Learning to Live

Chapter 12: Uneasy Lessons

Much to his credit, Draco didn't say anything about Harry's unforseen outburst in the dungeons. He hadn't even asked Harry why he kept on gripping the back of his robes, mainly because he was far more concerned with the sort of entrance he could possibly make into the Great Hall. The Hogwarts students couldn't possibly disappoint--there would be exaggerations all around. By next morning parents would be writing in demanding why Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, had attacked the Great Hall with a myopic green-eyed badger with deadly claws as a ghastly surgical extension of his back.

"For Merlin's sake, Harry, let go of my robe or you will make a ghastly first impression," he hissed from the side of his mouth before Snape opened the teacher's side door to the dining hall. Nobody quite noticed as they came in, all too focused on their own post-war celebrations. The thinned ranks were caused not by casualties, but by parents grateful to be celebrating a peaceful Yule with their children. Only a single table was needed, at which the professors and students were already assembled for dinner. The bustle quieted down as Dumbledore stood up and asked for their attention.

When Snape had successfully slinked out of view and taken a seat next to the aging McGonagall, Draco and Harry were fully exposed to the hall. One of the students nearly fainted at the sight, and the diners fell silent. Three years hence they'd learned of the younger Malfoy's rise to power within Voldemort's circles. His name and face had been pasted on every list, every paper, and mentioned in every radio programme. How many platinum grey-eyed blonds with aristocratic accents by the name of Malfoy did one know, after all?

There had been no end to the touting of how dangerous this Deatheater was, how horrible his sins, how unmentionable his immoral behaviour, how legendary his feats of escape, how twisted and corrupted his mind. It had gone so far as to cause parents to treat Draco Malfoy as a convenient sort of real-life bogeyman, come to snatch bad children in the night and leave behind nothing but a Dark Mark. It had all been part of a plan to protect Draco's secret as a critical Auror spy during the dark times when both sides doubted their own strengths. Several of the first years had grown up murmuring his name in their worst nightmares. Draco looked around and wondered if it would make things worse were he to smile. So many horror stories had been told about him...some of which were true. He smiled. The nearer students drew back collectively.

A shaky, wavering hand rose in the air. "P-p-professor Dumbledore?" It was a Hufflepuff girl, frightened no doubt, but with enough wits about her to ask instead of scream. "Isn't...isn't that...er...M..."

"Yes, Miss Adams, very astute of you, I see," said Dumbledore in a way that always infuriated Draco. Mainly it was because of the twinkling eyes, the evil twinkle that always meant Draco's own life would soon be turned topsy-turvy. "Allow me to introduce your new professors. This is Professor Draco Malfoy, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher--" Nobody, except the teachers and one Gryffindor boy by the name of Milton Chadwick clapped. "And this is Professor Harry Potter, who will be teaching alongside Professor Snape in Potions." A few Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were a bit more enthusiastic with their applause, glad for a hero and hoping that might mean an improvement in their marks. Most of them were too transfixed by the sight of two celebrity giants of the wizarding world to really gossip much.

When the feeble, hesitant applause died down, which didn't take very long at all out of the fifty people there, Harry took an empty seat beside Professor Lupin. There was, unsurprisingly, an empty space beside Professor Snape, which Draco gratefully accepted immediately. This put him opposite of Harry, not a bad place at all. As dinner had already begun, Draco shoveled some food onto his plate, a bit of grouse, a smidgen of meat pie, even if he'd lost his appetite entirely. Before him, Harry seemed very hungry, or at least eating as enthusiastically as possible so nobody could ask him any questions. Looking to his left, Snape was minding his own business, eating precisely. To his right was... "Mr Milton Chadwick, is it?" Draco asked, putting down his fork, having not eaten a single bite of whatever was on it. All the students had stopped to watch and listen to this interchange, and Harry and Dumbledore looked on curiously.

As he answered, the Gryffindor seemed both awed and terrified at having Draco Malfoy sit, let alone dine, beside him. "Yes, sir," the first-year answered, with the same self-possessing presence of mind Draco encountered earlier.

"Why aren't you home with your mother?" Draco asked, wondering if anything had happened.

