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“I wanted to speak with you about something, which I suppose you could have guessed from my writing you,” McGonagall continued, making no small talk as per usual.
“Of course,” Harry agreed. Though he had been expecting this, he had been hoping against hope she wouldn’t have something to speak to him about. The phrase always sounded ominous, especially from her, seeing how many times she had reprimanded him as a child.
“Well, I am sure you know the Defense position at Hogwarts has not been filled since you finished your schooling,” McGonagall began.
Harry didn’t know. He hadn’t kept up with much, and he didn’t see what that had to do with him, but he nodded anyway.
“I was wondering, if, perhaps, you would be interested in filling the position. You would, of course, need to do a bit of studying over the course of the summer, but I would say, and most of the staff agrees, that you have enough field training to make up for a lack of classical study for the most part,” she finished, looking at him expectantly.
“Me? Teach?” Harry asked, his eyes widening. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Your age concerned some, but it was the general consensus that you are respected enough by the students to be able to hold a position above them. And if I recall correctly,” McGonagall added, with a hint of a smile, “you do have a bit of experiencing teaching Defense already.”
Harry nodded, sheepishly
“I think you will find teaching will be a good distraction. Much better than…well, forgive me, but much better than the sitting around and moping that you are doing now,” McGonagall said with a knowing look. “You need to try your best to move on, Potter. Not just for you, but for everyone you lost.”
There seemed to be an emphasis on the word everyone, but Harry decided it was imagined. Still, the word held weight.
He wasn’t honoring the life they had allowed him by losing theirs. He was wallowing. He knew he was wallowing. And the worst part of it all was that some part of his mind felt that he could justify it. He knew Sirius wouldn’t want him to wallow. His parents wouldn’t want him to, nor would Fred, nor would Tonks or Lupin. And shouldn’t that be enough? But then again, what would Draco Malfoy want? Would he like to see Harry sulking because of him? Perhaps he would smirk and say “Ah, Potter, I never knew you cared,” in that infuriating but so well practiced patronizing tone of his. And then, when Harry thought of moving on, he could only imagine the wounded look on Malfoy’s face, the one that he wanted you to think was pretend but was really more close to the truth than he cared to admit. And in a flat voice, which was always worse coming from Malfoy (his acidity was comforting), he would say “So soon, Potter? Careful, or people will think you’re happy about it.”
Harry was trying. He was trying to convince himself that Malfoy wouldn’t care at all. And it wasn’t so soon. It had nearly been four years. Everyone, even Malfoy’s own mother, seemed to be faring better than Harry.
“If you could tell me,” McGonagall interrupted his thought, “before the end of this term, I would appreciate it. Just so I can find a replacement should you refuse, or so you could start your studies should you accept. I believe there are still some lesson plans left in the classroom from previous teachers should you need reference, although I would beg you to refrain from using too many of Lockhart’s. I know Lupin left a few, as well, which I think I would encourage.”
Harry nodded, feeling a bit overwhelmed.
“I was also urged by Hagrid to remind you that he would be happy to see you again. Even offered to bake you a birthday cake this year should you be on the grounds,” McGonagall added, and with this there was a gleam of mischief in her eye.
It was half past one in the morning. Harry had fallen into a terrible sleep pattern, spending most of his time alone, which he found was easier to do when no one else was awake to bother him. Tonight, he felt like he would rather like to sleep, but it had become an impossibility. Hogwarts had always been more of a home to him than any other place he had lived, even now, having lived at Grimmauld Place for several years. But the age old phrase “you can never go home again” rang through his head at the prospect of returning. And in truth, he couldn’t. He would return this time as a teacher, not a student. Most of the people that made it home were gone, as well. Dumbledore would not be there, outside of his portrait. Neither would any of the Weasleys, or Hermione, or—his train of thought sputtered to a stop. Or Draco. He was mildly alarmed that Malfoy was included in the list of people that made the castle a home, as for most of his life he had regarded him with the same distaste as he had Dudley, but even more so, he was startled by the word itself. He had thought “or Draco.” Full stop. Period. He knew formality didn’t matter in his own mind, but he had never been Draco to Harry. Harry had never once even thought to refer to him by his first name. He wasn’t entirely sure he had ever even said it aloud on its own.
