students would do a great service to that cause. The fact that maybe someone might seek to do harm now was unnerving and aggravating to her.
“I couldn’t say,” she says. “But the Hat lives here when it’s not at the ceremony so there is a chance it heard something during the sorting. Or entirely possibly, it picked up something from someone who has been here since.”
“Do you think we need to worry?” Harry asks nervously. Minerva purses her lips and flicks his file shut, before sending it flying back to where it came from. The clang of the filing cabinet slamming shut is jarring, the noise echoing around the room. The cat wakes with a start, tail puffing up to twice it’s normal size.
“Hard to say,” she says, returning her wand to her sleeve. “I doubt the Hat would tell us anything if we questioned it further. Not to mention, I doubt that it would have heard anything explicitly meaning harm to Hogwarts or its inhabitants. Perhaps the Hat means us to take care and watch. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” Harry echoes and the biscuits are now sitting just as badly as one of Hagrid’s cakes now anyway. He wanted a quiet year. Just one. Surely it was a bad sign that this happened the very year he returned to Hogwarts. He wonders briefly if he’s cursed and then dismisses it as too much effort even for Malfoy.
“Perhaps you should keep watch on the students,” Minerva advises. “And I’ll watch the staff. But don’t worry, Harry. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“Of course,” he says, sensing that this meeting is over and rising from his chair. “Thank you. For not thinking I was….”
“I trust your instinct by now, Mr Potter,” she says, calmly. “I hold these little meetings several times a term but don’t hesitate to drop in if you find out anything further.”
“Of course,” Harry says automatically but he still doesn’t move and only takes the hint to rise when Minerva gives him a very pointed look. She’s joined by the cat, who leaps onto her desk, and settles baleful yellow eyes on him. Perhaps he’s delaying the cat’s intended feeding time. “Thank you, Minerva. I’ll...see you at dinner.”
He pushes the chair back in and heads towards the door, meaning to take the staircase and go to his intended visit with Hagrid. But there’s another polite cough before he can put a foot on the top stair.
“Harry?” Minerva says, and he reluctantly turns.
“Perhaps we had better not mention this conversation to anyone else just yet,” Minerva says, eyes flicking from the Hat back to Harry, so he catches her drift. “Just in case?” Despite the fact that they had this exchange only moments before, the meaning this time is entirely different. Harry’s heart sinks in his chest. Up until this moment, he believed that Minerva didn’t take the Hat seriously, that perhaps the Hat’s little warning was only that. Just a caution, that they take steps to avoid paths they’ve all been down before. Harry could even have believed that the Hat was trying to persuade him to give Malfoy a chance, and that any other routes would have consequences for both them and for the school.
But clearly, that’s not the case and Minerva isn’t hiding her worries as well as she could.
“Just in case,” he repeats and vanishes down the staircase.
Notes:
I still don't like this chapter and I don't know why. UGH.
We have a new beta so everyone say 'Hi Lara!' She's also helped me fine tune my outline so that should help going forward.
I'm going to block write the next few chapters and will probably do that going forward. I've had it pointed out to me (repeatedly and at length) that I'm a perfectionist and if it were up to me, I'd never post anything because it never meets my standards. The writing is the quick part. The editing is not. This way I'll at least have content and not get stuck trying to make one chapter perfect before I write a word of the next one. So chapter 5 hopefully coming soon!
Chapter 5: Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry steps out of the fireplace and slams neatly into Fleur.
“’Arry!” she says, looking pained. Harry looks down and then sheepishly removes his boot from her bare foot.
“Sorry, Fleur,” he says and relieves her of the bag of potatoes that she’s holding. She may only be four months pregnant but she still shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy. There’s the faintest roundness to her belly, something she didn’t have the last time Harry saw her. Her curtain of hair is carefully plaited down her back, a look she wears more and more these days. There are a few tired lines in her face but she’s still as beautiful as the teenager who competed in the Triwizard Tournament. “Kitchen?”
She nods, raising her now free hand to tuck a loose strand of pale hair behind her ear. “Molly didn’t ‘ave enough potatoes.” Harry stifles a laugh. In her opinion, Molly never has enough potatoes or Yorkshire puddings or plum puddings. Week after week, even with the countless Weasleys and spouses and guests, there is food placed into Tupperware and pressed onto whoever Molly feels looks skinniest.
“I find that hard to believe,” he says as they step in unison towards the kitchen. The Burrow, like Hogwarts, never changes, a fact that he’s grateful for. Everything is chaotic and colourful and full of gorgeous smells, the result of Molly working like mad to produce a feast for her family. How she manages it every Sunday, he’ll never know.
“Gabriella is ‘ere,” Fleur says, almost apologetically. “She has offered to ‘elp with Victoire as I’m…” She makes a vague motion towards her rounded stomach.
“Bill still in Peru?” Harry asks, curiously. She dramatically rolls her eyes.
