Sunshine Kid

Ever since the fighting stopped, Harry’s had plenty time to think. 

Without the raging anxiety of making it out alive, broken away from the worrying of whether those whom he loved would be okay, his head feels odd. It’s never been so that Harry doesn’t have anything to think about but that all he thinks about is so staggering. 

It isn’t easy for him to be washing the dishes and remember Remus wiping a plate in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Isn’t any easier to remember himself drying dishes as a kid, stood on a stool. 

Sometimes Harry tries imagining his father doing the dishes - or his mother - and tries to surmise what the system in their house - his house - had been. Who washed, who dried, who swept, who mopped, who dusted, who cooked? Every single thing that Harry does around the house, he wonders whether it was his father or his mother that did it around their house?

There’s so much loss within the absence of parents - the food, the healer calls, the permission slips, the clothes - and more clothes because kids outgrow them so fast - and the hugs after the first heartbreak. There’s the admin of life and the emotional sides of it but he thinks being robbed of the simple glimpses of his parents’ domesticity is the most unfair of all. 

Harry would like to throw a tantrum about being told to do the dishes, he would love to be told off for staying out too late and he wants James to take away the box of cigarettes he found under his pillow and he wants Lily to tell him to go for a haircut because it's getting too long. 

Aunt Petunia used to do that; tell him his hair was out of control. 

It’s a rotten exchange. 

—

Harry walks out of the fireplace into a warm room. The stone walls are still that colour halfway between grey and brown under the influence of the glint from the orange lights in the room. There are two big arm chairs at a modest distance from the fireplace - from him - and a small table in between the both of them that is neatly scattered with multiple books and a long roll of parchment that has a quill standing in an inkpot on top of it. Towards the sharp right of the room is a small door that Harry assumes leads to the bedroom.

Towards the left is Draco Malfoy, sitting at a desk. 

This is who he has been jittery for since the past night. Sleep had been scarce, and he finds himself wishing that he had shown up better rested. Surely, he would look better, be better in front of Draco Malfoy with a good night’s sleep. 

Harry notes, with surprise, that his hair is longer, and disappears past his neck, sitting at his back where he cannot see it. He’s wearing black robes buttoned up to his neck, and he slips a bookmark into the book in his hands upon catching sight of Harry. 

‘Ah, Mr Potter!’ Draco exclaims as he stands, bringing his hands together. He puts the recently closed book to his left, and gestures to the chair across from him at the desk. ‘You’re just on time! Please, have a seat.’

Harry finds it in himself to walk over and take a seat, finding awkwardness in the whole process. Trying to find out how much staring is okay. ‘Er - yes, hullo,’ He says, raising his face into a smile. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Well, thank you. How are you, Mr Potter?’ Draco responds, eyes searching for something on his desk, ignoring Harry for a minute but it makes him feel incredibly neglected out of nowhere. Draco makes a small sound of victory before his hands grab a small piece of parchment. 

‘Good -er - yes, nice weather,’ Harry says and Draco’s eyes snap up to meet him so quickly that Harry’s shoulders roll back involuntarily. 

‘Goodness,’ Draco laughs softly as he waves a hand around. ‘I can’t say I’ve been out at all today. Full morning you see. Would you like some tea?’

Harry makes a noncommittal noise and nods. Draco beckons a small cup, identical to one already on the desk, and a small white teapot lifts in the air and tilts to fill it with tea. The cup flies over and sets itself in front of him. 

Harry continues to await a reference to him, to them together. It feels as though this is all foreign - greetings, desultory conversation, sitting, the existence of his hands in his lap. 

‘I shan’t bore you, let us begin then?’ Draco asks. Harry nods. ‘Alright well, as I mentioned in my letter, the whole point of this meeting is to discuss Mr Lupin’s progress in Defence Against the Dark Arts.’

‘Right,’ Harry affirms. Hope has rarely been promising. 

‘I would like to start by saying to not worry too much, he is an excellent young man but I have here some of Edward’s most recent essays-’

‘Teddy,’ Harry cuts Draco off abruptly and he falters. 

‘Pardon?’ Draco asks, eyebrows coming together. 

Harry straightens up in his chair. ‘You said - Edward. It’s Teddy, I don’t, don’t think anyone calls him Edward.’

Draco’s face is unreadable, but his words come out slow and calm. ‘I understand, Mr Potter, but Edward has never protested nor indicated a wish to be addressed as anything else - at least not to me.’

Harry cannot really imagine Teddy being amenable to Edward and can picture his nose scrunching up in disgust. ‘Er - Okay. Sorry, caught me off guard, I suppose. You were saying?’

‘Yes,’ Draco drawls. He pushes a pile of parchment in Harry’s direction. ‘These are some of Edward’s most recent essays, and you’ll be able to see that the grades appear to be declining.’

There are big, red scrawls of letters on the front of the essays within a neat circle. There is only one A, and numerous P’s and D’s. 

‘Now, I’m generally quite understanding of lower grades,’ Draco continues, making Harry look away from the pile that has caused surprise to begin curdling in his stomach. ‘Essays are simply not some students’ strongest area and it would be unfair to use them as the only assessment of their performance. Only, Edward’s essays last year were significantly better. I know the ones that he has submitted this year are not reflective of his ability.’

‘Right,’ Harry nods. He tries remembering the essays he wrote as a student. God, they had been abysmal and would probably give Draco an aneurysm. ‘Maybe he needs more help with writing, then? It's more advanced content, perhaps he’s having a hard time showing his understanding through words?’

Draco’s nod is enthusiastic. ‘I appreciate that suggestion, especially since it was what I thought of at first, as well. I took the liberty of having conversations with some of Edward’s other professors,’ Draco says. There’s a large arched window behind Draco, and the glass is unstained unlike a lot of the classroom windows at Hogwarts. ‘Mr Potter, his essays are outstanding in all of his other subjects. His lowest grade in the other classes is an Acceptable which is his highest grade in this class.’