“Draco,” he whispered, barely a noise, yet all too loud in his quiet house. The word felt odd in his mouth. His chest tightened inexplicably and he fought the urge to cry. He shook his head, trying to clear the feeling.
He came to a decision. He could not be sat at home, alone, whispering a dead boy’s name in his kitchen. Surely, a few months more of this and he would be completely mad.
He jotted down a note and whistled for Bo?tes , who he heard ruffle his feathers in the other room and then came flying through the doorway.
He tied the note to Bo?tes’s leg, then stopped to scratch the top of his owl’s head.
“Take this to, McGonagall, would you? Maybe take a look in the owlery while you’re there. You’ll be spending quite a lot of time there I imagine,” he murmured, slipping Bo?tes a treat.
Maybe it was true. Maybe he could never go home, but hell, if he wasn’t going to try.
Chapter 3
“Did I tell you Mr. Potter will be returning to Hogwarts?” McGonagall asked casually, sipping her tea at her desk.
Draco choked on the mouthful of tea he had been swallowing.
“Excuse me?” he said, trying not to sound too shocked.
“I asked him to fill the Defense position,” McGonagall continued, seemingly oblivious to Draco’s shock.
“Right,” Draco nodded. The feeling began to leach from his hands, which seemed to be his body’s go to reaction to anything Potter. He set down his mug.
“I only warn you because, as you know, Potter has an affinity for snooping and sneaking about, and I am not sure he’s grown out of it. You must be careful at night. Disillusion yourself until you are out on the grounds, and maybe even while you’re walking about, unless you’ve changed,” she continued.
Draco nodded.
“You’ll likely have to stop your work in the kitchens. He likes to take his meals there occasionally, if memory serves me right,” she added.
“Just tell him not to come between five and seven in the morning,” Draco asked, hoping it didn’t sound too desperate. He liked the kitchen, and he liked the elves. They were, afterall, the closest thing he had to friends.
“I can hardly make a rule that specific, Mr. Malfoy, especially since Mr. Potter seems to think rules are made to be broken,” McGonagall replied.
Draco snorted.
“He’s not been well, Malfoy,” she added.
“How do you mean?”
Not sick. Surely, he would have read it somewhere if he was sick. Even if they wanted to keep it under wraps, one of the less reliable gossip magazines would have gotten a hold of it and published it, and they would have been allowed to since so few actual think of them as a source of actual news. But there had been nothing.
“Not physically ill, so you can take that look off your face. You look as though you have seen a ghost,” McGonagall said. “He’s just not been himself. Not since y—well, since it all.”
“When are we expecting him?” Draco asked, swallowing around his heart, which had taken residence in his throat.
“He’ll arrive on the Hogwarts Express when it comes to take the students home,” she said.
“So this week?” Draco asked. His airways felt as though they had constricted to the size of a penny whistle.
“Yes, this week.”
Draco smiled and nodded. “Wonderful,” he choked. “The prodigal son returns.”
“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall warned, though she looked a bit surprised to see a smile on his face when she looked up at him.
Later, when he returned to the dungeon, he vomited.
“The Slytherin dungeons were closed off and the dormitories relocated, as you know,” McGonagall said, walking with Harry down the corridor to her office.
“What do you use them for now?” Harry asked, knowing nothing in Hogwarts ever really was eliminated, only repurposed or left to rot. Part of him hoped it was the latter, thinking that perhaps if there was any trace of Malfoy left, it would be there.
“Storage,” McGonagall replied, smiling tightly.
“Oh,” Harry replied. He couldn’t help but feel as though she was hiding something, but he had been accused of being overly suspicious since the war, and to be frank, who wouldn’t be?
“We don’t have many free offices,” she continued. “There was quite a bit of shuffling for the more desirable ones as teachers have come and…gone in the last few years, and I’m afraid the biggest space left is Severus’s old suite. I’ll have it cleared out and filled back in with some newer things, if you’d like to take it. It’s in the dungeons, so it’s near the kitchens.”