"She was worried by what you said to me in the alley, so she thought I might be safer here. Sorry, Sir, but I think she's not so convinced," Milton seemed very convinced that there was nothing about Professor Malfoy that he needed to lose any sleep over. "Er...Sir, so you'll be teaching us Defence from now on?"

"I hope to," replied the younger Malfoy a bit more seriously than he would have liked. "Per the Headmaster's policies, I'm not to teach you precisely anything other than defencive measures, nor would I want to, even if he asked me."

"Strictly speaking off the record, I wouldn't mind learning a few. My friend Roger Highfield here--" A tow-headed boy, Slytherin first-year, waved uncertainly at Malfoy, but looked as if he wanted Chadwick to stop. "--told me there are many technically harmless spells in the Dark Arts category."

"Did he? But does Mr Highfield know why they are consigned to such a level?" Draco asked with a characteristic arch of his brow. "Does he know that regardless of the intended effects, Dark Magic will always have a particularly different energy? Nowadays we legally categorise them, but before it mattered how you felt about a certain form of magic when you cast it. Dark Arts is always a bit dangerous if you don't know what you're doing, but then again, I hardly think this is the sort of topic for a dinner conversation." An awkward silence followed, but presently Dumbledore started telling a joke to Harry in such an ironic way that the former Gryffindor burst out laughing all over his pudding.

"Yeah, I agree, sir," Chadwick presently said, as conversation rolled forth again on the table. "Sorry, sir."

"For what? For not knowing something? That's hardly something to apologise for," replied Draco curtly, thinking that this was just the sort of behaviour that stifled spirits before they had a chance to free themselves. Then again, he himself was being overly formal and he knew it. "So you have a friend in Slytherin?" The fellow in question was avoiding all eye contact by talking to the Ravenclaw next to him as he speared a bit of carrot. Harry felt a bit sorry for him for being singled out, but continued his conversation with Lupin about the virtues of formation looping and reverse passes in Quidditch.

"Yes, Professor," replied Milton with a wavering smile. "We just met this year."

"Really? What do the other Gryffindors think about this, Mr Chadwick?" He asked, interested. Interhouse alliances were allowed in Slytherin; any relation that held some sort of potential for power was always good, but it always seemed to Draco that the Gryffindors always frowned down upon those who weren't as honourable as themselves. "That you've made friends with a Slytherin?"

"What about it? We've all got friends from different houses," replied the boy.

"From what I remember, during my time here--yes, I attended Hogwarts, along with Professor Potter--Gryffindor and Slytherin absolutely hated each other. You'd never see a Gryffindor having a Slytherin friend, much less the two even walking together," Draco said, very much aware that he was starting to sound old and nostalgic at the age of twenty-two.

"I can't imagine that at all," Milton said. "What'd you do then, walk around each other?"

"Whenever possible," Draco finally smiled at the thought, mirroring Harry's expression. "Or just insult each other as often as we could. Think I hexed you a few times, Harry, if I recall."

"Think I did too on the school train, Draco," countered Harry. "Professor Malfoy, that is." It was all he could do to prevent himself from sniggering. Milton Chadwick just stared. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding and Muggle worlds, was grinning at an equally amused Draco Malfoy, formerly the foulest Death Eater to ever walk the earth.

"As if during our Auror training duels I hadn't creamed you enough?" Draco inquired as the plates vanished along with the food. It was such a normal conversation that the novelty of their arrival was already wearing off. Students were talking again, paying no heed to what they said, except for those closest.

"If my memory serves me correctly, Professor Malfoy," Harry added, rising from his seat as Dumbledore did so, the conversation coasting around them. "You were the one who forfeited at the first wizard's duel we ever tried to have together."

"Foolish pranking," Draco scoffed in mock arrogance. "Not even worth considering on the scoreboards. I have a few items from our school days in my office that I would like to show you. Goodnight, Mr Chadwick, Mr Highfield. I hope to see you both soon. Professor Potter, shall we?"

"Sure," replied Harry as he followed Draco out of the Great Hall. They walked in silence for a while, going up the marble staircase and through a few corridors. "How does it feel to be back here?"

