Chapter Text
The past two years had been utterly abysmal. That much, he could say with absolute certainty. He had watched his home fall into ruin, his family torn into drifting constellations of pain, and he had endured worse treatment and humiliation than he had ever experienced in his life. But the worst part about all of this was that no matter how awful these past two years had been, they were still not the worst years of Draco Malfoy’s life.
The worst years, of course, had been the hellish expanse of time that the Dark Lord had inhabited his home. During that period, all his nights had been fever dreams, and all his days had been spent regretting that he had woken up at all. And the screams - the screams had soaked into the very walls of his home. Made the once comforting place cold, unfeeling.
Like he himself had turned.
Draco clunked his glass down onto the counter. Once he started dwelling on the screams, then it was just a small step to the murders, and it was always a downward spiral from there. There were so many nightmares so eager to crawl across his skin. Best to leave bad memories alone.
He glanced around the tavern, warmed by the familiarity of The Three Broomsticks after so long. After the war, he hadn’t been back to Hogsmeade for fear of the reactions, fear of running into people he knew - or rather, who knew him. That much hadn’t changed in two years - but, for once, his circumstances had. For the first time in his adult life, Draco had been offered a glimmer of hope.
More specifically, he’d been offered a job.
McGonagall - now Headmistress - had chosen to give him a second chance and hire him back at Hogwarts. It wasn’t his dream position by any means - he’d be taking over for Madam Hooch as the school’s flight instructor, when he’d much prefer to work in Potions. But in light of the many dehumanizing “jobs” he had taken on this past year, her kindness at offering him anything made him happy enough to cry.
It reminded him of another professor who had given him a second chance - only then, he hadn’t taken it. And the regret still swelled in his throat like a dense, dead thing.
His remorse about Dumbledore was the reason he was sitting in The Three Broomsticks instead of the more inconspicuous Hog’s Head Inn. Though he would have less of a chance of being noticed there, he would likely be noticed by Aberforth - the one person with even more reason to hate Draco than most anyone else.
He ordered another firewhisky. It didn’t escape his notice the way the bartender slid him the drink with a look of disgust.
Fine.
If this was any indication of the way his year would go, then he would simply steel himself to that. He should quash his hopes for the new job at Hogwarts returning a semblance of dignity. That would only hurt him more later. No, he should be focusing on mere survival, how this job was just a job - though a damn better one than its predecessor.
He would keep his mouth shut and his head down, if that’s what they wanted. He had gotten used to that. He would simply do his job to the best of his ability and pray that no one got him fired for his Dark Mark.
He could do this.
2 years, 3 months earlier
Draco sat chained to a chair in the middle of Courtroom 10. He had been there for nearly three hours, hearing testimony after testimony until he could no longer distinguish words over the swelling guilt. It rung in his ears like ghostly echoes of malicious voices. Voices like Aunt Bella’s who told him he was nothing.
It was all he heard from the witnesses too: You’re nothing, you’re nothing, you’re nothing. Only now, he was “nothing” for entirely different reasons.
Before, he had been “nothing” when he failed to kill Dumbledore. When he failed to kill anyone. He had been “nothing” when his father had failed the Dark Lord and the whole family had to pay. Now, he was “nothing” for his very involvement in the cause he could never quite commit to.
Their accusations floated through his veil of guilt at intervals, leaving labels like Death Eater, Traitor, and Enemy behind for him to ponder. He tried to close them out, to segment them off in his mind like he’d been taught, but after fighting so long, he was exhausted. He was broken. A chain binding his chest to the chair was all that kept him from crumpling under the weight of such heavy words.
He heard the clack of a gavel as another testimony came to a close. If they had any mercy, it would be the last one. His hands ached from clutching the arms of the chair until his knuckles shone ghostly white in the dim room. Maybe the trial would end here.
But if so, they’d be taking him to Azkaban. He was sure of it, and the thought sent a spike of adrenaline through him - morphing guilt into panic, regret into fear. If he went there, he would die. And despite the pain and loss he had experienced the past few years, he was not ready to die.
He was only seventeen for fuck’s sake.
Younger people died at the hands of the Dark Lord, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. That didn’t stop you.
He was so focused on his dread, body stiff with tension, that he didn’t notice the next witness until the judge announced him. “The next witness in the trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy, accused on account of treachery and known involvement with Death Eaters, is one Harry James Potter, former classmate of the defendant.”