“Where ‘e will stay until just before the baby is born,” she says mournfully. “Lots of money but…”
“Hard to be pregnant with a five year old and by yourself,” Harry says sympathetically. The door to the kitchen is closed but it doesn’t shut out the noises of many Weasleys cooking and talking over each other at once. Fleur gives him a grin and grabs the handle for him.
“Harry!” Ron shouts, as Harry dumps the bag of potatoes on the table. His best friend is pink faced and bright eyed, elbow deep in half-peeled carrots.
“Oh, Harry, bless you,” Molly says, equally rosy about the face, her red hair wild from the steam. She wipes her hands on her apron before she pulls Harry into a tight hug. “Sweetheart, how are you? Are you eating enough?”
“I’m at Hogwarts,” he says affectionately. “I’m not short of food, believe me. The treacle tarts taste exactly the same.”
“Bring me one!” Ron shouts and Molly twists to give him a stern look.
“There’ll be no dinner for you at all, if you don’t get those carrots finished,” she chides. “Harry, dear, go help Ron with the carrots? He’s been there twenty minutes and nothing is fully peeled. Not one carrot!”
But crossing the kitchen is harder than it looks. Harry is kissed on both cheeks by a stray Weasley aunt and then by Gabriella, smacked on the back by Charlie and had his knees squeezed by Victoire.
“You’re in trouble,” Harry comments, squeezing into the available space next to Ron. Ron’s mouth twitches.
“Nothing new there, mate,” he says, passing Harry a clean knife. “Sorry, I can’t find any peelers. I’m not very good at this.” He gives a carrot a fierce look that isn’t all that different from the one his mother had given him.
“Maybe if I help you won’t banish us to the garden with no dinner,” Harry says, picking up a carrot at random and making a start. Thankfully, this is something he can do, having had Aunt Petunia make him peel things since he was old enough to. “Is it turkey? Ham?”
“Both,” Ron says, ruefully, making large indents into his carrot. There’s more peel on the table than there is on the actual vegetable. “We have Gabriella and some aunts and Angelina here today. Plus all the kids. Full house. She was worried we wouldn’t have enough food.”
Harry does a mental headcount and then looks at the heaving tables, and the oven stuffed to the brim with meat and potatoes.
“Not likely,” he sighs, already trying to work out how many leftovers he can fit in his small kitchen. Somehow Molly always thinks he’s most likely to starve.
“Where’s Hermione?” he asks after a few minutes of steady work. Finally, their carrot pile is beginning to look reasonable.
“Outside,” Ron says, not being careful enough and stabbing his finger with the blade. He sucks the red digit into his mouth before blood can well up. “Explaining how paracetamol works to Dad. I take it you heard that Bill’s stay in Peru got extended?”
“Yep,” Harry says, flicking a stray piece of carrot off his hand. His wrist is beginning to ache from the repetitive motion. At least he hasn’t caught himself yet. Molly would kill them if they got blood in her Sunday dinner. “Is he really going to be back in time?”
“He’d better,” Ron says darkly, studying his finger. “Not sure who’d kill him more, mum or Fleur. By the way…” Ron leans in, looking secretive. “With Fleur having another baby and our cousin, Sandra, having her first, I’d watch out for mum. She’s in a broody sort of mood. Trust me.” Harry accepts this warning with a heavy sigh. The only one more upset about his and Ginny’s break up than Ron had been Molly.
Unlike Ron, however, she didn’t bring up the subject of a reconciliation every time. Instead she suggested nice, eligible witches, just in case Harry felt like getting out there again. There had been her hairdresser’s daughter, Maud from down the pub and several distant Weasley cousins. With several of her children married with babies, she was equally determined to have the remaining youngest four matched up as soon as possible. And Harry has been counted as one of Molly’s since he was eleven.
“Fuck’s sake, I’m not going to fall in love,” he says furiously, wondering how many times he has to repeat it. He’s not looking for anything and right now he’s happy as he is. Ron gives him a bemused glance and Harry shakes his head.
“Just something I said to Neville the other day,” he explains briefly. It’s a testament to how well they know each other that Ron doesn't push it.
“Who is it this time?” Harry says grumpily, attacking the carrot with renewed vigor. Ron shrugs.
“Who knows? But I’d be careful of the next few Sunday dinners. No one is off limits,” he says, before looking at the much larger pile of unpeeled carrots with dismay. “Fuck, how many more do we have to do?”
It takes them another half an hour before Molly deems there to be enough carrots. Harry is allowed to escape into the garden but Ron is dragged over to stir the gravy. Harry takes two frothing mugs of Butterbeer and makes his escape.
“Here,” he says, depositing the mug into Hermone’s unsuspecting hands. “I couldn’t find any whiskey.”
“Don’t go back to Hogwarts drunk,” she says in amusement, getting a firmer grip on her drink. She’s curled up on the porch, wrapped up in a big green coat, watching the children chase gnomes. Victoire shrieks with delight as one makes a break for it and dashes across the lawn. It’s hard to tell who’s faster, the children or the gnomes. For all parties involved, Harry sincerely hopes it’s the gnomes.