Draco’s hands clasp together on top of the desk while Harry’s mind struggles to string together his thoughts.

‘On top of this, he’s often quite disruptive in my class,’ Draco adds, leaning back. ‘It tends to alternate; sometimes he’s silent, gets on with the day’s tasks but doesn’t participate and others he’s loud, not finishing his work, and distracting others.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Teddy,’ Harry says, defiant. 

‘It doesn’t,’ Draco agrees. ‘I’ve had the pleasure of teaching Edward the past two years, and he has been an excellent student and an important part of his class.’ 

Harry takes off his glasses to be able to run his hand across his face. The whole meeting feels like an attack on Teddy, someone who Harry has never heard criticism of. Draco’s praise of him softens the blow, a little, but still Harry can’t help himself from finding the whole thing ridiculous. Draco is so - calm. Outside, the sky has gotten duller, the tell-tale colour of the minutes before rain. 

‘I don’t remember Hogwarts ever holding parent-teacher meetings for poor performance,’ Harry spits out, eyes pressed shut. When he opens them, and slips his glasses back on to clarify the blurry figure in front of him, Draco’s expression has turned careful. His lips are pursed, the beginning of his eyebrows are halfway raised, and lines have appeared in his forehead. 

A thought attacks Harry, cold and bitter. Even if Hogwarts did, you wouldn’t know. He remembers Ron, suddenly, yelling at him in the tent. ‘Your parents are dead.’

‘We have learnt what a lack of involvement and intervention in our students’ lives can do,’ Draco says. Harry hears him exhale deeply. ‘Mr Potter, you will forgive me for asking, but is everything alright at home? Has Edward been through any big changes recently?’

‘No,’ Harry answers but Draco’s expression turns incessant. He’s hurt by the insinuation but there’s little time to process that. ‘No. God, it’s nothing - nothing’s changed. He was alright this summer, and, and he’s doing alright in all his other classes, isn’t he?’

‘Okay,’ Draco nods. ‘Forgive me, it’s part of my responsibility to ask. Okay, here are some things I can suggest. We have a tutoring service some of the NEWT-Level students offer, and I can enrol Edward for weekly sessions till we see an improvement, and I can assign extra exercises for him to complete that will help his understanding. All of this will require effort from his part and I think it would be best if you had a conversation with him to encourage that.’

‘Yes, yeah, that sounds - yeah, I’ll have a chat with him,’ Harry agrees. It forces some sort of an order in his head of how to help Teddy. ‘Is this something to worry about?’

Draco offers him a small shrug and shakes his head. ‘I would not worry about it too much. This is quite usual. Students move up OWL subjects, the burden increases, they struggle with the workload and a subject ends up suffering. We require intervention meetings to be held if that subject ends up being Transfiguration, Defence or Charms.’

‘Not Potions?’

Draco’s lips lift into a smile. ‘No, not Potions,’ He says. ‘While incredibly helpful and convenient, it’s not a core wizarding subject.’

‘Good for me, I was always rubbish at it,’ Harry grins. It’s bait, more than anything. Surely, Draco will acknowledge that they’ve known each other outside of this meeting. 

‘Yes,’ Draco nods, picking up a quill and scratching something off of the parchment in front of him. ‘If we’re agreed on the next steps, then we’re all finished regarding Defence. I have a request from Professor Flitwick to discuss something with you.’

‘Flitwick?’ Harry asks. ‘Er- yes?’

‘It’s regarding History of Magic,’ Draco begins. ‘Part of the Third Year History of Magic syllabus covers the two wizarding wars and Professor Binns’ curriculum has scheduled for that to be covered towards the end of January.’

For a moment Harry does not think much of it. These wars have taken up so much of his life, they’re not an extraordinary topic. He knows the same is true for the man across from him. 

It’s untrue for Teddy. He has been affected irrevocably but he has not that nightmare in its actuality.

‘Is…What exactly is Binns going to be covering?’ Harry asks.

Draco nods as if that is an answer. ‘These are exactly the kind of questions we anticipate,’ He says. ‘Over the past few years, we have begun to hold meetings with the third years’ parents before this part of the syllabus is covered to appreciate any sensitivities that may be necessary. Usually, the head of the student’s house conducts these, but Professor Flitwick was wondering, given your unique position, whether it may be more comfortable for you to have this discussion with a member of the faculty you are better acquainted with.’

‘Yes,’ Harry agrees without hesitation. ‘That sounds - Er- yeah.’

Draco’s lips part and they make a sound. It’s very similar to the sound thick paper makes when it is turned over. He stands up, and picks up his quill again. ‘Of course, I shall let Professor Longbottom know and he will be able to-’

‘What?’

Draco looks down at him. ‘I’m afraid he’s attending to a class right now, so if you wish to speak to him today, you may have to wait.’

Embarrassment spreads in Harry’s chest and he begins to feel very warm all over. ‘I just meant - well, I just thought you’d do it.’

Draco’s mouth is drawn thin even as his eyebrows raise, and another line appears in his forehead. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah - Er, the timings you sent over, all of them worked for me so I just assumed you - you could do it.’

‘I - Goodness, I suppose I could. Are you sure whether that would be alright with you, Mr Potter?’ 

Draco’s words sound like he should appear more as though he’s in disarray, but he stands calmly. 

‘I don’t mind,’ Harry tells him, and he stands up without meaning to do so at all. 

‘Right,’ Draco echoes. ‘Unfortunately, I have a class in a few minutes so we won’t be able to begin, and I need to prepare for that discussion anyway, so expect an owl from me, Mr Potter, and we’ll schedule another meeting.’

