Chapter Text
All day Friday, Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent nattered on about the trip to Hogsmeade. McGonagall had gotten wind of their plans somehow, and at dinner, she sternly reminded them to make good choices and to avoid disrupting the younger students. The eighth years tittered throughout her lecture. Draco had given in to Pansy’s nagging and agreed to come—but only for an hour. By the time they left the castle and headed for Hogsmeade, it was growing dark, and the sun had nearly set. Nott insisted that they visit Honeydukes first so that he could stock up on sugar quills and toffees. The shop was as busy as ever: children trailing after their parents, demanding sweets; people squeezing through the aisles to get to their confectionaries of choice; and a large group of witches who stood giggling over a barrel of Every Flavoured Beans. Draco wove through the stacks of sweets, pausing to peruse a bucket of Fizzing Whizzbees. He was nervous, not least of all because he risked coming face-to-face with Madam Rosmerta. There was also the question of whether the other eighth years were actually willing to have a drink with the Slytherins, something Draco doubted very much. At last, Nott made his purchases and they headed for the Three Broomsticks.
The pub was filled mostly with eighth years. They had pushed several tables together and sat crammed around them. Draco squeezed in between Pansy and Blaise; he was grateful to find himself pressed near the wall, where Madam Rosmerta hopefully would not see him. But he was not so lucky. As she made her way to their table, two large pitchers in her hands, she froze as her eyes fell on Draco. She turned to Potter, who was seated at the head of the table—of course—and though Draco could not make out what they were saying over the din of the pub, it looked as though they were arguing. Finally, Rosmerta threw Draco a nasty glare and then slammed the pitchers down on the table before bustling away.
Pansy was looking at him apprehensively. “It’s okay, Draco,” she said, leaning forward so that he could hear her. When he didn’t answer, she reached for a pitcher and poured out some firewhisky for their side of the table. It seemed that most of the eighth years were there: sitting directly across from the Slytherins were the Gryffindors; on the left side of the table were the Ravenclaws; and along the right side, the Hufflepuffs. Most everyone seemed in high spirits; the Ravenclaws were engaged in a boisterous debate regarding the merits of brass versus copper cauldrons. He was surprised to find that the Slytherins were welcomed, if not warmly, then at least politely. Sue Li had started up a conversation with Daphne, and Macmillan called out to Nott, reminding him of their ongoing wager regarding the upcoming Quidditch match.
“Draco,” Blaise said after taking a sip of his drink. “I had someone asking about you the other day.”
“And who was that?”
“Oh, some bloke from Hufflepuff. Whitby, was it?” Blaise traced a finger along the fine lines in the table, smiling to himself. “He was looking for you.”
“What would I want with him?” he spat. He took a drink and almost instantly felt the silky warmth trickle through him.
“I don’t know. He seemed to think you had enjoyed his company last year.” Zabini glanced at him and smirked.
“For fuck’s sake,” Draco murmured, taking a deeper swig.
“I’m hurt, Draco,” Zabini quipped. He was speaking in a low voice that Draco hoped the others couldn’t hear. “You go sniffing around the Hufflepuffs’ dorms before coming to me?” When he said nothing, Zabini added, “I seem to distinctly remember a night back in sixth year…maybe you’ve forgotten…”
There had been one time. They had all gotten spectacularly drunk after exams, and somehow Draco had ended up in Blaise’s bed, in his lap, grinding against him as they snogged.
“It wasn’t a night,” he protested. And this was true: as Zabini had started to unbutton his shirt, Draco had pushed him away and retreated to his own bed. Things had been tense between them for weeks after.
“And yet I gather there were several nights with Whitby?” Zabini drawled. “To think Draco Malfoy would stoop so low…shagging a Hufflepuff. I wonder what your father would say.”
‘My father’s so drunk these days he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ he wanted to say. Instead, he shrugged and turned to the other Slytherins, who were discussing their internships.
Thomas and Finnigan bought another round for the table. Instead of the calming effect Draco had come to expect from firewhisky, he found himself growing anxious. The room was hot. Zabini’s presence set him on edge, though he couldn’t quite say why. He was used to his taunts, and the strange tension between them. But for some reason it grated on him now. Abruptly, he rose, causing the half-empty glasses on the table to wobble. Several people looked up at him as he squeezed past Zabini and headed for the pub’s side door. It led to a dingy alleyway. He pushed back memories of how he had become acquainted with this alley—it had been one of his meeting places for conversing in hushed tones with other Death Eaters—and he leaned back against the pub’s cool stone wall. It was chilly out; he shoved his hands into his pockets. His breath misted in front of him. Further down the alley, he saw two figures entwined around one another. Students, perhaps. He couldn’t make out who they were. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He felt saner out here. More like himself. He wondered vaguely if it would be safe to walk back to Hogwarts alone, if the others would even notice his absence…
He jumped as the pub door burst open. To his surprise, Potter came stumbling out.
“Easy, Potter,” Draco hissed, holding out an arm to stop them from colliding. But Potter steadied himself. The door swung back behind him.
“Malfoy,” he said, looking up at him with a curious expression on his face.
“Following me again, are you?” Draco drawled. “That seems a bit beneath you now.”
Potter frowned. “I was looking for—never mind.”
“Piss off, Potter.” He was suddenly angry. “What do you think I’m up to now? The Dark Lord’s gone, isn’t he? So what the hell could you possibly suspect me of?”
Potter blinked at him.
Furious, Draco made to push past him back into the pub, but Potter gripped his arm. Draco struggled against him, ripping his arm from Potter’s grasp. He snarled, but Potter didn’t seem angry—he merely stared at him, as though he had never seen him properly before.
“What are you playing at?” A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him. “You want me to fight you, don’t you—want me expelled.”
Potter frowned. “I don’t want you expelled.”
