Chapter 3: Potions with a Dead Man
If Draco were a plane he would be on autopilot. He behaves as he would during every other day at Hogwarts. Robotically he gets dressed into his school robes and follows his fellow Slytherins to the Great Hall. There he sees dead person after dead person. He powerwalks to the Slytherin table and sits down firmly, fixing his gaze on the food spread out before him.
Someone touches Draco's shoulder and he jerks away in fear. "Hey Draco, are you okay?" Pansy Parkinson asks, worriedly. She sounds like his mother and it annoys Draco to no end. Pansy may have treated Draco as she should, with awe and fawning, but when they dated she was cloying. He mostly enjoyed her attention and being able to show off the fact he had a girlfriend.
"I'm fine," Draco clips, keeping his gaze down. He hears a huff and Pansy storms off. Good riddance. He is in no mood to put up with her prattle.
Theodore Nott chortles. "Parkinson wants you back bad," he snorts. "Careful. You might find a love potion in your pumpkin juice."
Perhaps if Draco were not feeling out of sorts he would have said 'of course she wants me back'. Instead he snarls; "Shut up. I'm tired." Nott shuts up. Thank Merlin.
Breakfast passes with Draco not tasting a single bite of the food he swallowed. Nott and Zabini looked expectantly at Draco. "Coming to Potions, Malfoy?" Nott queries cautiously. With a curt nod from Draco the three Slytherins descend to the dungeons. Milling around the corridor outside the Potions room are the handful of students presumably taking N.E.W.T. level Potions, including the 'Golden Trio' as dubbed by the Wizarding media: Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Damn.
Astonishingly, they are not huddled together as they generally were back at Hogwarts. Potter stands in the shadows, brooding. Pretty much how he spent all his fifth year. Granger is clutching books like a normal person would money. Nothing new. Weasley brightens when he sees Draco and honest to goodness sneers. "Well, look here. Malfoy. You're looking very pretty today." Draco gapes at Weasley. What on Earth is he saying? "Did your boyfriends remember to tell you?"
"What? I don't know what you're talking about Weasel but I can't be bothered with your envy today, alright?" It may be unusual for Weasley to initiate conflict but even out of practise Draco is capable of retorting under pressure. Don't mess with the master. It is Weasley's turn to gape at Draco. His face begins to stain pink. Before his face can go signature Weasley red a man sickening familiar – black, billowing cloak; sallow skin; greasy, stringy hair; hooked nose – intervenes.
"I suggest you cease loitering in the halls," Snape drawls, looking down at his students with displeasure. "If you wish to pass your N.E.W.T.s I suspect many of you will need every minute of learning you can get." Nervously, the students file into the classroom. Weasley clenches his fists and glares at Draco. "Mr Weasley, you may not understand this being thick as you are but Potions is not conducted standing in the corridor staring moronically at your classmates," Snape says coolly. "Go in."
Weasley flinches and reluctantly does as Snape ordered. Draco doesn't move. He is not sure he can. Here, standing before him, is the man that saved him from Voldemort's wrath by killing Dumbledore in his place. The man then murdered by Voldemort for the Elder Wand when it should have been Draco. Snape is dead. Yet here he is alive and teaching Potions. "That means you too, Mr Malfoy," Snape adds. As though confounded Draco shuffles into the classroom and sits next to Nott.
"At last," Snape swoops like a bat to the front of the classroom. "I was beginning to wonder if we would ever begin." A pointed look from Snape makes even this new bold Weasley pale. "Today we will again brew the Draught of Living Death. Page ten, Advanced Potion Making. If you remember correctly, though no doubt only Ms Granger would be so obsessive as to do so, it is a complex potion which, as proven the last time it was brewed by this class, is beyond all of your abilities. However, this time I expect an at least passable solution, lest you prove yourselves utterly incompetent," Snape jeers. "For homework you shall write an essay on the properties and uses of the Draught of Living Death. At least one roll of parchment long, due next lesson. And to those of you who do not succeed to brew it at 'Acceptable' will have to write at least two rolls. Are we clear?"
A few murmured "Yes sir," and "Yes Professor," ring through the classroom. The students immediately begin flipping through their Potions book, weighting their scales and pulling their cauldrons closer. That is except Draco Malfoy, who is currently being hit over the head with irony. He was just told to brew the Draught of Living Death for a man that should be dead but is living. No. This is not happening, Draco decides. He has finally had the mental collapse he always predicted he would have and is now hallucinating. Draco scrunches his eyes shut to centre himself in reality and takes a couple of shaky breaths. The memories of the night of Dumbledore's murder play out on his eyelids. Seeing Dumbledore calm as Draco fell apart, still pointing his wand at the old man. The Death Eaters goading him to do it, kill Dumbledore. Snape pushing past Draco, raising his wand to point it at Dumbledore and say two words that would send him falling from the Astronomy Tower.