“I wouldn’t,” Harry says defensively, dropping down to take a seat beside her. “Aren’t you hot?” It’s a warm September day, and the children running around are only in dresses or shorts and t-shirts. Harry didn’t even bother bringing a hoodie, knowing he’d go from Hogwarts to the warmth of the Burrow. One benefit of having to floo.
“No,” Hermione says and there’s an edge to her voice that makes Harry start.. “I’m fine. Just a little cold.”
Odd. But Harry’s never questioned Hermione and he’s not going to start now. So he sips his butterbeer and watches Little Molly stop to pick up a bright orange leaf, apparently losing all interest in the gnomes that her cousin and sister are still in pursuit of.
“How’s Malfoy?” Hermione asks, after a while. Harry shrugs. He’d really hoped that he wouldn’t have to talk about it. The floo call had been bad enough, especially as Ron had started shouting about it as loudly as Harry. Maybe Harry should be old enough to not rush to tell his two best friends everything but there are some exceptions and Malfoy is one of them.
“He’s...there,” he mumbles. Save for the feast on the first night, Malfoy has largely avoided joining them for meals. Harry still catches sight of him sneaking down to the kitchens, either late in the evening or as Harry's heading down for lunch. He’s grateful to not spend every meal sitting next to the prick but it does make him feel a twinge of guilt every time he sees the empty chair. After all, Malfoy was there first.
Hermione affectionately rolls her eyes.
“I see. Handling your issues with Malfoy as maturely as you did in school,” she says, primly sipping from her glass. Harry gawps at her.
“But you….what do you...I mean, you punched him!” he finally manages to get out. Not that it hadn’t been one of the greatest moments of his young life but she’s not one to talk about handling things like an adult.
“We were thirteen,” she says dismissively. There’s a very satisfied expression in her eyes however that doesn’t match her pragmatic tone. “And he was asking for it. But you are twenty-five and a professor. You share a castle now.”
“Thank you, Minerva,” he says grumpily. But the subject of Malfoy reminds him of the Weasley he does mean to have a childish argument with. “Is Ginny here?”
“Not yet,” Hermione says. “Practice ran late. Do I want to know why you need her?”
“You really don’t,” Harry says shortly, draining the last of his Butterbeer and licking his lips. He hasn’t really thought about what he’s going to say to Ginny - at least, nothing that he reasonably can say to her. Every word he’s planned out in his head has been furious and bitter. He and Ginny worked so hard to be friends again that he can’t go down that road. He just hopes his temper doesn't get away from him.
“Alright,” Hermione says and thankfully says no more. Harry wonders sometimes what she hears from the other end of it, as Ginny’s best friend. But he suspects he really doesn’t want to know. It must be hard for her, in the middle of it all, and she does a good job at being Switzerland.
And after that, there’s no more time for talk as they have to intervene after Lucy throws a handful of wet leaves into Victoire’s face.
Suddenly wet and cold, he heads back inside once the girls have been separated only to bump into Ginny as he takes their empty mugs back to the kitchen. Ginny’s cheeks are flushed, her hair pulled back into a slick ponytail. She’s in her own clothes but everything else about her appearance makes it obvious that she just came from the pitch.
“Can I have a word?” Harry says briskly and dumps the mugs onto the nearest surface. Ginny isn’t happy about this, judging by the firm set of her mouth, but she allows Harry to drag her out of the front door and down the drive.
“I’m guessing you found out,” she says the minute they’re far enough away from the house. Harry turns on her in a whirl of indignation.
“Of course I fucking found out,” he says furiously. “Bloody Malfoy couldn’t wait to tell me!” She rolls her eyes and then reaches up to tug her hair free. She hadn’t had time to wash it after practice as it’s missing its usual bounce and sheen. But she merely shakes it loose and re-ties it with a bit more care.
“I’ll bet he did,” she sighs. “Little prick.” Harry looks at the first person he ever loved and tries to not let the waves of hurt pull him under into being someone dark and nasty. He’s been there before, after Cedric, after Sirius. He can’t do that to her.
“Why didn’t you tell me when you met him that day?” he asks. Ginny’s mouth crumples with distress.
“I’m sorry,” she says, turning her head away, guilt making him too difficult to look at head on. Her obvious unease at deceiving him doesn’t make it any easier. “I thought about it. It was a shock running into him near the kitchens but I decided that you’d react like you normally do around Malfoy and pack up all your shit and quit.”
“So delighted that everyone has the best opinion of me,” Harry mutters and kicks a large pebble into the nearest hedge. He supposes they have a point though. While his first impulse wasn’t to quit, it was to break Malfoy’s perfect little nose. Which doesn’t suggest that he’s grown up all that much.
“Harry,” Ginny says gently and then he feels her warm hand on his arm. “This is your dream job. You’ve been waiting for this for years. I thought that if you had time and found out a bit later that you’d give it a chance. I didn't want you to lose that.”