The words trickled through his ears, taking a moment to understand. Then, his head snapped up to look. Potter? Why the fuck was Potter here? Surely, he had ceremonies to attend, artists to pose for as they sculpted a fifty-foot statue for the Ministry in his honor. Why would he take his time coming to this miserable trial?
Undoubtedly, he was testifying against him. Draco was sure of it. He ground his teeth as he looked up at The Savior of the Wizarding World with his unkempt hair and muggle jeans. Was winning the war not enough - he had to come rub it in his face that Draco had chosen wrong and make sure he went straight to Azkaban?
And hell, did he not own a comb? His hair was truly awful today. It would have even brought a laugh to Draco’s lips had he not been so panicked.
Potter stepped up to the stand a little nervously, and somehow that pissed Draco off even more. How he could spend twenty minutes defeating the Dark Lord and then pretend to be modest about everything. If Draco had been able to do that, he would have shouted it from the rooftops. He would have strutted through every important room in the Ministry - just to walk through, just to show that he was important enough that no one would question him.
If he had been able to defeat the Dark Lord, it would have saved so much suffering.
He glowered at Potter up on the stand. All his life, Potter had snatched away everything he ever wanted from under him. Fame. Popularity. Every winning Snitch. Even his bloody person was out of Draco’s reach. And he hated that he wanted him.
More than anything, he hated that Potter was seeing him like this - reduced to nothing, in a place where money and influence couldn’t save him, and chained to a chair like a wild animal. Draco had spent so many years taunting him, coming up with new ways to prove himself an equal through rivalry. He didn’t want Potter to see just how pathetic he had become.
Potter’s eyes landed on him, and Draco squared his shoulders. If he was going to prison regardless, then he might as well look dignified in his final moments outside.
“Witness, please state your name for the court.”
“Oh, um, Harry Potter,” he said with a sheepish smile, like it was ridiculous to have him say his name to a crowd who all knew him as the most famous wizard in the world.
Frankly, it was ridiculous.
“And are you testifying against or in defense of the accused?”
“In defense.”
Draco sucked in a breath. What?
That was impossible. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. There was no way Potter would come here to defend him - after everything he had done. It was unthinkable. There had to be some mistake.
“Very well. Please proceed with your testimony.”
Harry took a deep breath. “Right. Well, despite having our obvious differences, there was one particular time in which Malfoy saved my life-”
No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Harry fucking Potter wasn’t up on the witness stand excusing the atrocities he had committed, because he had simply been scared. He knew the moment Potter was going to reference, and it hadn’t been merciful. It certainly hadn’t been brave. Draco had been too weak to see Potter killed and too weak to set him free, so he had merely done nothing.
For the first time that day, he wished he could break the silencing charm on him and speak up. Tell them that Potter was an idiot, and anyone that listened to him was mental. As it was, he could merely clench his jaw harder and dig his nails deeper into the armrests.
“-at the Manor that night I was captured. Mister Malfoy...err, Lucius, and Bellatrix wanted to turn me in to Voldemort-”
There was a collective shudder around the room, and Draco’s skin prickled at the name. It sounded so unfamiliar, being said aloud. The man had lived in his own home for months, and he had never heard anyone address him as anything other than ‘The Dark Lord.’ Hearing it now, he felt the irrational fear that it would summon him again.
“Hermione had hit me with a stinging hex right before, so my face was all swollen. But it was still clearly me. Malfoy - err, Draco, that is, not Lucius - definitely would have known.”
Draco’s heart tripped in his chest when Potter called him by his given name. He wasn’t sure he had ever heard it from him before.
“They made him come over and try to identify me. I know he recognized me. But he didn’t say it. He told them he couldn’t tell.”
Draco swallowed, chest impossibly tight. He had known – would’ve known those eyes anywhere - but it didn’t matter either way. His indecision in that moment had helped neither Potter nor him, so he didn’t see why the man was so fixated on it.
Guilt crushed at his lungs, and the fact that Potter was defending him now suddenly seemed too much to bear. Not to mention the niggling doubt that this feeling wasn’t only guilt. Deep beneath his layers of defensiveness and pride, a part of him held an awed, aching tenderness for this man who was testifying for him. It was unwarranted and pitiful and, frankly, disgusting - but regrettably, not insignificant.
