Arthur checked his watch and muttered a curse, racing back down the hallway to his classroom. His class was probably just sitting around talking, even though they knew they were supposed to be covering the next chapter.

He skidded to a halt and opened the door, but to his horror, it was much worse than sitting and talking. The entire class was out of their seats, slinging curses and jinxes back and forth at each other, laughing and screeching out counter curses while they danced out of the way. He drew in a breath to attempt to restore order, when he noticed a set of fireworks robes flitting in between sets of students.

"What are you doing?" he scowled at Eames, ducking just in time to avoid an errant stunning spell.

Eames grinned. "Dueling practice!"

Arthur looked around him again and despite all the laughing and shrieking, the class did appear to be using spells they'd been studying. And some of them were quite good, he admitted. He frowned anyway. "It's not even Friday," he grumbled, to which Eames laughed out loud.

"Well, I do have to get back, but thanks for allowing me to play with your class," Eames said. "Walk me out?"

Arthur nodded, his frown tense, and Eames leaned into him as soon as they were in the hallway. Arthur hated himself the second it happened, but he stiffened as soon as Eames got close enough that Arthur could recognize the same stubble from that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and he felt like a stranger looking in on the memory. Eames noticed, but his gaze just flickered over Arthur's face before he whispered, "Is everything alright? Was that Mal?"

"Yes, it was," Arthur licked his lips. "And no, I don't think it's alright. I went to the Headmaster's Tower, and she was there, demanding to know if we'd replaced her, and if we hadn't then she was still Headmistress."

"Christ," Eames breathed, and he looked shocked, but beyond that, Arthur couldn't read how he felt about that. "Why didn't we replace her?"

Arthur winced. "Well…"

Eames raised his eyebrows. "Oh my. You have already replaced her. And when were you going to tell someone you'd hired a new Headmaster, pet?"

Arthur felt his back straighten in defiance. He glared at Eames. "I haven't hired a new Headmaster," he stage whispered, conscious of their surroundings even if the hallway was empty. "Yet. But if you feel like I've been doing such a shit job and you'd like to take over, then be my fucking guest. I have a class to teach."

He spun on his heel, but strong fingers gripped his bicep hard enough to hurt and hauled him back. Eames's face loomed in front of his, a frown on his alluring mouth.

"Arthur," Eames said, "that's not necessary. We are on the same side." Then he drew a breath and looked at Arthur with intensity. "So you should stop talking," he stressed, "unless you need help with something."

Arthur bristled. "Stop talking?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? If you think spending one night-"

Eames jerked forward and clamped a hand over Arthur's mouth, hard. Arthur saw red and he sucked a breath in through his nose, shoving against Eames, his hand going for his wand. He was going to bite his fucking hand off, the entitled asshole.

Luckily, Eames caught Arthur's wand hand and widened his eyes meaningfully. He glanced down at the bottom of the door they stood in front of, and Arthur followed his gaze. There, squirming pinkly against the stones, were no less than four Extendable Ears.

Like the air going out of a balloon, Arthur deflated. He sagged against Eames, whose hand was still over his mouth, and Eames chuckled silently. Arthur shook his head in defeat and leaned his forehead against Eames's in apology. Eames pressed a quiet kiss onto the back of his own hand, then pulled a safe distance away and straightened Arthur's robes.

"You know, I think it'll all work out. Hogwarts has been here for a long time before us, and it'll be here for a long time after," Eames said, playing his part.

Arthur nodded, then felt silly. "Right, I'm sure by the time everyone is back from break, everything will be taken care of," he said with far more confidence than he felt.

Eames laughed, comfortable and natural. "Are you going to Hogsmeade for break?"

"Er," Arthur hesitated, not sure if they were acting anymore. "Yes, I have a few things to pick up."

"For Doctor Who?" Eames grinned cheekily.

Arthur scowled. "That's not his name."

"Oh, right, I know that. I just don't think "Hooters" is a wholly appropriate name for a professor's ow-OW!" he yelped as Arthur punched him in the arm.

"You stop talking," Arthur griped, but he smiled as he said it and Eames smiled back, still rubbing his arm and looking a little dazed. He walked backwards and gave Arthur a cheeky wave, then headed back down the hallway. When Arthur opened the classroom doors, all the students were dueling again, but now subdued. He took a look around the room, at each student carefully avoiding his eye, and decided normalcy was the best thing he could provide for these kids in a time when it was going to go pear-shaped at any moment.

"Sit down, everyone," he said, his best scowl fixed in place. "We've got a chapter to cover before break."

Eames had Quidditch practice that night and a part of Arthur wanted to wander down to the pitch and see what they were up to, or possibly just stare at Eames from afar. But he had work to do and it would look odd if he started showing up there anyway. His level of passion for Quidditch would never and could never match Eames's, not that he wanted to try. Eames had played in school, a Beater, according to the Finneganet, he'd gotten an offer to play professionally but had turned it down. There was no mention of why or what he'd done between Hogwarts and Hogwarts.

