The Perception
The first week had gone much better than Draco had anticipated. Not that he would ever admit it aloud, but the transition from reclusive potioneer to Hogwarts professor had been... surprisingly smooth.
That wasn’t to say he hadn’t braced himself for disaster. On the first night, standing beside McGonagall as she introduced him as the new Potions Master, Draco had been keenly aware of the way students shifted in their seats, the restless energy crackling through the Great Hall. He had been certain—certain—that some of them were just waiting for the first opportunity to remind him of his past, to tear into him with whispers and veiled barbs.
He had been wrong.
The truth revealed itself soon enough, during his first lesson with the fifth years, when the questions started as soon as he entered the classroom.
"Professor Malfoy, is Aurelius Alchemia releasing a new moisturizer this season?"
"Are we going to learn how to brew Daylight Draught in class?"
"What about the Chromavox Serum? If we change the ratios, can we create our own hair colors?"
There was no suspicion in their gazes. No eagerness to tear him down. Only excitement.
Somehow—Merlin knew how—Draco Malfoy had become the cool professor. It was as if every mistake he had ever made as a student, every bitter rivalry, every tainted memory had been rewritten into something new. Some of his students might even have had crushes on him, if the dreamy stares and excessive note-taking were any indication.
Of course, not all of them were immediately taken with him. Some were more cautious, reserved in their judgment. That, however, was not a problem.
The real problem was Potter.
It was as if he had been transported back to their sixth year, except this time, instead of watching Draco’s every move with suspicion, Potter seemed... distracted.
Wherever Draco went, Potter wasn’t far behind. He would round a corner, and there Potter would be, looking like he had something to say but never quite managing to say it.
He had tried, once or twice, to initiate conversation. But after that conversation a month ago—the one Draco still hadn’t entirely recovered from—Draco had no intention of enduring another. So he had dodged. Invented excuses. Some absurd, some barely passable, but all serving their purpose: getting him away from Potter before he could be drawn into another moment of unexpected intimacy.
Potter, for his part, seemed to have taken the hint. Or perhaps resented it. Because for the past week, he had resorted to simply staring.
And Draco, for all his carefully cultivated indifference, was starting to feel like prey.
He was also extremely wrong for thinking that he would only have a professional relationship with his colleagues.
Draco had never really been the kind of person to make friends easily. Acquaintances? Sure. Connections? Naturally. But friendships—the sort that formed effortlessly, without calculation—had always eluded him.
Yet, somehow, within the first week of teaching, he had found himself falling into an easy camaraderie with two of his fellow staff members.
One was Professor Calla Greengrass, the new Herbology professor, who, despite her last name, was not related to Astoria in any way. She had been hired two years prior, after Professor Sprout had retired, and to Draco’s genuine surprise, she had turned out to be interesting. Witty in a quiet way, sharp-eyed beneath the dust and soil smudging her sleeves. She brewed her own botanical tinctures and had a keen interest in experimental alchemy—a rare overlap between their fields that had quickly led to long discussions about cross-disciplinary magic.
It had started as professional curiosity. A simple conversation about certain plants that might enhance potion efficacy. Then, before Draco even realized it, they had established a routine: early morning walks to the greenhouses, shared tea during free periods, the occasional late-night debate about the ethical sourcing of magical flora.
It was comfortable. And he was beginning to remember what it was like to just simply have a friend.
And then there was Leone Vestri—the former Italian National Quidditch superstar, now the new Quidditch coach at Hogwarts.
Leone had arrived at Hogwarts a year after Potter, sweeping in like something out of a Witch Weekly center spread. Tall, dark-haired, devastatingly handsome, and built like a Seeker who had never quite let himself go, he carried himself with the lazy confidence of someone who had been told he was charming his entire life. His career had ended abruptly due to a freak injury—a torn ligament during a high-stakes match that had made professional play impossible. McGonagall, ever the opportunist (and, if the rumors were true, just a bit of a fangirl), had wasted no time in offering him the position of Quidditch coach.
Draco had expected to find him insufferable. And yet, he didn’t.
Leone spoke with the smooth cadence of his Italian accent, mixing English with the occasional, frustrated burst of his mother tongue. He flirted shamelessly with anyone who had ears, but there was an easy warmth beneath the bravado that made it difficult to dislike him.
For whatever reason, he had taken a liking to Draco almost immediately.
"Ah, Malfoy, you are too serious," Leone had sighed after one of their first conversations. "You need to laugh more. You need—how do you say—let loose."