He hated this murky mixture of emotions that swelled like liquid in his throat; he was drowning, and the only one he wanted to save him was the same insufferable scarhead who landed him in this turmoil in the first place.
“When Mal-...Draco, hesitated, they waited to call Voldemort to the Manor. In the end, that gave us enough time to escape before he could come. Therefore, if it hadn’t been for Draco, I would have been killed that night.”
He could feel all the eyes in the courtroom on him. Analyzing this new information and comparing it to what they saw in front of them. Given how he looked, they would surely distrust the praise. Some shifted their disappointed glances to Potter, and that made Draco’s stomach clench with dread.
Merlin, didn’t Potter see that in defending Draco, he was ruining his own reputation?
He leveled a furious gaze at the man who had caused him so many problems, and was surprised to see vivid green eyes staring back at him. Potter looked...curious. Yet distant. And it was the second thought that sent Draco over the edge. He narrowed his eyes and sneered, doing anything he could to convey his depthless ire. Fuck mercy. Fuck gratitude.
Fuck Harry Potter.
Present
Draco was rubbing his forehead, trying to erase the headache pounding in his skull. He had drunk entirely too much last night, and not even a hangover potion had completely mitigated the symptoms. There was something about that last glare the bartender had given him that had sent him into a downward spiral; he didn’t drink like that often, but he knew he couldn’t give himself the opportunity again.
Despite the pain, he had moved his stuff into his room at Hogwarts this morning, marveling at the bittersweet nostalgia he felt for being back within the castle walls. McGonagall had given him a suite in the dungeons, and he hadn’t decided whether it was to make him comfortable in a familiar setting or if she thought he ought not be anywhere else.
He had unpacked his bags, putting away the clothes and books he had brought, but that had been all. After all, it wasn’t like he owned much these days, after being cut off from the estate. But it was enough to make the room look his own, and the green glow of the lake through his porthole window calmed him. Some minnows drifted by, casting small shadows on the chair.
He had also fixed up his office, pleasantly surprised that he had been given one, even though he was only a flying instructor. It wasn’t a large office by any means, but it granted him a fragment of dignity that he would not have regained otherwise.
What did an office usually contain? He had never had an office. After long thought, he scrawled an “office hours” sheet to pin up outside his door. He hesitated before actually writing the hours in, as he figured he’d have time to figure that out yet - and, besides, who wanted to consult the Quidditch coach about matters needing an office space? He sighed self-deprecatingly; it was an unlikely scenario to begin with.
He pinned it up, but opted to leave it blank until someone asked.
With a sigh, he decided it was about time to head down to the Sorting feast. It still felt so strange to be back here as an instructor and not a student. It hardly seemed like two years had passed since he was here, but at the same time, he couldn’t claim his childhood innocence either. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt - to know that he could never return to those days lounging about the common room with his friends, a bright and shining future ahead of him. Nothing would ever be the same.
He ascended to the ground floor, taking a deep breath and steeling himself before pushing through the doors to the Great Hall. Kids clambered about the long tables, some glancing up at him with recognition, while others ignored him completely. He walked briskly towards the front, debating which side of the staff table to sit at before nervously taking the first open seat next to Flitwick. The man gave him a polite nod and nothing more.
This was fine - everything was fine. He was used to this. Draco just had to do well in his teaching, and everything else would fall into place.
Other teachers filed in, none taking the seat to his right. Trelawney trailed by with her big, moony eyes, followed by Slughorn, who pretended not to see him. The bastard had never recognized his talent in Potions, and Draco found himself wishing half-heartedly for the man’s early retirement. Then he could take the position he really wanted - though he knew he didn’t deserve it.
Then McGonagall was starting announcements, and Draco was left sandwiched between a brusque charms professor and a lone, empty chair. Wonderful. The Sorting began as normal, and somehow that was what felt the most bizarre of all - that things could proceed as normal after everything that had happened.
She was partway down the list, when he heard the double doors in back clunk open. He glanced up and froze. Hustling down the aisle without a trace of subtlety was Harry fucking Potter.
Draco felt his jaw drop. He hadn’t seen the man in two bloody years, and then he just happened to show up at Hogwarts on his first day back? To what - ruin his already tenuous peace of mind?
