Author's Note: Updates on this story will probably continue to be sporadic. I feel like since each chapter has a large gap between it time wise in the story, hopefully you're not being left in much suspense. I love the idea of Draco hiding away at Hogwarts after the war, coming to terms with his involvement in it, and his evolving sense of self, so I'm still working on it. However, I also do very much want to get my longer story, Mugglefied, completed. In all cases, chapters get updated as inspiration hits. This chapter is a bit longer than is normal for this story. Next chapter should be up in a few days. I just finished writing it and just want to give it another read through.
Spring—Year Three
Draco's hours outside the classroom slowly seemed to be filing up. He'd acquiesced to the chattering first years who wanted flying lessons, but had told them that there was no guarantee that the extra lessons would get them on the house team the following year. That was up to the team captains to decide, and there was a lot more to being a good Quidditch player than being able to fly—there was sportsmanship, an understanding of the rules, and a whole lot of other crap.
One of the students had responded that he didn't really want to be on the house team, but wanted to open a flying delivery service. His classmates had laughed.
Cassidy was already worried about his NEWTs, which were still several months off, though Draco had no doubt he'd pass them without flinching.
He continued to brew and bottle up Wolfsbane potion to send more or less anonymously to Granger, though he rebuffed all her requests to have him teach her the potion. He told himself it gave him something to fill up the hours.
While Neville and Draco weren't exactly chummy, there was something…reassuring about the other man's presence. Draco tried not to dwell on it too much. He had plenty to keep him busy with his classes and head duties and all that, but if he and Neville Longbottom could have civil conversations anything was possible. They found themselves in agreement more often than not at staff meetings, and Draco found he'd grown to be able to read looks on Neville's face that he doubted Minerva caught.
One repeated topic of conversation at the staff meetings was the necessity of finding a qualified Muggle Studies professor and someone to take on the transfiguration professorship full-time. Unfortunately, none of the people who were suggested had any interest in taking on the roles.
Neville knocked on Draco's office door. "Can I come in?"
"You're already halfway in, might as well come in the rest of the way. I'm just finishing this." He stirred his wand over the steaming brew in his cauldron with a grimace. It wasn't exactly a bowl of roses.
"I got a letter from Hermione earlier. I noticed at breakfast you had one too."
"You recognized her handwriting across the table?" Draco asked, his mouth slightly ajar.
"Well, we did used to study together. And her notes were always more legible than mine. Anyway, she Owled to ask if I could help her put in a garden this summer at the lycanthrope house. She finally got conditional funding from the Ministry—if she can show that it will need 'minimal external resources'. She wants to start growing as many of the plants she needs for healing potions and Wolfsbane potions on-site. I was hoping we could go over a list of what she might need, and then I can figure out how much of it will grow well locally."
Draco suppressed the wry smile. "This is Wolfsbane potion for her. I've got the ingredients list memorized at this point. I can get you a copy."
Neville nodded. "That would be great. I'm surprised she doesn't make it herself. She was always pretty good at potions."
The blonde turned his back on his colleague, going to the shelves to find a piece of parchment with the ingredients on it for him, and keep him from seeing his face. If he could read Neville's face, there was no knowing how well he could read his. "Something like this is extremely dangerous if brewed incorrectly. She's a smart enough witch to know that. Something at this level you're better off learning from a witch or wizard instead of out of a book. Few people can brew it. My godfather taught me." He kept his voice neutral.
The taller wizard looked at the cauldron while keeping a careful distance from it. He didn't want to accidentally drop in an eyelash or anything else that might ruin it. "McGonagall had mentioned that most of the professors do some sort of summer project or research. I think I'm going to take on Hermione's garden for mine. I bet she'd be happy to have you teach her to brew Wolfsbane, and anything else that might be useful."
"If she knew I was the one making this potion, I doubt she'd even accept it from me. She'd probably assume I poisoned it on purpose. It's not like she needs large batches. I can spare the time to send her some every couple of months." His voice was dryer than autumn leaves. He didn't risk turning around and looking at his colleague until he was done speaking.
The former Gryffindor's mouth hung slightly open for a long moment, eyes just a little too wide. And then he did the unforgivable. He laughed. He laughed at Draco Malfoy.
Draco bristled, and it took all of his strength of will not to reach for his wand. He had nowhere else to go. He could not duel his coworker in his office. "What is so funny?" he asked, his voice icy.