“Whatever. Let me by. And stay the fuck away from me.” He couldn’t explain his rage, only that it was fueled by his mind’s attempt at working through all the possible ways that Potter could get him and his family into further trouble. He stormed back into the pub and found Pansy, who had moved her chair and was now sitting next to Padma Patil. They were giggling together; somehow that irritated him further.
“I’m leaving,” he told her.
“What? Why?” she asked, confused. “Oh, Draco, come sit with us. You have to hear this—yesterday some of the Ravenclaws caught Flitwick doing the most ridiculous—”
Draco glanced over at Patil, whose expression had hardened.
“See you tomorrow,” he said flatly. Pansy reached for his hand, but he evaded her and left before he lost his temper.
***
The next morning, he woke up groggy. He wasn’t hungover after only two drinks, but he was exhausted. Although his wristwatch told him it was already nine, he was tempted to fall back asleep until he remembered his stupid meeting with Potter. By the time he had showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed, he had no time for breakfast, and so he made his way directly to the library. Potter was sitting at a table alone—Draco was surprised to find that he didn’t have his usual gaggle of admirers. Draco dropped his satchel on the desk and then slid into the seat across from Potter, who scowled at him. There was an uncomfortable silence as he took a quill and an inkpot out of his bag. As Draco searched for a spare bit of parchment, his stomach lurched when he noticed his old wand sitting at the bottom of the bag. He hadn’t been able to decide where to keep it, and so he left it in his satchel, strangely soothed by its constant presence throughout the day.
“Right.” He looked up at Potter, who was scribbling some notes. “What’s that?”
“Hermione gave me a list of O.W.L.- and N.E.W.T.-level spells. We’ll go through them and decide what to practice each week.”
“Oh, we will, will we?” he snapped. “You’re always dictating everything.”
“Fine then.” Potter exhaled and sat back in his chair, throwing his quill down. “You take over.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. “Really, Potter? Do your temper tantrums usually work on your little friends?”
Potter crossed his arms. “Go on. Plan the lessons, then.”
Draco reached over and snatched up the list Granger had drawn. Most of the N.E.W.T.-level spells, he suspected, would be over his classmates’ heads.
“You really think Longbottom is going to be able to perform a Protean Charm?” he scoffed.
“Neville is twice the wizard you’ll ever be,” Potter muttered.
Draco laughed nastily at that. “I’m sure.” He tossed Granger’s list back to Potter’s side of the table. “I don’t give a damn what we do. Make something up.”
“Well, there’s no way we’ll be able to cover everything. Our best bet is to pick one spell every week or two and focus on that.”
“Granger came up with that plan, did she?”
Potter ignored him and went on, “Why don’t we make a list of what we think is most important, and then we’ll compare?”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Draco set to work, reaching back into his memories of his O.W.L. exams to try to recall which spells had been featured most heavily, and which had given him the hardest time. There was also the matter of preparing the upper-year students for N.E.W.T.s. Surely, they could all use some practice on the more advanced Charms. And human Transfiguration would be key. They would also need to work on their nonverbal spells. As Draco flipped through his Transfiguration textbook, he found himself distracted by Potter, who kept glancing at a spot beside Draco’s head.
“Is everything alright, Potter?” he snapped.
“Owen Cauldwell,” Potter mumbled. “Behind you.”
Draco looked over his shoulder, and saw Cauldwell smirking at him. He frowned and turned back to his work. As he scribbled, Potter said more urgently, “He keeps staring at you.”
“Yeah.”
“But why?”
“Dunno.” Draco shrugged. “We shagged once. Ever since then he’s been rather keen on me.”
“You what?” Potter yelped. He dropped the textbook he had been holding with a loud thump. From off in the distance, they heard Madam Pince shush them angrily. Draco rolled his eyes and dipped his quill into his inkpot.
“But—but—why?” Potter spluttered. Draco would have found his reaction rather funny if he weren’t so irritated.
“I don’t know, Potter,” he said. “Why do you think people shag one another?”
Potter was staring at him. Had he never heard of blokes sleeping with other blokes before? Surely he wasn’t that naïve. Unsettled, Draco bent over his work and ignored Potter until he finally picked up his own quill and went back to his list.
“Done,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair. “Should we…compare our lists, then?”
They found that they agreed on most of the curriculum, although there were a few points of contention. Potter felt that nonverbal spells were probably beyond their abilities, and that they should leave those to the faculty to teach; Draco, on the other hand, refused to budge, arguing repeatedly that nonverbal spells could be the difference between Exceeds Expectations and Outstanding.
“Thought you didn’t care,” Potter mused as he rewrote a section of their syllabus.
“I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t want Proudfoot nagging us all year.”
As Potter glanced over at Cauldwell yet again, Draco hissed, “Would you stop staring? Honestly, Potter, I didn’t know you were such a prude. I’m sure you have witches lining up, ready to have a turn.” At that Potter turned scarlet.
“Done,” Draco said, passing his revised list over to Potter. “Can we go now?”
Potter was still writing something out. “So next week we work on Summoning Charms. Everyone who’s already mastered those can try their hand at some nonverbal magic.”
“Right. Fine. Are we done?” Without waiting for an answer, Draco started to pack up his things.
“Malfoy,” Potter started. He stopped, hesitated, and then went on, “D’you ever…” He trailed off, staring at him in a way that Draco found extremely disconcerting.
“Do I what, Potter?” he growled.
Potter was shaking his head. “Nothing. Forget about it.”
Annoyed, Draco swung his satchel over his shoulder and strode out of the library, deliberately ignoring Cauldwell. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder what Potter had wanted to say, but he put it out of his mind. He had a massive amount of homework to get through, and he had promised Pansy he would help her with her Potions essay in exchange for the chocolate truffles her parents had sent her.