She means it. There’s a sincerity in her words and when Harry looks up into her warm brown eyes he knows that she really meant the best for him. Their relationship isn’t quite right yet. They never see each other without crowds of friends or family around, and their talks are always superficial, nothing like how it was before. Harry used to be able to say anything to Ginny, things he couldn’t quite confess to Hermione or Ron. They’re friends again but only in the loosest sense and he wonders what it will take to change that.
“I know,” he says and roughly pulls her into a hug because he never should have doubted her affection for him. He breathes in the coconut smell of her hair and tries to not think of Malfoy’s triumphant face.
“Come on,” he says when they’ve finally stepped apart. “Let’s go see if lunch is ready.” Ginny gives him a wobbly smile, clearly recognising it for what it is. But they step in unison back to the house and George gives them a curious look when they come in the door together.
“Alright?” he asks, eyes flicking from Harry’s tense face to Ginny’s. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Ginny says shortly, not even stopping as she storms through to the kitchen. “I’m getting a drink.”
George turns his eyes to Harry instead and Harry sighs, shrugs.
“Just a conversation,” he says, just as unwilling as Ginny to discuss their issues. “I need a drink too.”
George doesn’t stop giving them strange looks, even when the entire family is crowded around the long, magically extended dinner table. Harry drops a large slice of ham onto his plate and waits. It’ll come.
“Pass the potatoes,” Ron says, holding out a hand. Harry passes them over and looks around to see what he might have missed. His plate might be piled high but Molly’s food might be even better than Hogwarts.
There’s so many of them today that they’re out in the garden, under glittering lanterns and watching out for any gnomes who might swoop in on any dropped food. Several people have dragged out blankets to keep out the autumn air as the evening goes on. Gabriella chatters easily to her sister, as Fleur carefully fills a pouting Victoire’s plate with vegetables. Molly watches everyone with anxious eyes, almost as though she expects someone to be unhappy or ask for extra gravy. Audrey carefully shakes out a napkin over her lap as her husband pours gravy over her meal. It’s all so perfectly lovely that Harry smiles into his plate.
“Harry?” Hermione asks quietly, refilling her glass with water. Harry just shakes his head.
“Nothing” he says and settles down to eat.
He gets halfway into his plate before George pipes up.
“So what exactly were you and Ginny having a good old chin-wag about then, Harry?” he asks and Angelina shoots him an irritated look. On the other side of the table, Ginny rolls her eyes. Like Harry, she’d been waiting for the delayed bomb.
Ron stops mid-chew.
“Nothing,” Ginny insists, turning on her brother furiously. Harry credits George for being a braver man than he is; personally he’d buckle if he had Ginny on one side and Angelina on the other.
”Didn’t look like nothing,” George says in a sing-song voice. He’s starting to gain the attention of the other guests, even Molly and Arthur turning to look down the table at them.
“George, shut up!” Ginny hisses, backing up her words with a jab of her fork. George stares back, unfazed.
“Well, you apparently had to go have a little chat by yourselves down the drive,” he says and Angelina groans loudly, dropping her head into her hands. “Thought maybe you’d like to share it with the group?”
“This is my first family lunch,” Angelina mutters wearily. Harry bites into a sprout, feeling a bit sympathetic. But then again, lunch is always like this. If it’s not bickering, it’s George testing new potions in the mulled wine or Victoire finding the nearest broom and getting stuck up a tree.
“George,” Percy says in a warning tone and Arthur repeats it soon after.
“It’s nothing,” Ginny insists, spots of red appearing in her cheeks. She stabs a chipolata viciously and Harry suspects that it’s only the threat of Molly who keeps her from stabbing her brother instead. “Harry and I can have talks without the likes of you around.”
“What were you talking about?” Ron says hopefully and it’s Hermione’s turn to groan.
“Can we have one meal, just one!” she mutters. “Ronald, drop it!” Ron opens his mouth before swiftly closing it.
“It wasn’t anything, promise,” Harry says to him and then turns to George. “Really, it was nothing scandalous or particularly private or anything, okay? But it’s between me and Ginny.” He doesn’t want to reveal the true topic of their conversation. Not when it would set up Ginny for a different kind of pressure from her family. But Ginny’s shaking her head.
“No, you should tell them,” she says. “Otherwise they won’t shut up.” She flicks her eyes to Ron and George, looking mutinous. Clearly, she’s had enough of the reconciliation talk too.
“‘Arry?” Fleur says curiously and it makes Harry aware that the entire table has apparently stopped to listen to the fight. Little Molly is the only one unbothered, as she’s currently sneaking sausages from her father’s plate.
“Okay,” Harry says uncertainly, setting down his knife and fork. “So….Malfoy is a professor at Hogwarts.”
George blinks at him. “Right,” he says slowly. “Not what I was expecting you to say.” Ginny rolls her eyes.
“What did you even want us to say?” she demands, eyes flashing. “That we’re getting back together? Because I don’t know how many times we have to tell you, we’re not!” She looks at Ron as she spits the last word, as though she can make him listen for once.
“Because we don’t understand why you’re being so stupid!” Ron replies hotly and Ginny stands up so quickly that she tips her chair back. Charlie tugs her back before she can reach for her wand.