"Do you really think she doesn't know you're brewing the potion? McGonagall's been working with her on revising the Muggle Studies curriculum. Mostly they do it by owl I think, but McGonagall mentioned once having Hermione over for tea. I'm sure she knows it's you. It's been nearly four years since the Battle." He shook his head, and did an abysmal job at trying to keep his face neutral—there was pity on it, and heartache. "If you think she's the sort of person who would hold who someone used to be as more important over what they want to do now to help people…you don't know her at all. She doesn't hold grudges. And I'm sorry you don't know her. She's pretty amazing." He started to shake his head again and stopped. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. Thank you for the ingredient list. I'll start looking and seeing which of these will grow well in this climate, and what she'll need to import. But I hope you'll teach her. I think you'd learn a lot from the experience."
Draco stood stock still as the other man left his office. Granger knew she was writing to him and she still kept writing? Still kept asking for help? He tried to imagine being in her position and asking for help from someone who'd treated them terribly for years. Who stood on the losing side of the line in war. Damn Gryffindor.
Patrolling the hallway one evening, Draco found his Muggle-born second year crying behind a tapestry of Rhohilda the Wrathful.
He noticed her long before he reached the tapestry and contemplated just walking on by since she seemed to want to be alone, but somehow, he rather suspected she needed someone to talk to. As he veered course to approach the tapestry rather than bypass it, he heard the sobbing stop, as though the student were trying to hold their breath so he wouldn't hear them and walk on by. He could tell that she had tried to be as unnoticeable as possible, but it's hard to be unnoticeable when you're crying and your shoes are sticking out passed the edge of the tapestry. He approached the tapestry slowly, pulling it aside and crouching beside her.
"Interesting pick for a place to spend Friday night, Melina. Wouldn't be my first choice."
"I'm sorry, P-Professor Malfoy. I was t-trying to calm down before going back to the c-c-common room. So the others wouldn't see." Tear marks streaked her face, and even in the dark, Draco could see that her face was red. She looked a far cry from the girl who'd been bold enough to follow her professor out into a storm while he practiced flying.
Even with a couple of years practice with homesick first years, calming crying students was not his forte. He decided to try humor. "Sitting by yourself and crying isn't the answer. Don't you know you could get attacked by a troll?"
She frowned. "You're making fun of me, just like the rest of them!"
Draco was bewildered. But at least it was a start. Someone had been teasing her. Probably a group of someones. "I'm not teasing. It happened to a witch in my year at Hogwarts. She was crying on Halloween and locked herself in the girls' toilet, so she missed the warning about a troll being on the loose, and if her harebrained friends hadn't come along, the troll would have pulverized her."
"There was a troll? Actually here at Hogwarts?"
The professor realized that maybe this story was not as reassuring as it could have been. "It was a long time ago. When I was a first year. There are no trolls at Hogwarts now."
The twelve year old seemed to accept this answer, though she had to know Professor Malfoy couldn't really be that old. He wasn't old like Headmistress McGonagall was old. "I don't have any friends to save me from a troll, even if there was one. I think I do…and then something comes up and I don't know it and they all act like I should know. How can I know if no one tells me?" she sounded seriously aggrieved.
"You're doing well in my class. And you made the house team this year," Draco said, trying to pinpoint where her problem was. He thought she'd adjusted into Slytherin very well, all things considered.
"Professor, they've all known about Hogwarts and magic and being witches for their whole lives. I only got my letter a few months before term started. I didn't know why I could do the things I could do. I half-thought I was imagining them. When it did happen in front of other people, it scared them. And then I got my letter. And I thought there'd be people like me and it'd be wonderful. But they know who Puddlemere is, and about Flooing, and Apparation, and none of them has ever watched television or been online. And they act like I should be able to Floo to visit them summer when I've never even heard of Floo powder 'til today. And if even if I had…my parents wouldn't let me set that up in the house, even if we did have a fireplace, which we don't." She took a deep, ragged breath. Her breathing was still shallow, but she wasn't crying anymore.
Draco sat stunned, patting her awkwardly on the back. Why wasn't anyone teaching the Muggle-borns about all the non-classroom aspects of the magical world? Someone ought to be doing that. How were they supposed to keep another war from brewing with another maniac at the head of it if they couldn't keep peace between twelve year olds? He'd bring this up with Minerva. Tomorrow. For the moment, he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. He found himself promising to make sure the situation got addressed; she begged him not to tell her classmates that he'd found her crying. It would only make things worse.
Having spent plenty of years taunting crying classmates himself…he knew she was right.
