19 Years (HP - Drarry)

Chapter 11: Potter, Potter, Potter

Friday, September 15, 2017

Draco sat at his desk, smiling with forced cheerfulness at the horde of students as they packed away their things, stopping to put their homework on top of the neat pile at the edge of his desk before filing out of the room. Draco stared fixedly past them, refusing to meet any of their eyes. When the chatter died away down the hall, he chanced a quick glance around the room, in case a student was waiting to ambush him. The coast was clear – they were gone. Fucking finally!

Draco flicked his wand at the door, slamming it, then dropped his head to the desk, resting it atop his folded hands. Why? Out of all the candidates for the DADA position – and surely there had been others; the post couldn't still be cursed, or he'd have heard of it – why did it have to be Potter?

Stupid, bumbling, idiot Potter, with his shy smiles and offer of friendship. With his sly glances and hints that he might want something more. Couldn't he see that Draco didn't want more?

Well, okay, fine, so he did want more. Wanted it more than anything, especially since he had an inkling what that more might consist of. Since he'd had it before – back before he'd done the noble thing and thrown it away. But Potter didn't know, and Draco knew he could never tell him. He didn't think he could stand it, if Potter rejected him, rejected the truth of the past that Draco had erased.

And now it was back. But, Merlin help him, Draco didn't think he could stand it – to lose Potter again. Because surely that's what would happen. Surely Potter couldn't mean that he wanted more with Draco forever. He'd just gotten out of a loveless marriage to the woman who, inexplicably, had caught his own ex-wife's eye. He'd never even had a man, except for Draco. And he doesn't even know he had me.

No. This was just too much. He'd just have to convince Neville to let him leave. Not that he hadn't already tried – but the Gryffindor menace had grown into himself, since they'd left school. He seemed to have inherited many of Dumbledore's ways, along with his job. He even had the bloody beard. Draco snorted. He actually found himself liking this Neville, with the long beard, and the twinkle in his eye. Even if the resemblance to Dumbledore did make Draco's stomach give uneasy little flops. Neville had listened intently to his stuttered request for resignation, stroked that infuriating beard, and then flatly denied it. Oh, he had reasons – the difficulty of finding a qualified Potions professor at the salary Hogwarts could pay, the disruption to the students' learning if their professor was swapped out partway through the year. Utter rot, but the idiot had maneuvered Draco neatly out the door with a promise to "think about it."

And then there was Potter himself. Potter, who'd seemed so... happy when they'd had breakfast in Teddy's rooms. Potter, who'd followed Draco around like a lovesick puppy afterward, and who had, after nearly a week of stubborn denial, finally taken Draco's firm rejections of friendship to heart. He'd finally stopped asking. Of course, Draco couldn't help but notice the way Potter's open face had immediately closed off again the last time he'd shot the fool down. The way his smiles had dimmed, become forced, and then dropped off his face altogether. The way his eyes had shuttered, and the brilliant glowing green dimmed to a sort of muddy hazel.

And, yes, perhaps Draco had been a bit harsh with him, but Potter just hadn't taken no for an answer! He winced, remembering the look on Potter's face, as Draco's cruel words cut through his non-existent shields like shards of glass. No, Draco wasn't going to get another shot at that friendship. He'd well and truly burned his bridges. He just hoped Potter didn't start hexing him in the halls.

Potter hadn't tried anything, so far. He'd just... stared. His wide, guileless eyes sad, and lonely, and a little lost. Draco had nearly caved then, but he'd shored up his walls with all the tricks his father had taught him, and the moment had passed.

Of course, just because he wasn't trying to talk to Draco anymore, didn't mean he wasn't bothering him. Draco had fallen back into his old habits of watching Potter, and he couldn't seem to stop. He'd watched, not a little alarmed, as Potter had grown just a bit thinner, just a bit paler each day. It wasn't his fault, he reassured himself. There was more to it, certainly.

People were talking about Potter again. Draco remembered it, from their school days – back then he'd started most of the rumors himself, taken a gleeful pleasure in knocking the "Golden Boy" down a few pegs. He hadn't had anything to do with it, this time. He'd been shocked, the first time he heard them whispering. Calling Potter churlish, and worse. He'd finally cornered a student, one of the 6th year Slytherins unlikely to go to Potter, and asked. It seemed that they'd been asking him about the war, about their old rivalry – the same things they'd been asking Draco. But Potter, ever the fool, had answered. He'd told them the truth. Of course, anyone with any sense could see that these kids didn't want the truth. They wanted reassurance, the same lies they'd grown up with, maybe a few new epic stories. Not the truth. Never that.

And the combination of Draco's snubbing and the children's dismissal of Potter's painful truths, and then the way the other adults were talking about him... it had finally worn him down. He was giving up. Draco could see it, with aching clarity. He knew what that felt like. Had lived it. But on Potter it seemed wrong.

Draco sighed. He was brooding about Potter again. Yes, the git clearly had problems, but he couldn't dwell on them. He had his own problems to deal with. Not least of which were caused by Potter. Because if the staff were talking about Potter, Boy Wonder, it wouldn't be long before they were talking about Draco too. And he wouldn't be nearly as lucky. If everybody knew what Potter would say (or thought they did) because he was the hero of their stories, well, they knew what Draco would say because he was the villain.

The students had startled him, that first day, with all their questions about Potter. Was Potter as bad at Potions as they'd heard? Did Potter really not know how to make that potion? Did Potter really bungle that potion so badly the entire room had to be evacuated?

Never mind the last was almost certainly Neville.

He hadn't said that, of course. It wouldn't have gone over well. These kids adored Neville – Headmaster Longbottom, to them.

And, Draco's personal favorite, did Potter really cheat at Potions his fifth year?

Draco sighed. Potter, Potter, Potter. It seemed there was nothing else his traitorous brain could think about. He hadn't seen the git in almost a week, since he had suddenly stopped showing up for dinner. Not that he minded. Exactly. But... It felt wrong, eating in the Great Hall, without Potter to stare at. He hadn't realized it until Potter stopped showing up, how deeply ingrained that habit was. He'd spent nearly every meal at Hogwarts since their first year staring at Potter. The Great Hall felt somehow empty without Potter's presence to fill it. Only, Draco was the only one who seemed to notice.

Draco groaned, thumping his head on the desk a few times. It didn't really help. He had to do something about this ridiculous obsession. He pulled the stack of papers across the desk resolutely. If Potter could skip dinner, well, so could he. It was always uncomfortable, anyway. He hadn't made any friends among the staff, and he hadn't realized until Potter stopped showing up that he was the only one who ever made any attempt to talk to him.

He dipped his quill into the bright green ink he used for grading – red was far too Gryffindor for his taste – and slashed angry corrections through several of the words in the essay at the top of the stack. Feeling marginally better, especially when he realized it was one of his most troublesome Gryffindor students' papers, he continued correcting. And if he was overly harsh, and his comments were more biting than usual, well, it would probably do the idiot good. Honestly. The fool seemed to have copied random sentences from his textbook without bothering to actually read them.

With one final scathing remark, Draco slapped a failing grade at the top of the paper and reached for the next one in the stack. Grading was more comfortable here than in his rooms, and he would reward himself for finishing early by stopping by the kitchens and arranging with the house elves to have his meals sent to his classroom from now on. If anyone complained, he could point out that Potter was doing the same thing. Not that he really thought anyone would mind him not showing up to meals. It would probably make the conversation at the Head table less stilted, anyway.

Draco nodded to himself, decided, and failed another paper, though this one got fewer scathing remarks. He really hoped somebody had actually attempted to do well on this assignment. Shaking his head, he reached for another paper, dipped his quill, and began to write.