“How fucking dare you!” Ginny says, pulling against Charlie’s grip. Hermione lays a soothing hand on Ron’s arm, watching her friend with concern.
“Ginny!” Molly says, putting down her knife and fork. “There’s children!” However, neither Victoire, nor her cousins, at the kiddy table have noticed, too interested in feeding Victoire’s little Crup pieces off their plates.
“What we do is none of your concern!” Ginny hisses and Harry is grateful that he’s not on the end of her rage. Ginny, when furious, is a storm with skin, uncontrollable and terrifying to everyone. But whether it’s the endless questioning of their break up, her brother’s constant interference with her love life or something else, Harry doesn’t know. “None! My life or who I see has never been your concern! Not when it was Dean or Michael Corner or Harry! So leave it!”
There’s a shower of sparks before the argument can get any more heated and Harry turns to see that Arthur has taken control.
“That’s enough,” he says calmly, stowing his wand away. “Ginny, sit back down. Ron and George, there will be no further questions regarding Harry and Ginny. Harry, go on.” Harry nods and waits for Ginny to right her chair and sit back down, her face flushed with adrenaline.
“Uh, so Malfoy is the Potions Professor at Hogwarts,” he says awkwardly, aware of the tension still simmering around the table like the leftover embers from Arthur’s sparks. “Has been for the last two years.”
“How’d they let that little ferret be a teacher?” George mutters to Angelina, who shrugs. Hermione is shaking her head.
“We couldn’t believe it either when Harry Floo-called us and told us,” she adds. She’s being polite about it, of course. Neither she nor Ron had been overly thrilled to find Harry’s head in their fireplace at 7am the morning after it had happened.
“Two years?” Audrey says, blinking around the table in confusion. Unlike the Weasleys, she’d never come into contact with Malfoy personally but she’d followed the trial of Lucius Malfoy like everyone else. “How come it hasn’t been all over the papers?”
“McGonagall,” Harry says briefly. “And Kingsley. They’ve made sure that the papers can’t say anything nasty or fake about him. Some sort of protection, I guess?”
“That would make sense,” Percy chimes in. “He was a minor for most of the crimes he committed and as he never actually fought for the Death Eaters during the battle…”
“And he didn’t identify us at the Manor,” Ron adds darkly, as though the admission hurts him somehow. Harry catches him stroking his thumb over the back of Hermione’s hand. No one likes thinking about what happened at the Manor. But it could have been worse if Malfoy hadn’t lied.
“So they ‘aven’t written about him at all,'' Fleur sums up, with a shrug of her delicate shoulders. “What do they say? If you can’t say anything nice…”
“And they haven’t said anything at all,” Harry confirms. “Because they can’t. I kinda get the impression that Malfoy doesn’t leave the castle much.” Ron gives a rude snort.
“Would you?” he points out. “He only got community service because of his age but he’s still hated. Nothing compared to how the community feels about his father though…”
“I don’t know how I feel about that nasty boy teaching there,” Molly says, finally finding her voice. Her face is pale with worry, eyes flicking to Victoire and Little Molly, even though both are years from attending Hogwarts. “I know Severus was on our side but he wasn’t a very nice teacher.”
“I’ll say,” Ron grumbles, chomping down on a carrot as though it was Snape’s head. Even Hermione wrinkles her nose slightly at the memory of their former professor. None of them ever were treated well by the man.
“Dumbledore kept Professor Snape on for a reason,” Hermione points out, always the voice of reason. “But I’m sure if McGonagall had fault with Malfoy’s teaching methods she wouldn’t keep him.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Molly says, only looking slightly less concerned. She hates any and all talk of the Malfoys and only rarely asks Andromeda how her sister is faring. The answer is always the same. Fine. She doesn’t leave the Manor. No, she hasn’t seen Teddy.
“But what has that got to do with you?” George asks, suspiciously turning on his sister again. Ginny’s mouth twists.
“I ran into him,” she says stiffly, but Harry can see the faintest movements under the table, suggesting that she is twisting her napkin round and around her fingers.
“You knew!” Ron says, finally connecting the dots. “That first day! You ran into him!”
“I did,” she says coolly. “And before you have a go at me, no I wasn’t going to tell any of you or Harry. This is his dream job and he deserved to give it a chance before he blew it up over some stupid schoolboy rivalry.”
“He’s evil,” Ron says, looking completely scandalized. Ginny rolls her eyes.
“Oh, come off it,” she scoffs. “He’s a dumb little boy who followed his overbearing, very evil father down the wrong path. His father’s in jail. He’s not.”
“I have to agree with Ginny here,” Arthur says, chewing anxiously on his lip. “I think young Mr Malfoy is many things but evil is not one of them. Harry, you said yourself after the war that he must have been under a lot of pressure. He desperately didn’t want to kill Albus but his family was under threat. What else could he do?”
“I suppose,” Harry says, completely thrown. Arthur hates Lucius more than anyone, had done so even before the war. For him to be defending Draco says something. Even Molly is watching her husband with curious eyes, as though this forgiveness of his enemy’s son isn’t something she’d expected either.