"You mean I need to be more like you?" Draco had retorted, raising an unimpressed brow.
"No, no, that would be impossible. I am one of a kind," Leone had grinned. "But you... you have the face of a man who needs to be dragged to a bar until he stops brooding."
Draco had scoffed, of course. And yet, by the end of the week, he had somehow found himself sitting in Leone’s quarters with a glass of Firewhisky in hand, listening to the man recount ridiculous Quidditch scandals in dramatic detail.
It was... nice.
It was strange, being part of something new—friendships that had nothing to do with his past, that had formed simply because of who he was now.
And yet, no matter how much he tried to settle into the rhythm of this new life, there was still one thing that made his steps falter.
Or rather—one person.
Potter.
Still there. Still watching.
And for the life of him, Draco couldn't decide whether he was more annoyed, unsettled, or intrigued.
Thursdays were, arguably, beginning to become Draco’s favorite day of the week. Not because of the classes—though having only first and third years meant he wasn’t dealing with N.E.W.T. students breathing down his neck—but because his afternoons were blissfully free. No responsibilities, no grading that couldn’t wait until the weekend, no inquisitive young minds asking whether Aurelius Alchemia would ever venture into men’s hair products—he had a new line for men's hair and beard growth launching right before Christmas. Just the luxury of a few uninterrupted hours to himself.
Today, he had plans. Not particularly grand ones, but plans nonetheless. A trip to Hogsmeade, a quiet afternoon with Pansy, a drink or two if the mood struck him. It was with this in mind that he walked through the castle grounds, coat slung over one arm, when a voice—familiar, inevitable—cut through the crisp autumn air.
“Malfoy, hi.”
Draco stopped mid-step, inhaled slowly through his nose, and turned.
Potter stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, his robes open at the front as if he only wore them out of obligation. Knowing Potter, he probably had. And he looked—if Draco wasn’t mistaken—a touch uncertain.
“Potter.” Draco inclined his head, tone carefully neutral.
There was a pause, a beat of hesitation that Draco immediately found irritating. If Potter had sought him out, then he clearly had something to say. So why was he standing there, looking as though he hadn’t quite figured out what it was?
“I—” Potter began, then exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “About the last time we—”
“Oh! Malfoy,” a smooth, lilting voice interrupted. “Going to Hogsmeade?”
Draco glanced over to see the Quidditch coach approaching with his usual effortless swagger, dark curls tousled by the wind, a lopsided smile playing at his lips. The timing was impeccable.
“Yes,” Draco answered simply, already feeling the shift in the air as Leone’s presence tilted the dynamic.
“Perfect.” Leone clapped a hand over Draco’s shoulder, ignoring the way Draco barely suppressed a flinch at the casual touch. “I was heading there myself. Walk together?”
Draco barely spared Potter another glance before answering, “Sure.”
Leone turned to Potter then, all polite detachment. “Potter,” he said with a small nod, his usual warmth notably absent.
Potter, to his credit, returned the nod, though his gaze flickered between them, unreadable. “Vestri.”
And just like that, the moment—whatever it had been—was gone.
They walked in easy stride towards the village, the silence between them comfortable until Leone broke it with a question that was, frankly, inevitable.
“So.” A smirk curled at the edge of his lips. “Was he always like that in school?”
Draco arched a brow. “Like what?”
"You know—" Leone gestured vaguely, "the whole… Harry Potter thing. Because now he is this very cool, very composed, very famous man. Was he like that in school?"
Draco made a noise in the back of his throat that could have been amusement or exasperation. "Potter? Composed? That’s rich. No, he was a disaster. Somehow managed to nearly die every year, had a complete inability to keep his nose out of trouble, and had the emotional range of a teaspoon."
Leone laughed. "A teaspoon, you say?"
"A very small teaspoon," Draco confirmed.
Draco paused, then added with a slight shake of his head, "Potter's always had a way of drawing attention, even when he was a kid. The 'chosen one' thing, all the expectations... It’s hard to see him as anything but someone who was constantly in the spotlight, even back then."
Leone let out a short laugh. “Ah, I had a feeling. You know, we have a staff Quidditch match once a term. Just for fun. Teams made up of professors and staff. And every single time, I’m reminded that the only reason Potter didn’t pursue a professional career is because he had some grander sense of duty.”
Draco snorted. “Yes, well. The rest of us are blessed that he chose to vanquish evil rather than monopolize the Quidditch league.”
