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It starts with ‘Oh, no’. Not a drawn-out, anguished ‘Oh, nooo…’ or a loud, panicky, ‘Oh, NO!’ where the word ‘fuck’ is woven tightly into the tone, but a soft, resigned sort of utterance, the sort of sound that instantly pricks up the ears of an experienced teacher, even one who is sifting through homework assignments and is, in truth, not paying proper attention to his class. It is the sound of a student who knows they have buggered up and is trying very hard not to draw attention to the fact.
Draco looks up, eyes immediately drawn to a sandy-haired boy in the second row. He is holding his wand against his chest and shrinking back from his desk, which ought to contain one of two things: a small, green beetle, or a ceramic cup. It only takes Draco a moment to assess the situation, and it is very clear that the thing now occupying Stanley Seaton’s work space is something new entirely. In fact, it is so unexpected that the students around it have abandoned their own Transfigurations in various stages of progress in order to gape at it. By the time Draco gets out of his seat, the entire class is in chaos and the thing now attempting to leap to the floor in panic has, of course, derailed his entire lesson.
“Mr Seaton,” Draco says, affecting a weary sort of calm as he approaches the desk. “I think you may have lost control of your spell a little bit.”
Several students giggle and the boy sighs, warily watching his creation as it skitters around in front of him, knocking pencils and sheets of parchment to the floor with merry abandon.
“I was concentrating really hard, sir, I’m sorry,” he says, wrinkling his nose.
“Maybe a bit too hard, looking at that thing,” whispers one of his classmates, and Stanley Seaton shoots them a half-hearted glare.
“There may be something in that, Miss Caldwell,” Draco says. He turns to address the entire class with his most authoritative expression in place. “Successful Transfiguration requires more that just the correct incantation. The spell-caster’s intention is extremely important. Don’t look at me like that, Mr Seaton. Fetch another beetle from the jar on my desk and try again.”
The boy looks relieved, once again eyeing the scuttling thing in front of him. “What will you do with… this?”
“I will return it to its original state,” Draco says, hesitating for a moment before picking up the enormous beetle and carrying it back to his desk. “There’s really no harm done. Get back to work, please.”
“It’s so cute, though,” someone protests, and Draco rolls his eyes.
Soon, the room has returned to an orderly hush, broken only by whispered incantations and the clink of ceramic on wood as most of his students attempt to complete their assignments. Draco conjures a large box and places the beetle inside, gazing at it for a moment before sealing the lid and returning to his marking. He supposes that there is something engaging about the beetle’s appearance, its comical waving antennae and its little black eyes. Now the size of a small cat, the beetle can easily be heard trundling back and forth inside the box, and Draco doesn’t think he is imagining the odd little clicks and flaps that seem to rise above the soft sounds of the classroom.
Draco ignores them, just as he ignores the distracted murmurs from his students and their frequent glances over at the box by his feet. Children are easily stirred from their work, he knows that, and he finds that the best way to deal with disruption is to simply ignore it. He isn’t the kind of teacher who delights in flexibility and turning every occasion into an educational opportunity, nor is he the kind of teacher who rants and raves whenever a lesson fails to go to plan. If he’s honest, he isn’t sure what kind of a teacher he is at all, and if he’s really, really honest, he isn’t sure why he’s even here, attempting to be one. It’s all McGonagall’s fault, and if he can find a way to blame Potter, too, he’ll take it.
They learn just as much when everything goes wrong, you know. That’s what he says. Draco has heard him. That’s the sort of teacher he is. All bright and friendly and windswept hair and smiles for people who didn’t really ask for them. And spiky remarks for people who didn’t really ask for them, also. Draco sighs. Inside the box, the enormous beetle makes an equally enormous clunking sound, and half of his students are once again pulled away from their work.
When the students finally leave, Draco draws his wand, goes to open the box, and stops. It’s cold in the classroom, and such a large reverse Transfiguration could take some time. Lessons are over for the day and the lure of his kettle and his fireside is really rather strong. Feeling oddly cross with himself, he picks up the box and carries it back to his rooms, all the while ignoring the curious glances of the students now seeming to fill every available corridor with chatter and flapping cloaks and the tart scent of exploding sweets.