“It’s been a long time, Harry,” Hermione says gently, leaning past Ron to address Harry. “He’s not his father or even his aunt. Maybe he’s changed.”
“Maybe,” Harry says, reluctantly. “I just don’t know how.” Hermione sits back in her seat and smiles.
“Maybe you should find out,” she says and picks up her fork.
When Harry steps into the kitchen, Hermone guiltily hides the jar of pickles behind her back.
“Don’t tell Molly,” she begs, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear with her spare hand. Harry grins.
“I won’t,” he promises, unloading the armful of plates he’s carrying into the sink. “But why are you eating pickles after everything you just ate?” Hermione stashes the jar back on the shelf where it came from and wipes off her fingers on a nearby towel.
“Just wanted some,” she says, as though desiring pickles after a full Sunday roast was a normal thing. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, briefly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She shrugs and leans against the counter, watching him carefully.
“Just that we can’t seem to go even one dinner without people bringing up you and Ginny,” she says, drawing out her wand and easily filling up the sink with hot soapy water. “Just thought it might be bothering you.”
“I guess,” Harry says, flicking his eyes towards the door to make sure they’re not about to be overheard. “It annoys both of us because we’re trying so hard to be friends and everyone keeps insisting we should get back together.”
“You breaking up was a surprise,” Hermione comments, deftly sending the plates under the streams of water. Molly won’t be happy that someone has done the washing up for her but she’ll only grumble for five minutes before she realises that she can sit down with a cup of tea, unburdened by dirty plates. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! It was! You both got on so well and there were no signs you were unhappy at all.”
“I guess we weren’t,” Harry says, thinking. “Not really? But we weren’t exactly...happy. I mean, you’re happy, right?” Hermione stops and the sponges floating in mid air stop too.
“Of course,” she says, as though there’s never any doubt. And Harry wants that for her, for Ron, that the answer to that question is always yes. “Why are you so sure you weren’t happy?”
“We just…” Harry says and stops. He’s never tried to express how he feels about the implosion of his relationship with Ginny. If implosion is even the right word. It wasn’t a sudden flare, something that ended in a swift, brutal argument. It was just quiet evenings where Harry would come home and look around at the empty flat - reheated lasagne and a beer on the table, repeat of the news on the TV - and think that they may as well be leading separate lives. Ginny spent more time at her training, out with her teammates. She blossomed even more out in the real world, the bright, sparky character that people naturally want to be friends with. She drifted away and Harry had let her.
“We were just missing something, I suppose,” he says, casually, as though this fact isn’t the thing that keeps him up at night, wondering what went wrong and how he could have fixed it. By the time he knew something was wrong, it was already too late. Maybe if he’d tried sooner, it would have been harder for Ginny to pack up her suitcases and temporarily move back to the Burrow.
Hermione tilts her head and Harry feels strangely similar to a creature on display at the zoo.
“What do you think was missing?” Her brown eyes are soft, as though she hasn’t just asked the question that Harry dreads. Because he should know. Ginny was perfect, she’s always been perfect and he remembers sitting next to her on the common room floor at Hogwarts and thinking he’d never seen anything so beautiful.
“Get off, Balthazar!” Ron’s startled yelp as he makes his way into the kitchen, burdened with plates and followed by Victoire’s Crup. Harry snatches a piece of leftover potato from one of the serving trays and crouches down to wave it at Balthazar. The Crup wastes no time in bounding over and snatching it out of Harry’s hand, leaving Ron free to dump the plates down on a nearby table.
“Worst part of Sunday dinner,” he groans, waving a hand at the mess. “The clean up.”
“You’re a wizard, Ron,” Hermione says dryly, sending the dirty plates into the sink with a graceful wave of her wand. “Also, you never actually seem to do any of the cleaning?”
“Ha ha,” Ron says, coming to wind an arm around Hermione’s waist. He drops an easy kiss on her forehead and her answering smile is bright.
“Do you think I can escape before Molly tries to give me half a ham?” Harry asks, withdrawing his own wand to help. He can at least make some sense of the kitchen, putting away the clean crockery and the assortment of herbs and spices that Molly uses in her cooking.
“She might post it to you,” Ron says, with a smirk. “Again.” Harry winces. The owls had managed to fly to Grimmauld place with the large chunk of ham unharmed. However, they hadn’t managed the landing so well and had promptly dropped the parcel in a full sink of dirty washing up water.
“It’s not like I can forget to eat at Hogwarts,” he says, sending the dry plates back into the cupboard.
“Take it out to the Thestrals?” Ron suggests, pulling a leftover Yorkshire pudding off a plate and shoving it into his mouth. “Or do they only eat it raw?”
“Don’t feed Molly’s ham to the Thestrals,” Hermione advises, with the world weary tone of someone who has spent years trying to put a stop to Ron’s mad ideas. “Harry, can you clear those cups too?”
