3 Chapter (2)

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“Knew you wouldn’t leave me all alone like that,” Harry murmured. “Not when everything was finally going to be alright. For you. For me.”

“Hardly,” Draco scoffed.

“It would have,” Harry said. “We could have been happy. Still can be.”

The sob that escaped Draco’s throat startled him awake. He wiped the tears from his cheek with his sleeve, cursing his subconscious for being so cruel. Of course, Harry could still be happy, if he wasn’t already. But Draco? He laughed darkly. Of course not.

“It’s nice to see you, Harry,” McGonagall smiled at him from across their shared table at the Leaky Cauldron.

“You, too, Professor,” Harry agreed, feeling slightly guilty. He had avoided her these past few years, but then she was not alone. He had avoided most everyone since finishing school. Part of him still wished he hadn’t agreed to see her for dinner, but something told him that disagreeing would be burning a bridge worth saving.

“I wanted to speak with you about something, which I suppose you could have guessed from my writing you,” McGonagall continued, making no small talk as per usual.

“Of course,” Harry agreed. Though he had been expecting this, he had been hoping against hope she wouldn’t have something to speak to him about. The phrase always sounded ominous, especially from her, seeing how many times she had reprimanded him as a child.

“Well, I am sure you know the Defense position at Hogwarts has not been filled since you finished your schooling,” McGonagall began.

Harry didn’t know. He hadn’t kept up with much, and he didn’t see what that had to do with him, but he nodded anyway.

“I was wondering, if, perhaps, you would be interested in filling the position. You would, of course, need to do a bit of studying over the course of the summer, but I would say, and most of the staff agrees, that you have enough field training to make up for a lack of classical study for the most part,” she finished, looking at him expectantly.

“Me? Teach?” Harry asked, his eyes widening. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Your age concerned some, but it was the general consensus that you are respected enough by the students to be able to hold a position above them. And if I recall correctly,” McGonagall added, with a hint of a smile, “you do have a bit of experiencing teaching Defense already.”

Harry nodded, sheepishly

“I think you will find teaching will be a good distraction. Much better than…well, ive me, but much better than the sitting around and moping that you are doing now,” McGonagall said with a knowing look. “You need to try your best to move on, Potter. Not just for you, but for everyone you lost.”

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There seemed to be an emphasis on the word everyone, but Harry decided it was imagined. Still, the word held weight.

He wasn’t honoring the life they had allowed him by losing theirs. He was wallowing. He knew he was wallowing. And the worst part of it all was that some part of his mind felt that he could justify it. He knew Sirius wouldn’t want him to wallow. His parents wouldn’t want him to, nor would Fred, nor would Tonks or Lupin. And shouldn’t that be enough? But then again, what would Draco Malfoy want? Would he like to see Harry sulking because of him? Perhaps he would smirk and say “Ah, Potter, I never knew you cared,” in that infuriating but so well practiced patronizing tone of his. And then, when Harry thought of moving on, he could only imagine the wounded look on Malfoy’s face, the one that he wanted you to think was pretend but was really more close to the truth than he cared to admit. And in a flat voice, which was always worseing from Malfoy (his acidity wasforting), he would say “So soon, Potter? Careful, or people will think you’re happy about it.”

Harry was trying. He was trying to convince himself that Malfoy wouldn’t care at all. And it wasn’t so soon. It had nearly been four years. Everyone, even Malfoy’s own mother, seemed to be faring better than Harry.

“If you could tell me,” McGonagall interrupted his thought, “before the end of this term, I would appreciate it. Just so I can find a replacement should you refuse, or so you could start your studies should you ept. I believe there are still some lesson plans left in the classroom from previous teachers should you need reference, although I would beg you to refrain from using too many of Lockhart’s. I know Lupin left a few, as well, which I think I would encourage.”

Harry nodded, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

“I was also urged by Hagrid to remind you that he would be happy to see you again. Even offered to bake you a birthday cake this year should you be on the grounds,” McGonagall added, and with this there was a gleam of mischief in her eye.

It was half past one in the morning. Harry had fallen into a terrible sleep pattern, spending most of his time alone, which he found was easier to do when no one else was awake to bother him. Tonight, he felt like he would rather like to sleep, but it had be an impossibility. Hogwarts had always been more of a home to him than any other place he had lived, even now, having lived at Grimmauld Place for several years. But the age old phrase “you can never go home again” rang through his head at the prospect of returning. And in truth, he couldn’t. He would return this time as a teacher, not a student. Most of the people that made it home were gone, as well. Dumbledore would not be there, outside of his portrait. Neither would any of the Weasleys, or Hermione, or—his train of thought sputtered to a stop. Or Draco. He was mildly alarmed that Malfoy was included in the list of people that made the castle a home, as for most of his life he had regarded him with the same distaste as he had Dudley, but even more so, he was startled by the word itself. He had thought “or Draco.” Full stop. Period. He knew formality didn’t matter in his own mind, but he had never been Draco to Harry. Harry had never once even thought to refer to him by his first name. He wasn’t entirely sure he had ever even said it aloud on its own.

“Draco,” he whispered, barely a noise, yet all too loud in his quiet house. The word felt odd in his mouth. His chest tightened inexplicably and he fought the urge to cry. He shook his head, trying to clear the feeling.

He came to a decision. He could not be sat at home, alone, whispering a dead boy’s name in his kitchen. Surely, a few months more of this and he would bepletely mad.

He jotted down a note and whistled for Bo?tes , who he heard ruffle his feathers in the other room and then came flying through the doorway.

He tied the note to Bo?tes’s leg, then stopped to scratch the top of his owl’s head.

“Take this to, McGonagall, would you? Maybe take a look in the owlery while you’re there. You’ll be spending quite a lot of time there I imagine,” he murmured, slipping Bo?tes a treat.

Maybe it was true. Maybe he could never go home, but hell, if he wasn’t going to try.