"A little weird," Draco shrugged. "I keep thinking I'm going to see people I know around the corner. When I went out of my office I headed instinctively for the dungeons, as if I were still in Slytherin. It doesn't feel like anything's changed, even if it has." They climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"Hogwarts couldn't ever change; it's just the people who do," Harry told him wisely. "I've got a feeling we're going to have to get used to this place all over again."

"I don't think it'll be too different from what we're used to now," replied Draco, unlocking the door to his office. It was exactly as Harry remembered it, because he'd been there when Lupin was DADA teacher, and that horrific time with Moody and Umbridge too. All of it seemed dimmed and far away in light of what he'd seen in the war, as near to him as the setting sun casting glowing flames across Draco's floor. He looked out the window and could see the giant squid doing laps in the lake. A sense of belonging hit him with the sight of the enormous Kraken. This had been his home for eight years. He could never feel uncomfortable here, even if he was living in the dungeons now and not in Gryffindor Tower. "We will still be living independently as we did before, only with different responsibilities. I hardly imagine you could have any problem with publishing any work, with Snape's guidance. Want to see my rooms?"

"Sure," Harry said, wondering what 'regular professor work' was all about. Draco unlocked a door at the back of the room and then beckoned him up a few stairs to a circular tower. The parlour was very nice--Draco had already put the assorted knick knack here and there, a Slytherin banner above the fireplace, a pocket Sneakoscope on the mantlepiece, as well as some other things. All of Draco's Dark Detectors were in his office already, Harry could see, as he closed the door behind them and stepped into the parlour proper. A few steps down in an alcove was presumably the door to Draco's bathroom, because it was slightly ajar and Harry could hear a mirror talking to itself. That meant the winding iron staircase led to the bedroom on the floor above. "You've done a lot more with yours than I've with mine, and you've had less time, too. Did you go see Madame Pomfrey?" He sat down on a blue couch and found it very comfortable.

"My first appointment's in two weeks, with someone named Lynch. She's the Transfiguration teacher, but Lupin's filling in while she's on family leave," Draco casually informed Harry, sitting down opposite him in his own wingbacked chair. "Probably going to be an old spinster listening to my own life when she doesn't have one. Are you sure you want to come with me, Harry? I'd hate to have you suffer through interminable questions about how I feel about the colour blue and what I think a quill held a certain way means." He hoped he wouldn't have to tell Lynch about his mysterious incident under Tate Modern, and the way his father hinted that Draco had been responsible for his escape. He hadn't even wanted to personally go back to the Manor, in case he really did find his father hiding there.

"Might be fun to see you squirm, and you know I wouldn't miss that," chuckled Harry as he lay back, folding his arms behind his head, all good humour and no worrisome parents.

"Squirm? Me, Draco Malfoy, squirm? Don't be silly, Potter." He conjured up a tea tray with a full set and levitated it to Harry's side, offering him a cup.

"Thanks. I'm only as silly as Fred and George are innocent. Did Pomfrey say anything else about your physical condition? Like what hit you at the parade?" He took a warm cup and a scone, setting it on his saucer.

"She thinks it was something that made me more susceptible to the potion, or whatever it was, that was put in my Muggle drink," muttered Draco, taking a sip from his own. He reckoned he could trust the Hogwarts elves; they cared for the students after all, Hogwart's most precious asset.

"Do you still want to carry on the investigation into your father? Now that he's contacted you?"

"Not really. Once we find the evidence to either support or contradict him, we'll seek him out," Draco sighed as he put down his teacup and folded his hands in his lap. "You don't think there's anything physically wrong with me, do you? Is that why you're asking me so often?"

"No!" Harry was quick to answer. "Rather...I'm..." He looked earnestly at Draco now. "I'm just worried about you."

"Go worry about yourself, Harry. I don't need anyone to mind me," Malfoy scoffed, rising from his seat. Harry was back where he started with Malfoy, without a clue to how he was feeling. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going down to the Library to scare the wits out of Madame Pince before I ask for some books from the Restricted Section. I want to know what those bastards did to my chest. Up with you then. I reckon Snape'll be wanting you down in his rooms for a rehearsal of whatever you're going to do to the first years."