“Why isn’t Ron helping?” Harry complains, even as he does as she asks. There’s so many people for dinner that the stream of plates and cutlery seems never ending. Ron grins around a crunchy bit of potato. Balthazar lies across his feet adoringly, clearly hoping for crumbs.
“She doesn’t trust me,” he says cheerfully. “Shame, isn’t it?”
Of course, if they weren’t magical, this whole process would take hours not mere minutes. Soon, even the greasy cooking trays and serving plates are washed and returned to their rightful places. Harry puts the largest serving spoon back in the drawer and wishes that he’d been able to tidy away after one of Aunt Petunia’s dinner parties so easily.
“I’d better get back,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. It’s harder to leave the Burrow than he expected: the warmth of the kitchen, the buzz of laughter in the next room, Ron and Hermione’s familiar faces. His quarters at the school so far lack any of the light and companionship.
“So soon?” Hermione asks, stowing her wand up her sleeve and pushing her hair out of her eyes in a few smooth movements. The heat and moisture have had an effect on her hair and it has taken on a life of its own, curling wildly around her ears.
“School tomorrow. Lesson plans and I’m on duty during free period,” Harry explains. He’s going into his first full week of teaching and whatever that may bring. These past two days have only been a taster, still carrying the easy going feel of the first few days of school where exams are months off and there’s no pressure. He feels guilty about slipping away without properly saying goodbye to the rest of the family but if he hugs each person individually, he’ll be here another half an hour at least. And he really doesn’t want the rest of the ham.
Harry hugs both of them tightly before he steps into the Floo. Ron awkwardly pats him on the back as they separate.
“You gonna be okay?” Ron asks, blue eyes wide. “With Malfoy, I mean.” Harry shrugs.
“I have no clue,” he confesses. “We’re managing so far. Maybe we can make the entire year not speaking to each other?”
“I doubt that very much,” Hermione remarks dryly.
“Unlikely,” Ron agrees. “Good luck though, mate. I’d probably murder the bastard if I had to spend that much time with him.”
“Jury’s out on whether I do the same,” Harry sighs. Ron collects the pot of Floo powder off the mantel and Harry winces slightly as he dips his hand in. Fuck, he still hates Flooing. Unfortunately, it’s going to be the quickest way to see his family during term time.
But it is convenient to arrive back at his office without disturbing the rest of the castle. Some evenings he has to take detentions or monitor free periods or even be on patrol but anything else is all his. He can easily Floo to their flat and have tea with Hermione or listen to Ron talk endlessly about the Chudley Cannons.
He tugs off his robes and hangs them up, leaving his very muggle t-shirt and jeans on. He flicks the kettle on for another cup of tea, wondering if he can read over his notes for the upcoming lessons before he goes to bed. But a quick search of his desk drawer comes up empty. He must have left them in the desk downstairs.
A frantic search and tugging of drawers open later, Harry finds them underneath a copy of ‘The New Guide to Modern Defensive Spells.’ He tugs them out, slightly grateful he didn’t have to do them all again. He’d carefully planned out the first few weeks in advance, using his predecessor’s notes of where each class had reached in the syllabus.
There’s a strange noise outside his classroom just as he hits the bottom step back to his quarters. Harry waits to hear it again, feeling torn. It could just be Peeves creating chaos - which is probably something he should investigate anyway - or a student has wandered out of bed already.
Harry pauses, just thinking for a moment, before turning and vanishing into his bedroom. The Marauders Map made the trip to Hogwarts with him - it felt right, bringing the map back to the castle with him - and now lives in his bedside drawer. He unfurls it and spreads it out over his bed, tugging out his wand with his other hand.
“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” Harry whispers and the map comes alive.
Minerva is in her office, sitting at her desk. Harry wonders what she’s doing so late into the night. Hagrid is tucked away in his hut and Stella is in her tower...however, the Divination teacher seems to be pacing up and down her classroom. On the Fourth floor Filch patrols with Mrs Norris close at his heels. Thankfully, the rest of the floor is empty: the caretaker won’t stumble across any students out of bed tonight.
Harry looks at his own classroom and finds the corridor empty. However, hurrying at a quick pace down the Serpentine Corridor is one Draco Malfoy, Potions Professor.
Harry’s heart quickens and he stuffs the map into a back pocket. He makes a dash out of his quarters and across his classroom before he can stop to think about what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what Malfoy is doing and as a teacher, he’s perfectly allowed to wander the Castle. But the hat’s warning and Harry’s own suspicions have put his feet on the move, just to be sure.
The hallway is dark and Harry casts a quick Lumos so he doesn’t fall over his feet or plummet down where a staircase used to be. He hurries along, ignoring the grumbles of the portraits as the bright light pulls them from their rest. He feels the slightest pang of guilt at ignoring everyone’s advice, Minerva’s wishes for them, but he doesn’t stop.
There’s a light on in the third floor staff-room. Harry stops just around the corner, unsure. If Malfoy’s up to something, the staff-room doesn’t really seem like the right kind of place for it.