"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Ke-"
"Mr Malfoy, do you need to be sent to Madam Pomfrey?" Snape interrupts. Draco just about screams 'Why did you do it?! How are you alive?!' but he does not. Instead he looks like he saw a ghost which he practically did so it is a very appropriate response.
After a few seconds of looking terrified Draco manages to stutter out; "N-no. I'm tired," he explains weakly.
"I see," Snape says, unconvinced. "Well then Mr Malfoy, I recommend you get plenty of sleep tonight. I would not want you falling behind." Though it is Snape saying it, it lacks his typical sarcastic bite. He sounds genuine.
Little does Snape know, Draco has already passed both his sixth year – miraculously, considering what occurred during it – and his N.E.W.T.s. The Draught of Living Death, though no cake walk, is manageable with practise. And Draco has practise. This turns out to be beneficial. The day before, if Draco had been forced to brew the Draught of Living Death he would have found it boring. Now, however, he is in too much shock to care. The class rolls together into a blur and in the end Draco has a more than passable potion. Snape nods in approval upon seeing the concoction but there is still that worry present. Draco does not need concern. Goddamn dead men.
He stumbles after Nott to Charms; Zabini thought himself above the subject so did not take it at N.E.W.T. level. Charms is significantly less traumatising for Draco. Exhibit A: Flitwick is not supposed to be dead. Exhibit B: Weasley, Potter and the lot do not engage. It helps his vision has gone a little fuzzy around the edges. Much easier to not focus on anything.
Still in shock, Draco goes to his third class of his impossible day back at Hogwarts – Defence Against the Dark Arts. Fellow Slytherins converge, chatting excitedly about the upcoming subject. Many Slytherins favour DADA because it is the closest one can get to the Dark Arts at this blasted school. Though not all Slytherins are inclined towards them and the other Houses are not exempt from an appreciation of them, Slytherins are generally more willing to use them. As per the traits of the House, they are resourceful and will use any tools at their disposal. The Dark Arts are a very useful tool. Having parents that are dark wizards and witches certainly give those Slytherins a curiosity for them.
Perhaps if Draco had been listening to the conversations of those he once thought of as friends as they wandered the halls of Hogwarts he would have been more prepared. He may have heard how reverently they spoke of the DADA teacher and wondered who it could be if not Snape or another fool they suffered through in previous years. He may heard the name of the mysterious professor and what he was like. Draco was too far off in his own head to hear any of it.
Entering the classroom, Draco sees a new teacher, not uncommon at Hogwarts since every year the position becomes available due to some incident or another. The professor smiles warmly at his students as they come in but Draco observes something secret behind his gaze, like it does not mean what it is assumed to. He is dressed smartly, this professor, and his eyes are keen as he surveys his classroom. Old yet handsome, maybe in his fifties, sixties or even seventies. It is hard to tell, he has an almost ageless quality to his face. Something about his face is vaguely familiar, as though Draco has met him before. Is it the look in his eyes? The way he holds himself, walks? Draco could swear he recognises him…
"Hey Professor Riddle," one student greets cheerfully just as Draco takes a seat. Riddle. No. Not possible.
"Good afternoon Mr Macmillan," Professor Riddle replies. That voice. It can't be.
"Tom Riddle," Draco whispers under his breath. "It isn't Tom Riddle?" he intends it as a statement but it comes out a question. Could it be?
"What are you talking about?" hisses Daphne Greengrass, another Slytherin pureblood. "Call him professor, not his first name. You'll get in trouble."
The muttering of the class dies down as soon as Riddle raises his hands. The class stares admiringly at him. Potter, Draco notices, gives the man rapt attention. This is so, so wrong. Potter in awe of someone who could very well be Voldemort? It is all wrong. Draco searches this strange Potter's face and for the first time sees that under that black mess of hair is no lightning bolt scar that marks him as the Boy Who Lived. Potter is not the baby that survived the Killing Curse or the Chosen One anymore. Potter is just a regular student. And Voldemort is Tom Riddle again. It- it's impossible. He is alive. He cannot be alive. Potter destroyed him, every part of his wretched soul. But Potter is seventeen again and scar-less. Voldemort is not nose-less, bald or freakish. Voldemort is not dead.
No.
A/N: Things have gotten a littler darker but honestly it was so much fun including some students and Snape. Oh you loveable bastard you. In my story after the Battle of Hogwarts Voldemort's original name Tom Riddle became common knowledge and most people referred to him as such out loud. That is why Draco immediately is like 'holy shit, it can't be Voldemort,' when Ernie calls him Professor Riddle. Also, I do think Draco would have been traumatised from his experiences during his final years of school. Thus he reacted with denial and terror. Hell, if I came face to face with the freaking Dark Lord I would do the same.
Review! Was Snape awesome enough? What did you think? I'd love to know.
Side note: my OC is coming up, a thirteen year old girl, but as of yet she does not have a name despite her fully developed personality. If you have any suggestions go ahead. Please. I can't call her OC the entire fic. Thanks dearies.