‘Yes. Er- okay, yes,’ Harry parrots. ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’

‘Excellent,’ Draco decides. ‘This has been productive, I should think. Please do have a conversation with Edward to raise his enthusiasm and I shall do my part in helping him.’

‘I’ll have a chat, yeah,’ Harry promises. ‘This was good.’

Draco nods. ‘Yes, well,’ He begins, looking intently at Harry who tries not to mistake the stare. ‘Have a nice day then, Mr Potter.’

When Harry makes it back through the floo, it’s only unwillingly. 

There are things to do; it is still the middle of the day, and he has loads of orders he needs to be working on. He has to eventually figure out something for dinner too. Though with the way the day has gone, Harry knows he will pick up food from somewhere before returning home. 

He also has a letter to write to Teddy, which is what he does right before throwing himself into work. All he asks is how Teddy is, and when the next Hogsmeade weekend is because he would like to meet him. He requests an owl from the Ministry’s service and then sends it through. 

In the evening, when Harry does get home, he finds that he feels awfully wrung out. 

The feeling creeps in again, like he’s been standing in his room watching the world go by for years now. 

All Harry can do at night, though, is put himself to bed.

—

Harry cancels on Sunday dinner. He and George go out to the pub again. 

‘How’s work?’ Harry asks him to fill the silence between them. Outside of their space, the pub is busy. Bottles clink, the ice clicks, grease soaks through paper, and men laugh. 

George replies with something that is somewhat of a grunt but he smiles. ‘How’s work?’ George mirrors. 

Harry grimaces. ‘Had a meeting at Hogwarts this week. Teddy’s failing Defence, I think.’

George raises an eyebrow, and Harry shakes his head. 

‘I don’t know,’ He admits, lifting his bottle up to his lips. George does the same, and they try to focus on the radio. ‘Did you like going to your grandparent’s house when you were younger?’

George considers him. ‘Sometimes,’ He answers, turning a little towards the bar. He motions for the bartender to bring him another bottle. ‘Really just depended on how I felt.’

‘Right,’ Harry says. ‘Right, that makes sense.’

—

Early Monday morning, another envelope bearing the Hogwarts seal arrives. It brings with it that same professional drawl. 

To

Mr Potter

The staff at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry hopes you are well. 

This letter is in regards to the Third Year History of Magic Coverage of the Wizarding Wars. We would like to arrange a meeting to discuss any sensitivities present in order to best be able educate EDWARD JOHN LUPIN on the Wizarding Wars in an appropriate manner. 

Our Professor of History of Magic, Professor Cuthbert Binns, greatly benefits from the feedback from these meetings and appreciates your cooperation. 

Kindly choose one of the dates and timings from the list on the back of this letter. Your meeting will be with PROFESSOR DRACO MALFOY. 

Best Regards,

Professor McGonagall,

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Harry picks early morning on a Wednesday. He expects he will try to get to bed earlier if he knows he has to be up early which may help him be in a more tolerable state in front of Draco.

It’s terribly dreary: the idea that Draco Malfoy thinks it is easier to contact him, now, through Professor McGonagall rather than himself and it throws Harry into a foul mood for the morning. He’s grumbling and muttering profanities all through his way to the shop and well into his work. 

Around lunch, when Jenny walks in to greet Loic, even she casts him a wary look before leaning towards her boyfriend and whispering something in his ear. Just as Loic’s cheeks begin to show the first tinge of pink, Harry turns around to return to his office, slamming the door behind him. 

Teddy’s letter arrives in the evening too - the next Hogsmeade visit is the following weekend. Harry grimaces through his dinner.

He’s spent so much time since the meeting trying to recall every single thing he’s ever told Teddy about the wars. About Remus and Tonks. About him. 

It had been easier when Teddy was a toddler; to point at pictures of Remus and Tonks that Harry had put up on a wall (now known as the picture wall in their house) and say, ‘that’s your dad, that’s your mum’ as he bounced Teddy on his hip. To explain by saying, ‘they’re up in a really good place with my mum and dad, with my godfather.’

The war had been easier to explain when Teddy was younger too. Voldemort reduced to a very bad man, their parents just all very brave people who had to fight to protect people like Teddy and Harry. Staring at their field and saying, ‘You see how it’s so nice here, and we’re free to live in a nice world? That’s because of people like our parents, Teddy.’ 

Getting muggle books on werewolves to explain lycanthropy to him, playing movies that had nice, cooler werewolves to make sure Teddy understood that it wasn’t a bad thing. Teddy being excited, bouncing around and delighted that his father was a ‘warewof.’ 

It was much harder to answer quiet questions like, ‘How did my dad get turned, Harry, if he wasn’t born one?’

‘How did mum and dad actually die? At the battle, but how?’

Teddy getting confused when he mentioned Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon, because where was Sirius, Harry? Where did you grow up? 

Harry’s never had the heart reveal to Teddy that no matter how ‘wicked’ he thinks it is for Harry to have grown up in the muggle world, it was actually quite terrible. If Teddy needs to think that the Dursleys’ house was a good home, Harry is okay with never correcting him. The responsibility of explaining to Teddy, of telling him all that has gone wrong in their world is severe, and Harry thinks he’s allowed to leave out some of the things that have been stolen from him. 

Harry wonders again, how much these lessons will affect him. 

In his bedroom, however, he struggles to maintain the sharpness of his mood. 

Time erodes, and anger is cut away to become grief.

Harry’s bedroom is largely unfull. There’s his significantly engorgio’d bed, and the bedsides. On top of the right one is a round lamp with a red shade. 