The gargoyles that guard the staff-room haven’t noticed him yet, tucked away in the shadows. If they do, there’s a chance they’ll draw attention to him, thinking he’s a student. He has to decide if he’s going to go back to his classroom or walk in to see what Malfoy is doing.
He runs out of time. Inside the staff-room, there’s the click of unhurried footsteps striding towards the door. Harry doesn’t think, just slides his hand along the wall for the nearest door handle and hurriedly slips into a room of pitch black. He snuffs out the light of his wand mere seconds before Malfoy flicks off the light in the staff-room and opens the door.
Malfoy has his own wand lit and tucked under his arm, giving Harry just enough light to see that Malfoy’s hands are full with an assortment of tubs and jars. It takes a moment for him to place the contents of one as Fluxweed. Another sloshes with the liquid of armadillo bile.
Damn. The staff-room had extra cupboards for storage of extra equipment or Potions ingredients, away and out of reach of students. Nothing illegal or malicious at all.
Harry slinks back into the darkness as Malfoy sets back down the corridor the way he came, presumably back down the Grand staircase and to the dungeons. This time Harry has no desire to follow him.
He pulls back from the gap in the door and leans back against the nearest patch of wall with a sigh. Malfoy may still be a stuck up arse but it’s entirely possible that everyone is right, and Harry’s not about to have a repeat of his sixth year. Just because the Hat thinks something is happening doesn’t mean that there is, or that it’s even Malfoy. He’s doing what he wants the students to move on from and relying on past prejudices.
He waits a few minutes in the dark until he’s sure that Malfoy is long gone. If Harry is discovered then any chance of them having a reasonable working relationship is blown to pieces, and that’s if Malfoy doesn’t start immediately hexing him, getting them both banished from the castle.
Once he’s back out in the corridor again, he pushes the door closed with a tiny click. He has to light his wand again to make his way back to his classroom, even though he’s making himself very unpopular with the castle’s portraits. Harry briefly wonders if the ones in Minerva’s office are quite so opinionated. They always seem to sleep in their frames no matter the time of day.
He doesn’t expect the wand’s light to fall across a figure in the hall. His stomach drops at the sight, someone appearing when you don’t expect it. For a moment he thinks it’s Malfoy, returning to the staff-room for more potion supplies. But the man in front of his has long dark hair, not slicked back blonde
“Kristopher?” Harry gasps, once the shock has left his body. The Alchemy teacher almost looks as though he doesn’t hear him, dark eyes glazed over. Gingerly, Harry reaches out with his free hand and rests his finger’s on Kristopher’s arm. The older man startles and turns his head, as though he’s only just noticed that he’s not alone.
“Harry?” he asks, voice as faint and thin as a wisp of smoke. Harry withdraws his hand and frowns.
“Are you alright, Kristopher?” he asks, thinking that the last time he’d seen the man he’d not been as pale and gaunt as this. The dark circles seem even more pronounced, the pallor of his skin taking on an even more brittle, unhealthy shade. Kristopher lacks any waistcoat or cravat wearing only a white shirt that is badly rumbled and there’s a strange stain on the collar, something dark and rust coloured. Even his trousers look creased and from what little Harry knows about his fellow teacher, this isn’t normal. The man may dress like an 18th century gentleman but his clothes are always impeccable.
“Yes, yes,” Kristopher murmurs. “Fine, my boy. Lovely to see you.” Harry blinks and holds his wand up a little higher. The conversation is not matching one might have at midnight in a school corridor. But there’s the faintest glow and Kristopher winces and takes a sharp step backwards, away from the bright tip of the wand.
“Do you need me to take you somewhere?” Harry asks, slightly worried. “To Poppy, perhaps?”
“No,” Kristopher says and takes an unsteady step forward. “Quite fine. I need a drink. Yes, a drink.” Harry slinks back against the wall to let the man past. He suspects that he’ll be mowed down if he gets in the way.
“Are you sure?” he persists, following Kristopher back the way he came, towards the staff-room. “You don’t look well.” But Kristopher waves a slender hand at him, murmuring vague and almost unintelligible reassurances back at him. Concerned, Harry watches him vanish down the hallway into the darkness. He half thinks he should go after him, not entirely comfortable with letting a man so clearly not all there traipse around in the dark. The castle isn’t always the best place to be if you don’t have all your wits about you.
In the end, Harry decides he’s done enough stalking for one night and stalks back to his quarters, feeling confused and a little sheepish. Sixth year may have been the year of Malfoy skulking around the castle but Harry can’t fall into the same patterns again. Doing the perfectly reasonable actions of a teacher is no reason to follow the man around at night.
Harry strips off his clothes and climbs into bed, too weary to bother putting on pajamas. He drops his wand and glasses onto his bedside table and fluffs up his pillow.
As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders if he’s wasting his time following Malfoy and isn’t placing his suspicions on entirely the wrong person.
Notes:
Oh, hey, this chapter is quicker than the last one. Surprise. More Draco from here on out, let's goooooooo
As always, thanks to Lara for beta-ing!