Leone shot him a look of pure amusement. “You make it sound like the choice was between being a hero and being a nuisance.”
“Wasn’t it? No offence…” Draco drawled.
Leone chuckled. “None taken. You think of him as a sort of a celebrity.”
Draco tilted his head. “Well…He is.”
Leone grinned, mischief in his eyes as he gestured to himself. “I am a celebrity. He’s a legend.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue the point.
They reached Hogsmeade before long, where Leone, after a brief exchange of parting words, clapped Draco on the shoulder again and said, “Next time, at least a coffee, yes? No more skulking about.”
Draco scoffed but didn’t outright refuse, which Leone must have taken as victory enough.
And then he was off, disappearing into the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who belonged anywhere he went.
Draco took a breath, adjusted his coat, and made his way to The Three Broomsticks, where he found Pansy already seated at a window-side table, staring at him with the wide-eyed expression of someone who had just seen a unicorn break into a waltz.
He had barely taken a seat when she leaned in, voice pitched in scandalized delight.
“Draco.” She exhaled. “Tell me that was who I think it was.”
Draco smirked, reaching for the menu. “If you’re referring to Vestri, then yes.”
Pansy’s expression turned absolutely gleeful. “Leone Vestri. The same Leone Vestri who made half of Britain cry when he retired. And you were just casually walking with him?”
Draco sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
But despite himself, he found he wasn’t entirely dreading it.
The classroom was silent save for the occasional scrape of glass against wood as Draco wiped down the workstations. The last of the students had left minutes ago, their chatter still echoing faintly in the corridors. He exhaled, savoring the rare solitude, the air heavy with the lingering scent of crushed herbs and simmered elixirs.
His fingers worked methodically, but his thoughts refused to be as orderly.
Yesterday’s events nagged at him, tangled in the back of his mind like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Leone and Potter. There was something off about their dynamic, something in the way Leone lowered his head in greeting, the word "Potter" slipping from his lips—polite yet cold, distant, as if weighed down by an unspoken history.
Then there was Pansy. Her latest insistence that he should come to one of those weekly hangouts she and Luna had with the Gryffindors.
“They’re not that bad, Draco. Even Weasley has his moments,” she had teased, looping an arm through his. “And besides, Luna and I are tired of being the only ones with good taste.”
Draco had scoffed at that, but he hadn’t dismissed her outright. He supposed he should feel grateful for her persistence, but the idea of willingly throwing himself into a room filled with Potter’s merry band of friends was still something he wasn’t sure he had the patience for.
And then, there was Potter himself.
Draco’s hand hesitated over a vial, thumb running idly along the glass. If they hadn’t been interrupted yesterday—if they had been left alone a moment longer—what would have happened? He had spent years exchanging sharp words and cutting glares with Potter, and yet, something felt different now. The hostility lacked its old bite, the rhythm between them less predictable.
Would they have argued? Or—Merlin help him—would they have actually talked?
The thought sent something uncomfortable curling in his chest.
Lost in thought, Draco didn’t register the tension in his grip until the delicate vial slipped from his fingers. The sharp crack of glass splintering against stone yanked him back to reality. A slow, viscous shimmer spread across the floor, pooling in iridescent rivulets. The scent of lavender, thick and cloying, mingled with something sharper—burnt citrus, acrid in the air.
He exhaled sharply, cursing under his breath as he crouched to gather the broken shards. His fingers worked deftly, careful not to press too hard against the jagged edges.
“Need a hand?”
Draco went rigid. His fingers curled instinctively around a sliver of glass, sharp enough to bite into skin. He hadn’t heard footsteps, hadn’t felt the shift in the air, yet Potter was there, standing just behind him.
And moving closer.
Now attuned to the moment, Draco became painfully aware of every subtle sound. The soft drag of breath, the muted crunch of shoe leather against fractured glass, the faint rustle of fabric as Potter adjusted his stance.
And—Merlin help him—was he about to crouch down right behind him?
Panic flared in Draco’s chest, irrational and breathless. He moved too quickly, jerking upright with graceless urgency—only to collide, skull-first, with the sharp corner of his workstation. Pain flared white-hot across his scalp, and he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Shit,” Potter said, wincing in sympathy. Then—a sudden warmth. A hand on the crown of Draco’s head, fleeting but undeniably there. It was gone in an instant, but the ghost of the touch lingered, scattering Draco’s composure like autumn leaves in a storm.
“You okay?” Potter asked, brow furrowed.