There are two windows on the wall to the right of his bed and in between them is a small desk. Harry can not remember the last time he used it. When Teddy was younger, he would climb up onto the chair and pretend to draft something very, very important. Chubby fingers closed around a quill, scratching scratching scratching on a surface that would tolerate it badly and he would make his hair go dark brown and curly. Hermione had felt incredibly flattered at the imitation and Ron had said that this was the only person in the world who could make being part of the law department so adorable. Harry had bought Teddy a children’s quill set that year.

There’s a dresser to the left of his bed that holds very little. It is a beautiful shade of brown, has a mirror in the middle and four drawers: a pair of small ones, and two larger ones. He keeps some razors in a drawer that has been spelled shut in fear of Teddy going near them, and another drawer holds perfume potions. The larger two are empty save a box of muggle male contraception. Harry can’t remember the last time he used those either.

In the left corner of the room is a tall, slim bookcase.

Harry’s not grown to become much of a reader. Even despite the astonishing moments of finding lines in a book that felt as though stolen from his mind, or sobs that others have pulled out of him. Modestly, Harry would say he probably read six books a year. Immodestly, he would increase the number to a truthful eleven. The shelves are filled with evidence. 

On the top one, sits an innocuous copy; a small, beige affair with a neat oval picture of the author in the middle of the front cover. It’s one of Harry’s most prized books - on the top so that even Teddy, who Harry would lay down his life for unblinkingly and never think to deny anything, cannot access it. With the way Teddy’s growing, however, Harry may have to improve the current arrangements. 

It is in French from cover to cover, only the author’s name makes sense to Harry. Aphorismes - Oscar Wilde is what classic, black lettering reads just below the portrait on the front. The purchase, six years ago, had been a mistake. 

They had gone away for a long weekend in Cornwall, the shop shut down and Teddy bouncing with excitement. In an assuming little bookstore, with dull mustard shelves and cramped room, Harry had dug out some classics from a crate. He had just found ‘The Tempest’ - the play his class had been told they would read the year Harry went to Hogwarts instead. Delighted with his find, he had continued his search. He had only read the Picture of Dorian Grey before, amazed and enraptured by the idea of hedonism at the end, and so Wilde’s name had struck familiar upon sight. 

But Teddy had called out to him immediately after, ushering him over to look at what he had found, and in his haste he grabbed at the copy. He only realised he couldn’t read it once they were back home and unpacking. 

It could be lent though, or gifted; books always can be in a wonderful way. Incredibly intimate and loving yet pragmatic enough to pass as casual; separating the extravagance of something didn’t dull its sentiment is what Harry has learnt from gifting and receiving books. 

He feels a little guilty everytime his eyes catch the small beige item though - he could donate it or give it to Andromeda who can read French, and a year after he had been in possession of it, Hermione had decided to improve hers too. Hadn’t Harry sat through the meals of her first couple of months retrieving her French, listening to her be excited about how she could finally read it again? Harry should have gifted it already - he is able to give it to someone he loves. Only, he’s been waiting for a different kind of love to accept it.

Tonight, the beige stings his eyes and when he falls to his bed, it is with a heavy cry. The heels of his palms pressed tight against his eyes, and suddenly, he can feel how circular the sockets are with his hands digging in. 

There, pressed against where he sleeps by himself every night, in the room he spends pacing restlessly, always, it all bears down on him: why he has been so bothered about seeing Draco again. 

Harry feels enormously stupid, and stuck. Having hung onto that damned book he’s been wanting to give Draco makes it all only worse as glimpses of his eighth year, as they usually do, return to him in bits. 

Of Draco against him, slumped and curved marvelously, the light warm and pale yellow colouring his hair. The silence broken only by their breaths, the room around them stilled only them moving. Only them there. 

Now, it feels sillier in a way it never has been before to even give those memories room to occupy so weightfully. A teenage romance - a dalliance in school; how much should he remember, what should he let go of?

Yet, things are always different when they happen to you, Harry thinks, and it’s hard for him to simplify his experience with Draco. Touching his lips could not have just been a kiss when it has shifted something so permanently in Harry.

Draco’s certainly matured. It’s bittersweet. He’s…happy that Draco has moved on, but in a terrible, stinging way.

Draco who sat at that big desk, scholarly possessions cluttered, and dressed impeccably, his smiles and words soft in a way that Harry did not think he was capable of recreating outside of his dorm room. Yet Draco had greeted him, serenely professional, and only as his student’s guardian. And now, Harry was expected to sit through another meeting like that; fidgeting in the chair, meticulously trying to form responses that matched Draco’s indifference to their previous indulgences. 

Harry falls asleep at some point, though he isn’t sure in the morning whether he had fully stopped crying or not. His eyes are crinkled and disgusting, the tears and sleep having mixed together and clumped around them, and he is only able to blink normally after he’s washed his face thoroughly. 

A night’s grievances will prove enough, Harry decides as he’s shoving a piece of plain toast in his mouth. He will be cordial and professional during their meeting and it won’t be difficult because, after all, the meeting is about Teddy. Harry won’t compromise on him. He had decided that fourteen years ago, ran good things into the ground in doing so, and it’s futile to begin any sort of negligence now. 

It’s unrelated if he’s still tossing and turning all throughout Tuesday night, and has two cups of coffee in the morning before stepping into the floo.

–

‘–And so the formation of the first Order of the Phoenix, which he goes on to compare to the DA assembling at Hogwarts during the nineties, and then it ties back into the revival of the Order during the tensions before the second war.’ 

Draco’s voice sounds eerily similar to what Harry remembers Professor Binns to have sounded like during those unbearably long History of Magic lessons. His wand keeps moving down an enormously long piece of parchment, underlining the points he’s talking about. Today, a small, thin pair of glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, and whenever Draco looks back down at the text in front of him, Harry furtively tries to memorise every detail about the spectacles. They’re grey, there’s an incredibly thin black rim around the rectangular lenses. The rubber of the nose pads is clear unlike the rubber in all of Harry’s glasses which always end up a weird, faint shade of brown and yellow.