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On the first morning after the holidays were over, Harry could not have felt more nervous if he were facing the N.E.W.T.S. again. He toppled out of bed with a shout of surprise when his bedroom rug suddenly shouted "get up, Lazybones!" Rubbing his injured back, he stumbled into his sitting room, lit a fire, and called for Draco. To his surprise, the young man was already awake and dressed, and currently smoothing his boyish white blond hair. Harry flattened--or tried to--his own messy black locks and asked, "Did you charm my rug to wake me up?"

"Good morning to you too," said the unflappable Auror, smoothing one final strand. "Judging by your state, I don't think you would have risen otherwise. Breakfast has already started, Harry."

"Why aren't you down there then?" he asked, confused. "Nice robes, by the way."

"Thanks. We're not on duty after all," replied Draco. "Do you really think I want all that attention in the morning, on the first day of spring term? I'd like to get to my first class unhexed, thank you."

"But the students wouldn't really hex you in front of Dumbledore, would they?" Harry prompted, but was silenced by Draco's glare. "Er...so you're not having breakfast?"

"'Course I am," Draco replied, demonstrating by chewing on a piece of toast before swallowing. "Just conjured up a bit of breakfast from the kitchens."

"Good idea," mumbled Harry, doing the same. A tall glass of pumpkin juice and a stack of toast appeared on the settee, and he slumped into a chair to devour it. "M'hanks, 'raco."

"Don't mention it. I don't have a class until later," Draco explained. "All the same, it'll be good to be prepared. Remember what I told you about Snape, right? I'll see you at lunch." The flames diminished as Harry swallowed the last piece of toast, wondering how he was going to be able to keep it down. His first class of the day was double practical with Gryffindors and Slytherins, and although he'd heard of the lessened House rivalry, he still wondered if he was going to have to deal with any explosions from sabotaged potions.

With a sigh, he readied himself in his private bath, yawning all the while. He flung on a set of bottle-green robes, and hurried out of his room only to be met with an already-impatient Severus Snape, standing before his door. "Sorry, am I late?" He nervously tried to flatten his hair, but Snape only shook his head and led the way to the Potions classroom.

"Refrain from asking such imbecilic questions, Potter," Snape said in his silky voice. "I do not need you to confirm that you are late for your own class, and mine, as usual. Do you remember what you're to say?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to say it," Harry replied obstinately, not one for Snape's brand of drama. "I'm just gonna introduce myself and see how they react."

"I am quite sure they know enough of your fame without you having to broadcast it, Potter," Snape asked without skipping a beat, pausing right outside the room. They could hear the bustle of student conversations inside, and Harry reminded himself that Snape was right on this note. "This is a clever bunch, even if stunted and interrupted in their growth by all the shocks of war. They are accustomed to my rigours, and do not need someone like you to mollify their every complaint with some element of mindless Gryffindor courage. No one is asking you to be a hero today, Potter. Just a professor." He put his hand on the doorknob, then noted Harry's pale complexion. "Don't be nervous. It is merely the future you are facing." With that he swept into the classroom, and Harry followed close behind.

There was a calming of conversations when they noted that Harry Potter, in uncharacteristically non-Auror robes, was standing beside their Potions Master. A hand went up, but before any question could be posed, Snape's oily words slid into the atmosphere. "The Headmaster did not inform you at breakfast, so I will tell you now. You have a new second Potions teacher, Professor Potter. He will be assisting me at first, but due to my schedule he may be instructing some of your classes later on. Do you have any words for the class, Professor?"

Harry could not have been more amazed by Snape's tone, for while it was still as disdaining as ever, it was a dramatic shift from what he'd heard before in the corridor. Snape was treating him, before the class, as an equal, as much as he disliked his presence. With a slight nervous cough that had Snape rolling his eyes nevertheless, Harry stepped forward a little. How was he to begin this? What did he have to say to the class, really? To his own surprise, the words came rolling off his tongue as if he had already thought of them.

