Legacies and Lessons

Draco had expected teaching to be a thankless task. He had assumed most students would be too wary of him to engage, that they would sit through his lectures with polite disinterest, leaving him to drone on about the moral complexities of magic to an unresponsive room.

But to his surprise, they listened.

They questioned.

And he found that he didn’t mind.

Standing at the front of his classroom, he watched as his seventh-year students furiously scribbled notes, their brows furrowed in thought as they debated magical accountability.

“If someone performs Dark Magic in self-defence, are they still responsible for the consequences?” he asked, pacing slowly.

A Hufflepuff boy hesitated. “Well… yes? I mean, even if you didn’t mean to hurt someone, you still did.”

A Ravenclaw girl frowned. “But intent matters, doesn’t it? If you were forced to do something—like under the Imperius Curse—you’re not choosing it.”

Another student raised her hand. “But what about people who claim they had no choice? Isn’t that just an excuse?”

Draco fought the urge to wince.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that people are very good at convincing themselves they don’t have a choice. That their circumstances absolve them of responsibility.”

He could feel Hermione’s gaze on him from the back of the room. She often sat in on his lectures, observing with quiet intensity.

“But the truth is,” Draco continued, “we always have a choice. Even when it’s difficult. Even when it costs us.”

There was a pause before one of the Slytherin students—Daphne Greengrass’s younger brother—spoke.

“What about you, Professor Malfoy? What would you have done differently?”

Silence settled over the room.

Draco inhaled slowly.

“I would have made my choices sooner,” he admitted.

And somehow, that felt like the most honest thing he had ever said.

Firelight and Conversations

Later that evening, Draco found himself in the Transfiguration professor’s office.

Hermione had invited him for tea—or rather, insisted—after one of their usual post-lecture debates turned into a full-fledged argument about moral relativism.

“This is an awful attempt at bribery,” Draco muttered, eyeing the steaming cup in front of him.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s not bribery. It’s tea. Merlin, you’re impossible.”

He smirked. “You sound like you’re just realising this.”

The fire crackled beside them, casting a golden glow against the high bookshelves.

“You were good today,” Hermione said suddenly.

Draco looked at her. “At what?”

She exhaled, searching for the right words. “At answering that question. You didn’t deflect. You were honest.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “I figured lying wasn’t really an option. Not if I want them to trust me.”

Hermione studied him. “And do you?”

He hesitated. “I think… I want to trust myself first.”

The words surprised even him.

Hermione’s expression softened. “That’s fair.”

A comfortable silence settled between them.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, Draco smirked. “So. Do I win the debate, or do you?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up, Malfoy.”

And for the first time in a long while, Draco laughed.

A Visit to Malfoy Manor

Draco hadn’t been back to Malfoy Manor in months. He had never avoided it outright—he still wrote to his mother regularly, ensured she was well—but being there in person had always been difficult.

Yet as he Apparated to the entrance, stepping past the grand iron gates, he felt something different.

The Manor had changed.

Once, this place had been a monument to a dying ideology, its vast halls filled with whispers of dark magic and old ghosts. The weight of history had clung to every corner, the house a reflection of its past.

But now…

Now, the heavy, suffocating darkness was gone.

The ivy-covered façade had been trimmed back to allow more light into the once-imposing windows. The grand entrance hall, which had once felt cavernous and cold, had been transformed. The walls, once lined with grim ancestral portraits, now bore silver-framed landscapes of rolling hills and serene lakes.

And the drawing room—where so many dark memories lingered—had been remade entirely.

The deep green and black decor was gone, replaced by muted creams and golds. Soft armchairs framed the fireplace, where a warm fire crackled invitingly. The air smelled of fresh roses rather than damp stone.

It was no longer a place of ghosts.

It was a home.

Draco let out a slow breath as he stepped inside, his pulse thrumming with something he couldn’t quite name.

Narcissa Malfoy was waiting for him, standing near the window with a book in her hands.

She turned at his arrival, her expression unreadable at first. But then, slowly, she smiled.

“Draco.”

Draco swallowed. “Mum.”

She closed the book carefully and set it aside. “You haven’t visited in a while.”

Draco exhaled. “I know.”

Narcissa studied him for a long moment. “You look different.”

Draco gave a half-smirk. “Good different or bad different?”

Her lips twitched. “Good, I think.”

He glanced around the room. “The house… it’s changed.”

“Yes,” Narcissa murmured, following his gaze. “It had to.”

Draco hesitated. “I should have helped.”

His mother turned to him, her expression soft. “You’re helping in your own way.”

Something in his chest loosened at that.

They sat together by the fire, and for the first time in a long while, Draco didn’t feel like he was being swallowed by the walls around him.

An Unexpected Invitation

Near the end of his visit, as Narcissa poured them both tea, she set her cup down with a thoughtful expression.

“I would like to meet her,” she said.

Draco blinked. “Who?”

His mother gave him a pointed look. “Hermione Granger.”

Draco nearly choked on his tea. “Mum—”

Narcissa arched an elegant brow. “What? Am I not allowed to take an interest in the woman who seems to occupy so much of your time?”

Draco groaned. “We’re colleagues.”

Narcissa smirked. “Of course you are, darling.”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. “You do realise she might not want to come here.”

Narcissa’s expression softened. “Then I will understand. But if she does… I would like to know the kind of person who has made you laugh again.”

Draco swallowed thickly.

He had no argument for that.

The next day, Draco lingered outside Hermione’s office, debating the merits of walking away before she saw him.

Unfortunately, Hermione was a woman who noticed everything.

“Malfoy?”

Draco turned to find her watching him, an amused tilt to her lips. “Lurking outside my office, are we?”

Draco sighed. “I need to ask you something.”

She stepped aside, letting him in. The office smelled faintly of parchment and cinnamon tea, the fireplace crackling softly in the corner.

“What is it?”

He exhaled. “My mother wants to meet you.”

Hermione blinked. “I—what?”

Draco crossed his arms. “She may have gotten the idea that we’re—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Close.”

Hermione folded her arms. “And what exactly is her understanding of us?”

Draco hesitated, then admitted, “Because I think she realises you’re important to me.”

The words hung between them.

Hermione’s expression softened. Then, she nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go meet your mother.”