The tapping on his bedroom window derailed his train of thought, and Arthur's heart leapt when he realized what it meant.

"Hey big guy," he said as he opened the window wide. Strix hopped through and Arthur retrieved the heavy glove from its place of honor at the front of his desk, pulling it on. With a nearly silent flutter of wings, Strix landed on his forearm and Arthur offered him an owl treat. He stroked the soft feathers while Strix swallowed it down, and Arthur grinned. "Good job, Strix. Good boy." He petted and murmured praise to the bird, who responded with good-natured hoots and beak clicks, until Arthur heard the prattle that was falling out of his own mouth. It was the same meaningless dribble he used to foist on "Mal", before it occurred to him that she might still be able to hear him. Stories about his day, funny things that had happened, details he'd learned about Eames.

It was the last one that made Arthur pinch his lips together. He had no idea what was going on with Mal, but Eames was different.

Actually, that's not true, he thought. Eames is the exact same, thank Merlin. It's ME that's different.

That thought held a ring of truth that reverberated in his bones. "Strix," he said quietly, soothing his feathers with soft touches, "he makes me different." Then Arthur frowned. "No, that's not right. He lets me be different. He lets me be who I already am. And I can be anything now, can't I?"

Strix hooted a low, contented sound, and Arthur pointed to the desk. He winced as Strix's talons grasped the wood; despite the myriad of other nicks and scratches on the surface, he'd like to buy Strix his own post. While he was looking at Strix's feet, he saw a small roll of parchment in the tube on his leg.

"Ah, I see. You were on a mission. Well, why didn't you tell me?" Arthur asked, moving to retrieve the paper.

Strix held his leg out and hooted knowingly and Arthur gave him another pellet because he was obviously brilliant and deserved it. He unfurled the tiny paper.

You are more to me than any of them has any idea; you are the atmosphere of beauty through which I see life; you are the incarnation of all lovely things...I think of you day and night. -Oscar Wilde

Arthur didn't know who Oscar Wilde was, but he recognized his own handwriting. Eames, he thought, then caught a glimpse of his reflection in the open window. He was smiling. He looked.. well, he looked happy. His fault, Arthur thought, and smiled that much wider. He was still staring at the reflection, when he saw a flash of movement behind him. Spinning, he found himself keeping the small parchment out of sight behind his back, although he wasn't entirely sure why.

The silvery floating figure of Mal stood in his bedroom. The nostalgia of seeing her in this space was almost crippling. He wanted so much for her to be here he could almost ignore the scowl she wore and the disdainful way she was looking at Strix. Almost.

"What is this?" she asked without preamble, staring at Strix who stared right back.

Arthur moved closer to him. "This is my new owl, Strix. Do you like him?"

"It seems unnecessary," she said, gliding through Arthur's desk and examining what lay on the surface. Strix ruffled his feathers indignantly and flew to the top of the dresser to preen and ignore the ghost. Arthur clutched the furl of paper behind his back. "I came to ask why you haven't started performance reviews yet," Mal said accusingly.

"I was waiting for you to come back, obviously," Arthur deadpanned. It was a joke that would have made the old Mal throw her head back and laugh her contagious champagne bubble laughter. This Mal frowned at him.

"You couldn't have known that was going to happen," she said. "I am taking over again and your review will be the day after break. Please bring a list of your accomplishments, such as they are," she added with a sneer, "to my office for my perusal."

Her heavy accent was familiar, her cheekbones still high and proud, but if Arthur had needed confirmation, this was it. Mal was a very different person. Reviews in the past had been conducted in a 30 minute in-class observation, once a year, and Mal had let them choose the day and lesson. He had always avoided Fridays in order to be more accurate; Fridays were easy and the kids liked them. But she'd only ever assured him that he was doing just fine and asked him to provide a list of his goals and concerns and how she could help with both.

"Death doesn't suit you, I don't think," Arthur murmured. And then he took down his Occlumency shields and "shouted" at her, "What happened to the Mal I knew? Please stay, sit, talk, be my friend again. I need you."

Mal's face was impassive. "I don't have time for this," she clipped, and floated through his ceiling.

Arthur stared at the spot above him where she'd disappeared and had no idea if his experiment worked or not. He brought out the slip of paper and stared at it. He felt a sudden, violent need to preserve the smile he'd had earlier, the one that was his, outside of Mal, the one that he'd smiled without thinking about and for no reason other than he felt happy. Arthur dug through a drawer in the massive desk and unearthed a large frame. He sandwiched the slip of paper between the glass and set it gently on his bedside table, behind the precisely framed picture of Mal and him. She'd made him laugh in that picture, and he was glad to have it, because he felt that whatever was to come, he thought Mal might be done making him laugh.

He had work to do. He had lesson plans, the tutoring schedule for Ophelia to try to stuff into his already packed days, Dom's work, Mal's work, and figuring out what the hell to tell Nash when he showed up. But instead of thinking of any of that, Arthur found himself grabbing his copy of the Finneganet, curling up in his bed, and reading Oscar Wilde until he fell asleep.