"I don't ever expect to know even a fraction about Potions as Professor Snape does, but I'll try to help you as much as I can," he began. "Er...I'm sure we'll have a good spring term together, and maybe we can be friends by the time you all leave for the holidays." Thank goodness there had been no applause of any sort. They all just looked dazedly on at him, and when Harry turned around, he noticed a slight smile on Snape's lips. What was so amusing? Was it because he was more than a decade older than those before him, and yet he still stounded like he should be in their year? Had he really mussed it so badly? Harry sat down at his desk opposite Snape's, and coughed once, nervously again. That hadn't been too bad, had it? And Snape was treating him tolerably well, even. Some of the students looked like they had questions, and even raised their hands. Before Harry could call on them, however, the Potions Master spoke, clearly more occupied with business at hand. Harry would just have to get to know the students later. Besides, a few of them were already gazing appraisingly at him.

"Now that we have that over with," Snape said, regaining his stolid expression. "Let's turn to today's lesson. Forgetfulness Potions. If you have been reading, as I'm sure you have not, you would know the precise qualities of a Forgetfulness Potion."

"That's a bit unfair, Professor Snape. Under your scintillating guidance, how could the students not be motivated to read?" asked Harry from his seat. Finally, his opportunity had come to get revenge for all those times he'd been berated and taunted in Potions! Now was a time to save his students from Snape's unfair abuses! He raised his eyebrows in a way that reminded himself of Draco, but soon regretted it, because Snape looked ready to poison him. Time to break out the Auror flask...

A nasty smile crossed Snape's face. "Professor Potter, why don't you enlighten us, then, as I taught you this very potion your first year? That is, if it didn't leak out of your mind as soon as you'd finished your N.E.W.T.S." It made Harry's head spin. Here was Snape being insulting again, and some of the students even snickered. Why did Snape feel the need, after all these years, to still pick on him? Then again, Harry had just upstaged his insulting manner.

"Erm...well, what it is is..." As he stalled, he realised the students were not segregated by House, but rather sitting mixed in the classroom. The war had forced cooperation, yes, amongst all factions, but Harry had never imagined it would strike Hogwarts. He had never thought the students would feel the equally instinctive need to bind together, stronger than ever, in the spirit of fear and survival while war waged outside the castle battlements. "Hmm." So houses, formerly bitter enemies, were now capable of forming close friendships. It was a far cry from the days when Gryffindors sat to one side and Slytherin to the other, and the incongruous sight so distracted him that Snape had to ask again, quietly and dangerously. "Professor?"

"I've forgotten," muttered Harry, eliciting a laugh from the class. "You're not going to take points off from Gryffindor, are you?" He almost thought he would as a tense moment came and passed with Snape's hard look.

"Your students are here to learn, Professor, not listen to your jokes. This is no longer a contest for your popularity," replied Snape, almost sounding as if he regretted the passage of such times. "Moving on...Mr Anderson, how many porcupine quills are needed in a Forgetfulness Potion?" Harry sat at his desk and watched as it sunk in. He had just given Harry the smallest chance to prove himself worthy of teaching a simple first-year potion, without forcing Snape's own pride and position to make any concessions. And Harry, too preoccupied with vengeance, had entirely missed it. With the slightest of sighs, he turned to the attendance scroll and tried to remember the names of every student.

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Directly after Harry's first class was Draco's, and he sat at his desk like an unruffled duck on calm water. Beneath the surface, his mind and heart were paddling furiously as he awaited his newest students. He looked down the scroll, noting a few recognised names and hoping he would get to know the others just as quickly. Would he be Petrified as soon as his pupils entered? Almost overcome with a panic attack, he stifled his anxiety once the first student entered the room. Luckily, it was Mr Milton Chadwick who first came in, no doubt excited about his first Defence Against the Dark Arts Lesson and eager to get there early.

"Hullo," he said as he took his seat in the middle row.

"Hullo, Professor," Chadwick said with a smile, hoping this class would turn out better. His mind never dealt very well with Potions, much less Professor Snape's difficult work, and the new arrival of Professor Potter hadn't helped. It almost made their tasks worse, and slowed them down as Snape constantly asked Potter to point out a feature Potter didn't know.

"Do you know if your classmates are aware of my new position?" Draco asked curiously, folding his hands on top of his desk above the scroll.

"Well they all know you were really a spy and a top Auror," the Gryffindor said. "And we know we've got a new professor because we had to get our texts over the holidays. But I don't think anyone's bothered to tell the others that you're actually _teaching_ here."