‘Mr Potter?’

Harry pulls himself into reality to find that he is staring directly into Draco’s face and no longer at the rim of his glasses. His gaze is almost concerned but the confusion dominates as he waits for Harry to answer.

‘Yes, sorry, what was that?’ Harry manages.

‘I was asking if you would like to begin discussing the areas you think Edward may be uncomfortable with,’ Draco says. ‘Professor Longbottom actually–’

‘Neville?’ Harry asks. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’

‘I consulted Professor Longbottom about Edward, given their more personal relationship, to gain more insight,’ Draco explains.

Harry raises his eyebrows at him. ‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’ He asks. ‘To provide you with insight on Teddy?’

‘Of course, but–'

‘I don’t appreciate anyone asking around after him this way,’ Harry snaps. The anger is so unexpected and it feels out of place, too. Who is it for? Neville? Harry loves him, he holds an important place in both his and Teddy’s lives. For Draco? What for? ‘It’s incredibly invasive.’

Draco exhales. His eyes sharpen. Harry leans forward to expect the venomous bite, the thinning of his mouth. 

Neither arrive.

‘I understand that this is an uncomfortable process, Mr Potter, but that highlights its importance,’ Draco says instead. He offers a small smile. ‘We aim to make these meetings as productive and accommodating as possible. Professor Longbottom is a colleague of mine and from my knowledge of his experiences, I inferred that his opinion would be helpful in understanding what Edward may need during these lessons.’

Harry feels foolish all over again. 

‘I believe Professor Flitwick’s original suggestion was to avoid misunderstandings like these,’ Draco says. He puts down his quill. ‘Mr Potter, you are more than welcome to have this meeting transferred to be with Professor Longbottom. I was rather hesitant when you suggested this arrangement, anyway.’

Harry finds his voice. ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ He claims, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you sure?’ Draco presses.

‘Yes,’ Harry insists. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m just…sensitive about him.’

‘I understand,’ Draco smiles. He picks up his quill again. ‘Okay, then, would you be able to point to things on the syllabus that Edward may find difficult to have discussed?’

‘Yeah – Er, so he knows a lot about the first war and the first order, but I’m nervous about how detailed his father’s role in attempting to recruit other lycanthropes for the Order may be.’

They sit there for almost over an hour though Harry is surprised to find out it has actually been that long. However bothered he may be by the way Draco is, he is frustratingly good in this role: of the teacher handling the student’s parent. Guardian. Whatever he perceives Harry to be for Teddy.

Draco had poured him tea just like their previous meeting but this cup was forgotten much sooner. It was some sort of Rose blend, still maroon in porcelain white that Harry only took about three sips of before the weight of what they were discussing settled over him. 

Draco’s holding a small black journal that he had produced when Harry had started to list off things he was worried about Teddy learning. It’s some sort of leather, too far for Harry to actually know what kind, but the curiosity of knowing everything on every single page plagues him. Draco pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as he gives the page he was scribbling on one last, long stare.

‘Okay, and would you like to be added to the Headmistress’ floo during the weeks these lessons occur?’ Draco asks. ‘For immediate contact should Edward require it? Alternatively, we may only be able to alert you through owl or Patronus, of which the latter is only possible if a member of staff able to produce one is on castle grounds at the time.’

Harry smiles bashfully. ‘I think I’m already on her floo,’ He tells him. Draco nods understandingly, and the faintest bout of pink colours the pallid mess of his cheeks.

‘My apologies,’ He smiles, ducking his head to scribble something again.

‘Er, I’m on Neville’s floo too,’ Harry tells him as Draco looks up again. ‘You know, just in case you can’t get through to me through McGonagall’s. Neville should be the next point of contact for me.’

The pink disappears. Draco’s smile thins slightly, and his quill scratches the paper again.

‘I believe we’re finished then, Mr Potter,’ He exclaims brightly, snapping his journal close. ‘I’d like to thank you for your cooperation today. This has been incredibly insightful and will help Professor Binns prepare better, I’m sure.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry breathes out. ‘Hope so.’

‘Good. Well, then,’ Draco says, standing up and Harry follows his lead. ‘I informed Edward at the beginning of the week about the weekly tutoring sessions. Dare I say, he was not the most pleased.’

Harry shrugs. He’s been aching to figure out what it is that Teddy needs and the weekend has been slow in its arrival. ‘He’s thirteen,’ Harry says helplessly. 

‘That he is,’ Draco muses. His eyes stray to a clock on the wall; Harry does not miss the cue. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mr Potter.’

‘Yes, it has,’ Harry agrees. He’s sure he’s earned some sort of solace in knowing Draco’s better. Even if the rest of the experience has been anything but pleasurable.

‘Have a nice day, Mr Potter,’ Draco bids him goodbye as Harry nears the fireplace.

‘You too, Professor Malfoy,’ Harry responds.

He walks out into the office of his shop wondering how it was that he and Draco had fallen back on last names again.

–

‘Hullo,’ Harry bellows unnecessarily loudly, wrapping his arms around Teddy. His coat is thick, so he’s almost enveloped him in his embrace. 

They head to the Three Broomsticks and find a table. The Inn is surprisingly empty of Hogwarts’ students for a Hogsmeade weekend. Harry comments on this and Teddy unhappily informs him that the place to go now is a new, quirky place that opened the year before by the name of ‘Flaming Dragons.’ Harry makes the terrible mistake of voicing his opinion about the name being stupid and it derails Teddy’s mood even further.