“I—ah—yes, yes,” Draco stammered, willing himself to collect his thoughts. Get it together, Malfoy. He straightened, this time with careful deliberation, managing not to shatter another vial, concuss himself further, or make an even greater fool of himself. Two out of three was enough for one day.
“Yes, I’m alright,” he said, the words clipped but steady. “Did you need something?”
“Ah, not really,” Potter admitted. “I was just passing by, then I heard a crash and wanted to check if you were okay.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “You were passing by in the dungeons?”
What he really wanted to say was: What the ever-loving fuck are you doing everywhere I go? But decorum dictated restraint, and Draco Malfoy was, after all, a gentleman.
Potter shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flickered away for a beat before settling back on Draco, as though weighing his next words like a chess player unwilling to end the match too soon.
“This is actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he admitted. “When you were here on summer break to discuss the job and then you saw me, you sort of had a misunderstanding and me being me, I got heated unnecessarily fast and it got kinda out of hand…” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. “Oh God, I’m rambling.”
Draco might have laughed if he weren’t so preoccupied with the way Potter’s skin flushed pink in embarrassment, warmth creeping up his neck. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, restless.
And then there was that gesture—the one Draco had apparently failed to notice before now. Potter’s hand drifting to the back of his neck, fingers kneading absently, as if grounding himself. It must have been a habit. How had Draco never caught it before?
Since he’d already started shamelessly staring, he figured he might as well commit.
Potter’s lashes were long—thick and dark, almost too much for a man. Draco already knew the green of his irises carried flecks of gold, but now, up close, he noticed something new: a scattering of freckles, subtle yet distinct. One... two... three, just above the edge of his iris.
Potter was still talking.
“-So, yeah, I just wanted to make sure all of the stuff was cleared out of this room before you saw. I heard you were going to come here on Monday that next week, which is why I was also caught out of guard when I saw you.”
Draco blinked. Oh. Oh no. He had been so fixated on Potter’s eyes—on counting freckles like some sort of besotted fool—that he had processed precisely none of what had just been said.
He played it safe. “Stuff?”
Potter looked at him strangely but humored him. “Mannequins. Mats.”
Draco arched an eyebrow, silent but expectant.
Potter sighed. “For the dueling club. Which I chaperone. In the classroom next to yours, just like I just told you.” Then, narrowing his eyes, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Draco cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine.”
Potter didn’t look convinced.
And Draco, Merlin help him, didn’t know whether he wanted to hex him or count the rest of his freckles.
Draco blinked, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Potter with narrowed eyes. “Strange,” he murmured, more to himself than to the man in front of him. “I haven’t seen you in the dungeons for the past month.”
Potter hummed. “That makes sense,” he said easily. “The club meets on Thursdays, from five to seven in the evening.”
Draco frowned, turning the information over in his mind. It took him only a moment to recall that he never had classes on Thursday afternoons. Naturally, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near the dungeons at that time.
“I see,” he murmured.
A pause stretched between them, weighty but not entirely uncomfortable. Draco wasn’t sure what he expected Potter to say next, but for once, the man seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, as if lingering on the edge of a thought he wasn’t sure he wanted to voice.
Then, as if shaking himself free of whatever had held him still, Potter exhaled sharply and rolled his shoulders. “Anyway,” he said, tone lighter now, almost casual. “I should go finish tidying up. Left the place a mess yesterday.”
Draco raised a brow. “I’m not sure I believe you actually clean up after yourself, Potter.”
Potter huffed a laugh, already turning toward the door. “You wound me, Malfoy,” he said over his shoulder, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t far from one either. And then, with a final glance in Draco’s direction, he stepped out of the room, disappearing down the dimly lit corridor.
The silence left in his wake felt oddly noticeable.
Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and ran a hand through his hair before turning back to the mess he had yet to clean—
Except.
There was no mess.
He stilled, breath catching slightly in his throat. The floor, where shimmering liquid had pooled just moments ago, was utterly spotless. Not a single trace of the potion remained, nor was there any sign of the shattered vial that had broken against the cold stone.
Draco’s gaze flickered to the doorway, his thoughts spiraling into tangled, uncertain shapes. He had been standing there the whole time. He would have seen if Potter had done something, would have heard if there had been so much as a muttered spell. And yet—
His eyes drifted around the classroom and stopped at his desk, drawn by something out of place.
Sitting atop the smooth wooden surface, where there had been nothing before, was a single, unbroken vial.