"This should be interesting then," muttered Draco in a way that did not invite comment. In case they thought he was insecure, he didn't want to ask any more questions about what the students thought. "How was your first class, then?"

"Horrible. Professor Potter--" Chadwick was just starting to bemoan the morning's events when a shrill scream interrupted him. Draco stood up immediately, on his guard with his wand out as part of Auror training, but it was only a first year Gryffindor girl at the door, white as a ghost as she pointed, shakingly at Draco's figure. Her friend, a Hufflepuff with brown, mousey hair, shuddered behind her shoulder, not noticing that her chattering teeth had clamped down on her friend's sandy hair.

"Unless there is a horde of Erumpets behind me, I doubt you have anything to fear in this class under my guidance, Miss...?" Draco raised an eyebrow in his usual haughty way, all too aware of why she screamed.

"Allison Mathies," Milton prompted, when the girl did not move.

"Miss Mathies, is it?" Draco let the eyebrow down, and calmly, placidly, as patiently as he could, said, "You and your friend may enter the room, Allison. I am your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

By then a small crowd had built up around the door, waiting to be let in. A few Gryffindor boys pushed to the front to see what the fuss was about, and stood in equal surprise, while others just slipped past Allison to join Milton in their seats. All were equally curious to see what their professor was going to do. Stifling a sigh, Draco swept past them in his robes of rich lapis lazuli colour, towards the still-shocked Miss Mathies. The first years were a bit shorter than Draco had recalled even himself being. Nevertheless, he crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet so that he was face-to-face with Allison Mathies.

"Miss Mathies, you have every reason to be shocked," he began patiently, wondering how he could word this without losing face. "But I promise you I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety, regardless of whether or not you believe what the papers say." No need to mention his new Order of Merlin. The girl was already looking less pale, whether because of his earnest expression or the fact that a few minutes had passed without his hexing her. "Now why don't you and your friend take your seats, and I'll begin roll call?" She nodded, and the two girls made their way to the last seats in the room, right in front of his desk.

Draco Malfoy loved the way his robes swished elegantly when he walked, giving him a dignity and stature befitting a wizarding aristocrat from a family of those who had never quite truly worked for a living. Ever. He used that poise now to reach the front, all too aware that all eyes were on him. Maybe he could get to like all this attention. He would start quiet and slow, so the students would have to pay attention to hear what he was saying. He had one of those well-commanded voices that changed to fit his need, and he loved it.

"As most of you know, I am Draco Malfoy, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. You may call me Professor Malfoy, or just Professor. I'll pretend I have gone temporarily deaf if you refer to me as 'Malfoy' in my presence. Just don't tack anything else onto the end of it; I won't provide examples because I know they shall give you rude ideas," he began, prompting a small, uneasy chuckle from some of the students. "Although we are, unusually, beginning your instruction at the start of spring term, I hope to cover, with your cooperation, all that a standard first-year course should entail. I am not out to murder you, nor to humiliate you, and I will never hex, jinx or curse you without your permission. I am _not_ a servant of the Dark Lord, a fact I think it would be foolish to question. I would hope we all become very comfortable with each other, so that you might learn all you need to know. One of the easier ways to do that would be to learn all your names, so..." He turned to his desk, picking up the scroll and surveying the room once. They all seemed a good deal calmer, even the curiously excited ones who no doubt thought themselves brave for sitting so close to a former Death Eater. Merlin, their lives, their minds, were in his hands, and he wasn't even considered by Pomfrey to be mentally stable. A wave of unfamiliarity hit him, but he swallowed it.

"Ashley, Gordon, Hufflepuff," he started. There was no turning back now. He read a few more names. "Chadwick, Milton, Gryffindor." People were sounding more confident as they answered him. This wasn't so bad. But would the other classes be the same? Would he be greeted by a scream or a hex with his fourth years an hour later? "Matthews, Angela, Gryffindor." There was no telling what would happen, really. He continued down the line. If he survived long enough, he might teach a Granger-Weasley one day. If he lived long enough. "Kumarasamy, Anil, Ravenclaw." Hanging out with Harry often got you into trouble, and trouble in the way Harry came across it usually got you into near-death situations. No telling when he'd get out of this accursed job, with Harry Potter always on the grounds. "Sinclair, Aidan, Hufflepuff." Almost done, no mishaps yet... "Ying, Lee, Gryffindor?"