‘Is this the scarf you said you bought?’ Harry asks, leaning forward to pick up the tassels on the end of a pastel yellow, knit scarf that has been dumped on the table. ‘Very bright.’

‘Yes,’ Teddy agrees wryly, takes a big chug of his butterbeer. His hands are a little flushed from the cold.

‘No mittens?’ Harry asks, an eyebrow raising as he tries to remember whether he had asked Teddy if he had packed any before he left. ‘Scotland’s winter is harsher, I wouldn’t play about, Teddy.’

‘I forgot,’ Teddy says. 

Harry sits up straighter. ‘Remember how you learnt to warm them up?’ He asks and lifts up both of his palms, rubbing them against each other rapidly. ‘Does the job in no time, eh?’

Teddy is reluctant to repeat an action he obsessed over rather religiously after having learnt it first, and instead buries his hands in his lap so head.  

‘Did you write to your grandmother? Remember, I told you she’s been feeling a bit unwell?’

‘Yeah,’ Teddy grunts. ‘She said it was better.’

Harry heaves a sigh. They’ve been over the greetings and the questions about school and friends and now he has to ask Teddy what’s going on. He just needs to rip off the bandaid.

‘So, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Defence against the dark arts,’ Harry starts, looking at Teddy intently to gauge his reaction.

‘Yeah?’ Teddy snaps, shifting in his seat to look up at Harry. ‘Professor Malfoy’s got me in weekly tutoring. Figured you knew since they need permission from parents for that. Thanks for the heads up, by the way.’

The bandaid is off.

‘Right,’ Harry lets out an awkward laugh, and Teddy’s face falls further, scowling, and he crosses his arms against his chest. ‘Teddy, come on, I had a meeting with your professor because he wanted to discuss your grades in the class, said you were struggling. I just wanted to have this conversation face to face rather than through letters.’

‘But you could’ve told me!’ Teddy argues indignantly. Harry’s still getting used to the way his annoyance looks more like anger in his eyes. ‘You could’ve just said, hi, Teddy, don’t want to talk about this in a letter, but just so you know now you’re going to be doing three hours every week for defence tutoring.’

‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry,’ Harry rushes. He feels an urgency to calm Teddy down. ‘Maybe I could've been more - open about it all. I just didn’t want you to freak out, I suppose. I just want to know what’s going on.’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ Teddy grumbles, sinking into his seat. His eyes snap up again, sharp. ‘Except an extra three hours of Defence.’

Harry winces. ‘I get it, it’s not a nice position to be in,’ He says.

They’re quiet for a while as Harry tries to figure out where to steer the conversation and exactly how to do so. Teddy looks away from him, and Harry sees a glint of a silver chain around his neck, and an image of the pendant pops up in his head. 

‘Teddy, is there anything - you haven’t said?’ He finally decides on. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me about? Maybe you’re struggling with your OWL subjects.’

Teddy sits up straight, reforming back from a slouch. ‘No, Harry.’

‘Are you sure? You know - you can always tell me anything,’ Harry presses, drawing out an exasperated nod from Teddy.

‘I know, I know,’ Teddy sighs. ‘’Was slacking off, maybe. I’ll study more, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not - worried, I’m just wondering,’ Harry says. ‘As long as you know what your next steps are.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Teddy rolls his eyes, and drinks more of his butterbeer. ‘Professor Malfoy had a whole twenty minute speech about it. Moving forward, next steps, guaranteed improvement.’

The last of his words are said in a posh voice, closer to his grandmother’s accent. Teddy speaks more like Harry than her, skipping over a couple of letters when it’s convenient. Harry wonders sometimes if an aristocratic accent is all he’s stolen from Teddy.

Harry laughs. ‘Spot on,’ He says, even though Draco is too complex to ever copy successfully. ‘But he’s right, your professor. You should listen to him.’

‘I will,’ Teddy grumbles. He sticks out his arm in front of his face, pulling back his sleeve to check the time on his watch. ‘Oh shite -‘

‘Teddy.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Teddy hastily says, downing the last of his butterbeer in a quick, long gulp. ‘I promised my friends I would meet them at three, and it’s half past now.’

‘Oh,’ Harry manages. He was under the impression that Teddy would spend the afternoon with him. ‘Right - Er, Neville will be about in a bit anyway.’

Teddy makes a face, as he stands up and brusquely puts on his coat, struggling with the sleeves. Harry gets up and tries to help him.

‘Ugh, if you want to scold anyone, I think you should have a word with Professor Longbottom about the renovations he’s made to the secondary greenhouse,’ Teddy grumbles, swatting Harry’s hands away and slipping his left arm into the sleeve. Harry sits back down dejectedly.

‘Er – why?’ He asks. ‘What’s he done to it?’

‘Made it awful,’ Teddy claims, fixing his yellow scarf around his neck, and pulling it out so that it hangs down his back. ‘Used to be a nice place to go to, especially in the winter but now he’s replaced all the warming charms with permanent cooling charms and it’s a nightmare. There used to be this place in the middle with this lumpy sofa that you could sit on, but he got rid of that too.’

‘Maybe he got tired of students loitering in the greenhouse,’ Harry grins but at Teddy’s look he grimaces. Wrong thing to say then, perhaps it had been a personal favourite spot. ‘Do you need more money? Got enough?’

‘I’ve got enough,’ Teddy says, patting his pocket. ‘I’ve got to go, though, Harry, I’m really late.’

‘Right, yes.’ Harry only has time to get up and wrap Teddy in a quick hug, one he very much wishes was longer and warmer, before Teddy’s running out of the inn.

‘Write you soon!’ Harry hears him bellow along with the sound of him rushing and, the sound of the door opening. ‘Oh, hello, Professor Malfoy!’

