Harry stared at his own reflection in the grimy mirror. The man that stared back at him felt like a stranger. Although it had only been one year since The Battle at Hogwarts, the deep scars and lines written into his face made it look like it had been twenty.
Rebuilding the castle had not been easy. The remains of dark magic still lingered in the castle's walls, making repairing them by magic extremely difficult, if not, then impossible. Particular chunks of heavy cinder block or stone statue had to lifted and repaired by backbreaking manual labor. Most of the wizards and witches who had stayed to help rebuild the castle heavily complained or outright refused to do "muggle labor," which meant Harry was lifting stone by himself. Although most people thought otherwise, Harry greatly enjoyed the backbreaking work. In fact, he craved it. He craved a distraction; a distraction from the war, a distraction from the countless deaths and injuries he had caused, a distraction from the Firewhiskey he would have been inevitably drinking, if his efforts hadn't been derailed by the distraction.
But now, a year later, the castle had been rebuilt, and Harry was looking for another distraction. Perhaps that is the reason that he accepted the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching post at Hogwarts when Headmaster McGonagall had offered it to him. Or perhaps he accepted it because he realized that he had nowhere to go after the war. No place to call home. Perhaps he didn't want to step into the press and publicity. He imagined The Daily Prophet titles: "The-Boy-Who-Lived Lives Again!" "How Does Defeating The World's Most Powerful Dark Wizard Feel?" "Who is Harry Potter's Latest Post-War Love Interest?" (Written by Rita Skeeter, of course.)
All of those reasons led to where Harry was now: Standing in front of a grimy mirror, in a dark bathroom in his room at Hogwarts, about to attend the First Day of Term Feast in the Great Hall as a teacher, not a student.
With one final glance at the mirror, Harry slipped on his black wizard robes, and walked out of his room.
The Great Hall was already filled with students when Harry walked in. Although some students stopped their conversations to point and whisper at him, most students paid no mind to their new teacher. The first years had not entered the Hall yet, so most of the people sitting down at their house tables were accustomed to Harry's appearance.
Most of the teachers from the former year had stayed to teach at Hogwarts as well. At the teacher's table all the chairs were filled with a body except for the two on the end. One was meant for Harry, of course, but the chair that was supposed to belong to Professor Slughorn, the potions teacher, remained empty as well. Harry took the chair next to the one on the end. While the other teachers took this time to babble, Harry looked puzzled, trying to deduce whom the new potions teacher could be.
By the time the first years had waddled into The Great Hall, the potions chair had still not been filled. The first years were now lined up; they were about to be sorted. Just as Professor Flitwick started to call the first name off the roll of many, the doors to The Great Hall Burst open.
The man who walked in tried to keep his head down. As hard as he tried, the light thriving from the hundreds of candles threw his face into relief. The man's face was almost as deeply carved as Harry's. The bags that lay heavy under his eyes were so deep that they looked like they had been drawn on with permanent ink. He work all black wizards' robes that had been buttoned up to his throat, presumably to cover up more bruises and wounds. The crisp blackness of his clothing gave his pale skin an eerie glow, as if all the life and color had been sucked out of it. His platinum blond hair looked white under the light of the Hall.
Even the first years stared as the man walked curtly down the side of the Hall up to the empty chair next to Harry. When the man looked up to give a curt nod to McGonagall, Harry's face flushed with anger. Sitting next to him in the potions chair was Draco Malfoy.
As tradition states, Flitwick had to finish the sorting before introducing new teachers. During this time, Harry had to use all of his willpower not to outright glare at Malfoy, or as it is now, Professor Malfoy. Harry's neck and face were flushed red with anger. How could the man, no, the coward who killed Albus Dumbledore be sitting next to him at the teachers' table at Hogwarts? How could the coward sitting next to him who bared the Dark Mark be allowed to teach? How could he be expected to work with the coward who made his life miserable during his school years?
Harry glared at Malfoy from the corners of his eyes. Harry was almost sure that Malfoy was reading his mind, that he knew that Harry wanted to hex him. However, if he knew of any of Harry's death threats, he showed no sign. Malfoy sat with his mouth pinched into a line so tight that he would give McGonagall a run for her money. His hands were clasped tightly on his lap, and his hard and cold glance remained firmly stuck to his dinner plate.
Once all of the first years had been sorted, McGonagall gave her word and the once empty trays in front of them magically filled themselves with food.
Although the din in The Great Hall was insurmountable, Malfoy and Harry sat in complete silence; they refused to acknowledge one another. Harry only started to converse with his peers when Professor Sinastra asked for his expert opinion of this year's Quidditch teams.
When the talking in The Great Hall started to lull, Headmaster McGonagall raised her hand and the noise of The Great Hall began to fade. As strict as she was, she still had to wait a couple of seconds before there was impenetrable silence. If she was Dumbledore, the Hall would have fell quiet the moment her hand was raised.
"Welcome students, to the start of another fine year at Hogwarts!" A round of applause interrupted her before she could continue. "A quick reminder to returning students, and oncoming students alike; The Forbidden Forest is indeed forbidden to all students. Mr. Filch," Harry could have sworn he heard a hint of amusement in her voice. "has reminded me to inform you that all Weasley and Zonko's products are banned from the school's corridors. For a full list of every banned item, please visit Mr. Filch's office." McGonagall took a deep breath before she continued. "Now, as many of you may well know, The Battle of Hogwarts proceeded to destroy many aspects of the castle." Although it seemed impossible, Malfoy's head sunk lower onto his shoulders. Harry could have sworn that he saw him slide down in his seat. "It is because of this, that I must warn you. If you are to come across any item or object that looks like Dark Magic could have touched it, you are to inform a teacher at once. Under no circumstances should you attempt to touch or use it. If you or your friend seems to be acting abnormally, you are to contact a teacher at once." McGonagall's expression seemed to soften a little. "This castle has old magic living in it's very walls. It is meant to protect and nurture it's students. However, even the oldest and strongest of magic can fault if harmed by Dark Magic. We have repaired the castle to the best of our abilities, so please do take care and try not to redamage it." The silence was withheld. No one seemed to be moving. McGonagall started to speak once more. "On that note, I would like to introduce your two newest teachers. Professor Potter," she was interrupted by an instant burst of applause. Harry could not suppress the small smile that creeped it's way onto his face. "Who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Malfoy, who will be teaching Potions." The applause that Malfoy received was significantly quieter than the one Harry received, but it was an applause nevertheless. "Now, will the prefects of each house please lead their first years to your own common room. Of to bed everyone! Goodnight!" The sound of the benches scraping against the floor was deafening. Before Harry had even started to stand up, Malfoy had already risen and exited The Great Hall.
Long after the feast had ended, Harry found himself back where he originally started: standing in front of the dirty mirror in his room. His anger at seeing Malfoy has long since been replaced by tiredness. He reached to run the cold water tap and splashed his face. When he looked back up into the mirror his face was drenched in water. The griminess of the mirror could not dull the emerald green of his eyes. He realized that he, like Malfoy was pale as well. Harry looked as though he hadn't seen the sun in several months. His jet-black hair stood out against his pasty skin. What am I doing here? He thought to himself. The Battle of Hogwarts had left scars on Harry that couldn't be seen by the visible eye. How could such a damaged soul expect to motivate his students to strive for excellence?
Too tired to answer his own question, Harry walked out of the bathroom and into his bed. Malfoy would have to be left to deal with on a different hour. Harry drifted of into what he was sure to be a greatly interrupted sleep.