"Murderer."

He choked on the sound of the word, vision reeling. In the doorway to _his_ class--he had to remind himself of that--was a Slytherin, by the looks of it, a sixth year. Blond and furious-looking, the young man appeared a little too familiar for comfort to Draco.

"Traitour."

It was another blow to his heart, but still words could not come. Was it a hallucination? The whole class watched expectantly, and his world seemed to slow, time sliding off them in viscous droplets. He swallowed empty air as he tried to steady his gaze on the student. He should be saying something. He should be telling him off, or giving him detention or taking points away for insulting a professor. He should be doing something, but for the second time in his life Draco Malfoy had nothing to say.

The boy wasn't afraid at all--yes, 'boy,' now, when Draco was only six years older, a twenty-two year old boy. When the Slytherin seemed ready to say more as he worked up his nerve, Draco took a step forwards. The boy matched it, and the entire class--no, the entire world--watched.

"Who are you?" Draco finally managed, aware his voice was dry, his eyebrows raised in that oh-so-haughty way. He was too shocked to do anything more than the politically diplomatic expression his own father had always adopted.

"Icarus Blake," replied he, without a single change in tone, and without the fear so many harboured. Draco was mildly impressed, as he had been with Milton Chadwick.

"Mr Blake, where are you supposed to be at the moment?" Yes, keep on talking. If he talked more he might get into the rhythm, and he wouldn't be so shocked or...frightened. And just why was he frightened anyway? A sixth year...pshaw. Because Blake was right?

"I've free time now, and someone told me you were the new 'Defence' teacher," replied Blake. "I thought, how wonderfully ironic that the likes of Draco Malfoy would be teaching Defence against the _Dark Arts_. Don't you think so, _Sir_?" Everything about him dripped sarcasm. Well, Draco could deal with that. He was a master at sarcasm.

"Not really. I'm a bit too preoccupied with the irony of taking away your free time for, one, disrupting my class, and two, showing disrespect towards a professor. Had I any lower standards I might just put in the small amount of effort needed to make you ashamed of your family name forever, Mr Icarus Blake, was it? Perhaps we can get to know each other better during a nice detention," he breathed, his words barely cutting the air across. "While you are working on the newly-installed Lethifold cage for your class and writing apologies to every one of your fellow classmates here," he gestured, " for disrupting their class, perhaps we can fully explore why you would choose to call me a traitour." He could have chosen to give this little speech outside of the room, but Draco wanted to fully embarass this impudent child. The more he thought about it the more it infuriated him; Blake was probably a Death Eater sympathiser. Well, he'd never expected it, from his family name. It was so familiar...but Draco hadn't had cause to think about family lines for a while now.

"No denying the title of murderer then, Professor?" smirked Blake, but Draco could tell, by the boy's trembling, that he was near the edge. "After what you did to all those poor people, all those servants of the Dark Lord. What you did to my great-aunt once-removed, your own mother..."

"What?"

Silence.

He couldn't think.

His students were moving, shuffling uncomfortably, whispering, but they were just a slowly ebbing tide of sound. He could barely see that rushing fury of robes coming towards him until it was too late. Without even blinking, he had been driven back by the force of the struggling figure. The small of his back crashed against the sharp edge of his desk, and he had the breath knocked out of him. Draco was much taller than Blake, but Blake had the advantage of surprise, and Draco wasn't supposed to hurt anyone. Punches battered against his still-sore chest and he grappled with the boy. It was a blazing riot of wrists and fists while he tried to pin his arms without hurting him--not a usual priority for an Auror dealing with vicious Death Eaters.

Pain everywhere...it was prodding at memories he could no longer access, and no longer wanted to access. But the pain inside was worse than anything this silly sixth year could deal him. Blake only prompted his guilt with the dagger of accusation. Draco twisted the blade.