Harry turns his head sharply, and soon enough, Draco Malfoy appears in the entryway, enveloped in a long, black coat, his white hair hidden under a black beanie. He has a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, and a pink nose peaks out from the top.

‘Ah! Hello, Mr Potter, what a surprise finding you here!’ Draco exclaims upon spotting Harry, pulling his beanie off of his head. White hair illuminates the room. White skin joins as Draco begins to unwrap his scarf too. Harry notices his eyes fleet to the glasses of butterbeer on his table.

‘In for a chat with Teddy,’ Harry tells him, pointing his head in the direction of the door where Teddy’s run out from. ‘You were right, he’s not happy about the tutoring.’

Draco makes a tsk’ing noise. ‘He’s been assigned a very nice tutor, one of my best NEWT students.’ His hair is pulled back neatly, and Harry spots a black ribbon. 

Harry lets out a laugh. ‘I don’t doubt it, but Teddy’s probably annoyed with having less time to practice quidditch.’

Draco shrugs, eyes going up to the ceiling momentarily as if to say, Of course, what else? Harry wants to remind him that they knew each other at thirteen. That they, too, at one point, would have liked to spend all their time only practising quidditch. 

Harry motions to the now vacant seat across from him. ‘Join me, if you’d like,’ Harry offers. Draco’s taking off his coat now, beanie and scarf levitating at his side. He’s wearing black trousers and a, maroon jumper underneath. ‘Neville will be along in a moment too.’

‘I wouldn’t want to impose,’ Draco smiles, collecting all his items in his hands, smartly palming over them before levitating them to the coat racks behind the door. ‘In any case, I’m here for something a bit stronger than Butterbeer.’

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t be imposing,’ He says and it sounds awfully intimate for some reason. ‘Teddy’s been begging to drink firewhiskey recently, can’t give in too quick.’

‘Honestly,’ Draco tuts. Harry feels an enormous sense of victory when he sees him begin to sit in the chair across from him. ‘You’d be daftly optimistic to think he isn’t drinking it in secret already.’

Harry winces. It’s not like he hasn’t suspected. ‘I don’t really like to think about it, if I’m being honest.’

Draco taps his wand at the menu that has appeared at the table. ‘Would you like another butterbeer, Mr Potter?’

Harry groans, but he ends up ordering a glass of scotch. The menus and the empty glasses on the table disappear, and two goblets appear. The smell of the drinks encircles them.

‘Everything alright, then?’ Harry asks, rather in fear of sitting in silence with Draco. ‘How’s marking and - all that?’

Draco grins, amused. ‘Marking and all that is going well, thank you,’ He muses. ‘Of course, we’re approaching the Christmas break so there are mock examinations happening and there will be loads more to do over the holidays.’

Harry’s no stranger to the concept. He remembers Neville’s first year as a professor, when he had flooed to his house during the Christmas hols and found him bent over a concerning amount of parchment rolls, grey bags under his eyes and hair sticking up in every direction.

‘’S a tough job,’ Harry appreciates. The scotch warms his throat.

‘But rewarding, or so they say,’ Draco sighs but he continues to smile. ‘What about you, Mr Potter, how’s everything?’

It feels like a fuse snaps inside of Harry’s head, an elastic stretched beyond its limit, the sound of wood snapping in two.

‘Will you stop that?’ He snaps at Draco, who startles in his seat, eyes widening at him.

‘Pardon?’ Draco breathes out.

‘Mr Potter this, Mr Potter that,’ Harry parrots. ‘You’re the last person I need to ask to call me Harry, honestly.’

Draco’s entirely silent for the seconds after, and Harry’s own rudeness begins to register to him. He’s not entirely sorry, however, he finds because it had been driving him insane.

‘I’m not sure if that would be entirely appropriate, Mr Potter, I am in a rather professional capacity in relation to you,’ Draco says, just as Harry’s anger is beginning to dissipate. 

Harry raises an eyebrow. ‘We’re having drinks, Draco, and there’s nothing unprofessional about first names,’ He says. He remembers, in the spur of the moment, Sirius saying something about McGonagall, slapping Harry’s back and winking, and Harry’s eyebrows flying up at the moniker, ‘Minnie.’ It seems too difficult to work that into their conversation though. 

Draco only stares at him, mouth thin. He looks displeased - or would, if Harry didn’t know most of his expressions. He’s only thinking.

Harry takes the opportunity to catalogue all Draco’s features as though he’ll never see him again. He needs, desperately, to be able to point out exactly what has changed in his face. Small line by his eyes, sharper nose, the absence of a stubble. His face has lost the minuscule amount of flesh it had, and he looks sculpted. Harry has never been able to find anyone as close to beautiful as Draco is. 

‘I suppose there’s no harm,’ Draco says at last. ‘How’s everything then, Harry?’

Harry grins.

The conversation flows astonishingly easily. Harry doesn’t quite know why he expected any of it to be difficult; he and Draco, even when most of their interactions had been spiteful, have always been able to slip into a flow, find an agreeable cadence. The times they have rendered the other speechless are scarce and only behind closed doors.

Neville joins them almost half an hour later, and has a horrifying story about the pus of some plant and how difficult it is to get it off of glass surfaces. Draco tries to hide it, but both Harry and Neville catch the curling of his lips in disgust. Neville lands his hands on his back roughly, laughter roaring out of him and Draco breaks off into a lecture about not discussing anything pus-related at a table of any sort.

‘I think he wanted to resign when I spoke about Devil Snare root extract at breakfast once,’ Neville tells Harry.

‘I suspect you wait for me to put food into my mouth before you start rattling on about such disgusting affairs,’ Draco huffs, inspecting the end of his sleeve. The action draws Harry’s attention to his hand as well. To the inside of his wrist. Small, white and ethereal.