Potter rounded the corner of the staff table, and, based on his path, Draco had the sudden realization of why he was here. Fuck. Shit, fuck, no-
He must’ve been hired as a teacher too.
Draco’s heart pounded in his chest, watching the messy black locks fall in Potter’s eyes as he walked. Other than the papers, he hadn’t had a chance to lay eyes on him in so long. Merlin, how had he not looked up yet? He was only a few feet away.
And then he did.
His green eyes flared with surprise - he was always so expressive - and Draco could practically feel the confusion whirling in his mind.
“Malfoy? What the hell?!”
Draco nearly laughed at the greeting. He didn’t get a chance though, as McGonagall turned and tutted, sending Potter leaping into the open chair. Such a suck-up.
“Potter,” he spat, the name feeling good and right on his tongue. “Come back to sign a few autographs?” He didn’t really want to start a fight, but the words came so naturally to him, he couldn’t stop.
“No! Of all the stupid-” Pottered blabbered. He seemed too startled by this chance meeting to form proper sentences. “Why are you here, Malfoy?”
Draco leaned back in his chair, enjoying the argument more than he thought he would. It felt familiar in a way that the rest of his life didn’t. “Why do you think, Potter? It shouldn’t take a genius to figure it out.” He smirked, knowing it would drive Potter crazy. And still, after everything, he loved driving Potter crazy. “Can ‘The Boy Who Lived’ make a simple deduction?”
“Shut up,” Harry growled. “And maybe I just don’t want to believe it. You? They hired you as a professor? What subject could you possibly teach?”
Draco scowled. Just because it was true, didn’t mean he needed to say it. Besides, judging by Potter’s presence here and the array of teachers around them, he had to be here as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor - a much more prestigious position.
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he huffed and turned away.
But he couldn’t leave it at that. Not when he could feel Potter’s eyes roving all over him. It made him want to yell, to strangle him, to succumb to those gross, complicated feelings deep down inside.
Hell. He had planned to keep his mouth closed and his head down this year, and do anything it took to keep this job. He still planned to.
McGonagall began announcing the faculty, and he rose in a startled motion when his name was called. Fuck, everyone was looking at him now. They all thought he shouldn’t be here, that it was laughable for him to step into a position so clearly unsuited to him.
She announced Potter right after, confirming his suspicions. How the hell was he supposed to work with him all year? In his wildest dreams and anxieties, he had never prepared for this scenario.
The feast began, and he kept his gaze fixed forward, refusing to look at Potter beside him. By the sounds he was making though, he was gobbling food like an animal. His knife scraped noisily along his plate, and he seemed to choke on his drink for a second before gulping it down.
He couldn’t let himself bait Potter anymore - he needed this job. It would be foolish to jeopardize that. But there was something so natural, so exhilarating about arguing with him. Teasing him again felt like a missing piece of his soul had returned, and he suddenly felt whole. What good was a job when he had no life left to support?
His neck prickled. Damned Potter was staring at him again, and Draco was an idiot for being pleased about it.
Mouth closed and head down.
He needed to keep his mouth closed and head- fuck it.
Draco looked at him again, unable to resist. Potter, caught looking, darted his eyes away with a scowl. Merlin, he was so obvious. It summoned a smile to Draco’s lips, and before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning forward, practically brushing his lips against Potter’s ear, just to see what he would do.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Potter?”
One glance told it all.
Potter was beet-red and sputtering, and it was a glorious sight. It sent a thrill through him and also answered a question Draco hadn’t even dared ask himself, despite all the stalking and staring he had endured: Was Potter interested?
In men? In…him?
Scanning his reddened cheeks and breathlessness, Draco rather thought he might be.
But rather than relief, he felt like he’d been lit up from head to toe; his nerves sparked to life and danced at the possibilities that were suddenly open to him. Was it possible?
Was it actually within his power to seduce Harry Potter?
Merlin, he hoped so. His heart was thundering in his chest, and it took all his strength to stand and walk away from the man seated beside him - after he had waited so long to see him again.
But this was best. Potter couldn’t know. This obsession was too unwieldy, it ran too deep. If he stayed, it would all show on his face; he would have to act disinterested. That was how seduction worked, wasn’t it? Push and pull.
Push and pull.
Fuck, he had thought this would be a quiet year, but with Harry Potter roaming the castle, he knew there was no chance of his life ever being quiet again.