He was vaguely aware that his students were gathering towards the back of the room, away from the fight, but many of them were enthusiastic to see how it was turning out. It gave him no measure of satisfaction, however, to know that not all of them were cheering for himself. He pulled out his own wand, avoiding Blake's furious grabs for it, and cast a shielding charm on the whole lot before Blake began to try and hex him. A punch caught him in the side and he lost his footing against the desk he'd been using as an anchor. The two crashed down, knocking a quill and ink bottle out of the way. It shattered onto the floor, red ink running every where, and still Blake persisted as Draco tried to defend himself without hurting the boy or killing him. The only thought that ran through his mind was that this one had Malfoy blood in him, was his own cousin, once or twice removed, who now had a vengeance to satisfy. It was enough to make his own blue blood boil.

"Immobilus!" He slid out from beneath the stiffened body, and with hardly a heed to how fast he was breathing, turned the pupil over. The face was horrid to behold, to know that someone could have so much hatred for him. The boy's features were contorted in rage, his eyes murderous even now. Draco had fought masked figures for so long he had forgotten what an attacker's face could look like. Aside from Voldemort's, of course. One never forgot that.

"Foolish boy, trying to use force against an Auror?" he muttered. "Mobilicorpus." Grabbing some dust from a pot by the fireplace, he threw a bit in and asked, "Professor Snape? May I have a word?"

"What is it?" snapped the head in the fireplace, as some of the students--no doubt Muggleborns or half-bloods--gasped at the unfamiliar sight.

"A student from your house, Icarus Blake, has just attacked me. I think discipline is up to you, so if you would collect him, that would be excellent. I understand you do not have class at the moment," Draco quietly informed him. Seconds later, Snape pulled himself out of the flames and dusted the soot off his robes. He glared down at the still-floating Icarus, and shook his head before muttering, "Finite Incantatem."

The boy plummeted to the stone floor with a hard, packing sound, but lay still, proudly gazing up at the two with undisguised hatred. He had enough dignity to pick himself up from the floor and fold his arms, but his pride had been profoundly damaged. Draco could already see the grudge solidifying in Blake's heart, and knew, somehow, that this would not be the last of altercations between them.

After a few moments of decision, Snape declared, slowly and painfully obviously, "Your behaviour is absolutely inexcusable, and no-one will disagree with me on that note. I will be writing to your parents, and you have detention with me until the end of this hour, and tonight at eight o'clock. All your free times for a month, aside from Saturdays and Sundays, will be spent assisting Professor Malfoy in his classes. I daresay that whatever he chooses for your tasks will be a far more lenient sentence than you could ever hope for from me. If I see any more disruptions to your fellow classmates and professors, I will ensure you that you not only never receive any free time or Hogsmeade visits, but that you will sorely wish Professor Malfoy was your Head of House. Is that clear?"

"Oh yes sir," Icarus Blake replied insolently, no doubt thinking that despite all of it he'd gotten off without any House points taken. He was sorely mistaken.

"I will be announcing at lunchtime exactly how many points are being taken off our House, so as to make your companionship with your fellow Slytherins so much more enjoyable," added Snape, but his dark glittering eyes were fixing Draco with a searching look. He could surmise exactly why Blake had attacked Draco, but he could not guess what the fool had said. Whatever it was, it had been damaging enough. The broken look in Draco's eyes had resurfaced...Snape had only seen it twice before, and had vowed to himself he would never see it again. He nudged Icarus roughly before fixing Draco with a steady look. Now was the time to show his godson some trust and confidence. He still had a class to teach. "Nicely managed, Professor Malfoy. I shall see you at noon."

All Draco could do was nod before Snape swept out the door. He walked to the front of the room, footsteps silent and catlike in their grace. He turned to the still-shielded and quiet class. He had a responsibility to meet, and he was not going to cry because some idiot had accused him, yet again, of murdering his own mother. Where was the Malfoy strength, the Malfoy pride and honour? No matter what happened he was still a Malfoy, not some upstart Icarus Blake. No, he was twenty-two years old, had made his own decisions, had stepped out of his father's shadow, had nevertheless survived a terrible war, and had remained, more or less, whole. He was Draco Malfoy, a top Auror, and a Professor at Hogwarts, one of the finest schools of witchcraft and wizardry in Europe...

He didn't even have to clear his throat nervously before he began again.

"One of the first subjects of discussion is the precise classification of what are now known as 'Dark Arts'..."