‘Be thankful I don’t talk about any of my actual disgusting affairs at breakfast, Draco,’ Neville winks and Draco rolls his eyes with a loud sigh.

‘As if anyone’s having you throw them about in the bedroom,’ Draco drawls.

‘Who says I’m the one doing the throwing about?’ Neville pans, taking obvious delight in the way Draco seems to accept his defeat.

There’s a pit in Harry’s stomach, forming, elongating, separating the right of his body from the left. 

He knew Draco and Neville had become friends, Draco had said so himself. And it had been Neville who had told him about Draco being appointed as the Defence against the Dark Arts professor, some time after which Draco’s name would leave Neville’s mouth occasionally. 

Harry had never imagined that Neville was so himself around Draco, however. There’s such casualness in their interaction, a familiar ease and Harry feels incredibly cheated. Petulant too, for the way he wants to wrap his arms around Neville and exclaim that he was Harry’s friend first. The way he wants to have Neville know that Harry’s been close to Draco in a way he never has. 

Perhaps, at nineteen those would have been excusable, what with the hormones and the post-war fleeting between elation and grieving. At thirty-two, even the existence of the thought is ludicrous, so Harry focuses on finishing his scotch.

Neville’s the first of them to leave, claiming he has dinner plans. Then he pats Harry’s shoulder, who feels quite lazy having finished two glasses of drink, and says that it was nice catching up and that Harry should come to Hogsmeade more often. He bids Draco goodbye by telling him he has plans for discussing all things pus-related during tomorrow’s breakfast.

‘Didn’t know you had reading glasses,’ is what Harry opts to say as soon as Neville disappears from their sight. The drink has made him warm, and the whole room feels hotter. Though the lights are rather dim, he can feel their glare.

‘Old age,’ Draco jokes, entirely too white still. He’s evidently had less than Harry. ‘Goodness, surely your tolerance isn’t this low?’

‘Old age,’ Harry repeats, grinning and resting the side of his head against his palm, elbow on the table. ‘Otherwise - I wasn’t, was I? You’d know.’

It’s a soft accusation, no malice and no harm intended, and perhaps it’s due to the fact that Draco can see Harry’s been supplied with liquid courage, or foolishness, that he accepts it gracefully, and nods along.

‘You should be getting back,’ Draco warns. ‘Shall I help you through to the floo?’

‘You can’t stay and talk?’ Harry finds himself asking. Why is everyone in a hurry to leave his table? Teddy, Neville, Draco. ‘I’d – I’d like it if you did.’

‘Harry–’

‘Please, I’m not in the habit of asking people to stay,’ Harry tries again. God, he hasn’t felt this desperate asking for something in ages. 

‘I’m afraid I only have another hour to spare,’ Draco acquiesces, leaning back into this chair with a sigh. A smile makes its way back onto his face. ‘Tell me about Edward then, everything alright there?’

Harry feels himself glow, glittery mirth swirling around him. ‘Yeah, reckon he just doesn’t like Defence, no offence, but we all had one of those subjects.’

‘None taken, I was quite an idiot for picking Divination too,’ Draco agrees. ‘I still can’t read tea leaves.’

‘Teddy didn’t pick divination, even though I tried explaining that it was an easy one and he’d do well without trying,’ Harry says. ‘He went for ancient runes, instead.’

‘That’s an exhausting one, goodness, it took me so much revision to get a decent grade,’ Draco recalls. He waits a moment before admitting,‘I do think you’d be right about him not liking Defence. He’s quite sullen in lessons, and he’s usually cornering the other professors with questions but I don’t think anything’s sparked his curiosity in the subject.’

‘I’m happy he’s able to hate it,’ Harry says, stopping to yawn. He feels so sleepy. ‘If I’d hated it, I probably wouldn’t be alive right now, but I’m happy he can.’

Draco’s face tilts, and Harry’s able to see more of his neck. Just as lovely as he remembers, a mole at the beginning of his jaw, under his ear, and another peeking out from the collar of his jumper. Places Harry has been.

‘Yes, I’m grateful, too,’ Draco agrees softly. When he looks back across, at Harry, it is likely he sees the fatigue on his face. ‘I think you should get back Harry, or you’ll wake up to the barman throwing you out at midnight.’

‘I’ll floo in a minute,’ Harry yawns, leaning down to rest his face against the table. He hears Draco sigh again, and then he feels his hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll help you, come on,’ He ushers, slipping his hand under Harry’s left arm to help him up. ‘Is your coat – ah, it’s right here, off you are, come on.’

Harry’s coat is placed into his hand, folded up, and then they walk over to the emergency floo in the corner. Draco holds out the pot of powder, and Harry grabs a fistful. 

‘Say your destination’s name in front of me,’ Draco asks him. ‘Just so I know you’re safe to send off like this.’

‘Potter residence,’ Harry drawls, quite bored. Part of him wants to stay in the inn forever, but everything nice about it has disappeared. The Ron and Hermione of his childhood are not there, and there’s little excitement at the order of a Firewhiskey. Teddy’s busy with his friends,  Neville has no time, and Draco is so willing to have him leave. 

‘Very good,’ Draco mumbles, waving his hand in the direction of the floo. He places his palm, flat, on Harry’s arm, pushing extremely gently. ‘Off you go.’

Harry starts, but stumbles and when Draco’s hold tightens, fingers wrapping the bicep, Harry turns to fall back into him on purpose, to clutch at his arms. 

That awful sting is back - the one from having to cook when hungry, from getting no presents on his birthday, from having no one to address the mother’s day card to. He thinks he’s seven again, sick in the nurse’s room at school, crying because he doesn’t know that he’s aching for a mother’s hug, a parent’s comfort.

‘How’d we get here, Draco?’ Harry mumbles, vision blurry and cheeks flushed, looking up at Draco.