Draco’s rooms are calm, just as he left them, and he lights the fire with a slash of his wand before leaving the box on his armchair and heading to the kitchen to make tea. He returns, mug in hand, to find the box upended and the infernal beetle perching on the back of his favourite armchair, antennae waving proudly and little feet gripping at the red corduroy. He looks quite delighted with himself, and Draco just stares. In the light from the fire, his shell seems to glow, making the fine blue and white willow pattern design look rather beautiful. Perhaps there is talent in Mr Seaton after all, he thinks, stepping closer and admiring the delicate little figures of houses and bridges and ponds. This beetle would have made quite an elegant cup, but he’s not a cup; he’s a… Draco frowns. The beetle lets out a loud ‘TACK!’ and he steps back, sloshing hot tea over his white shirt.
He swears and hurries to spell the scalding liquid away from his skin, but the beetle hops up and down on the back of the chair, flapping his patterned wings and letting out a series of soft little clicks. If Draco didn’t know any better, he might think the bizarre creature was concerned for his welfare, but he does know better, and besides, the wing-flapping is growing in intensity, and the last thing he needs is a massive insect flying around his living room.
“No,” he says firmly, wagging a finger at the beetle. “Absolutely not. I am going to drink my tea and then I am going to turn you back and you are going to go into the jar with your friends. Do you understand?”
The beetle flaps harder, shifts from foot to foot and flings itself into the air with a resounding ‘Tack!’ Draco watches, horrified, as it remains airborne for a second or two, wings flapping furiously, and then plummets to the floor. Acting on pure instinct, he lunges forward and attempts to catch the beetle in his arms, but succeeds only in crashing down into the hard wooden floor just as the beetle bounces, spins around and comes to a rest on its back, all six legs waving in the air. Draco just stares for a moment, caught between relief that the sodding thing seems to be unhurt and rage at the pain now flooding out from his injured knee.
“You’re too heavy to fly,” he hisses, rubbing his knee and pulling himself upright. “You’re a big idiot, aren’t you?”
The beetle gazes at him and lets out a series of soft tacks that inexplicably tug at Draco’s chest. He almost feels as though the daft creature can understand every word he is saying, and even though he has no idea what it might be saying back, it’s nice to be heard. He sighs, pulling himself across the cold floor and righting the beetle with careful hands. Clearly relieved, it tacks joyfully and climbs into his lap. Draco stares down into the little eyes, barely daring to move, while the beetle taps over his face with curious antennae and rests several little feet on his chest. Impulsively, he cradles the ridiculous creature in his arms, startled to feel a rapid heartbeat close to his own.
“Tack?” the beetle offers, and Draco hears the question, even if he doesn’t know what it is yet.
“Well, quite,” he murmurs, releasing the beetle and allowing it to turn in circles on his lap.
What he does know is that he can’t just get out his wand and spell this thing back into an ordinary mint beetle. He can’t contain this huge, ebullient personality in a jar, nor can he turn it loose in the castle grounds to live out its life with the rest of its kind. Thanks to Stanley Seaton’s screw-up, this beetle has become something more, and the fact that it now appears to be sleeping on his lap is rather a lot for Draco to process. He doesn’t… look after things. He barely looks after himself, if he’s honest, and owning an animal has never been part of the plan. He’s never had a pet before. He’s not sure if he wants one now, but there is something about the warm weight of the ridiculous beetle on his thighs that makes him feel calm. Curious. Maybe even a little bit excited.
It takes him a long time to get to sleep that night, and he is still awake when something climbs awkwardly up his winter quilt and over his prone body, finally settling on his pillow and stroking his face with careful antennae.
There’s a beetle in my bed, he thinks, but he already knows that Stanley Seaton’s Screw-up has found his place. A strange place for a strange beetle, a tacking, flapping little secret to warm the dark winter days of a lonely man in a castle filled with people.
**~*~**
“And that’s why we celebrate Stanley’s birthday on the twenty-eighth of January,” Draco explains, patting the beetle in his lap and stretching his feet out towards the fire. “I don’t know when he actually hatched, but today is important because that’s when we found each other.”
Harry smiles. “Happy birthday, Stanley,” he says, reaching over from his cross-legged seat on the hearth rug to stroke the patterned shell. “You’re a good beetle.”
“Well, sometimes,” Draco says darkly, but he can’t help returning Harry’s smile. He’s still not sure he believes any of it, particularly that Harry himself is sitting in his living room, fussing his beetle, covering his yawns and making little noises about going to bed. With Draco. And Stanley, of course, but some things don’t change, and besides, Stanley was here first.
“I think there was talk of cake,” Harry says, looking so hopeful that Draco wants to crawl across the rug and kiss him breathless.
“Of course. You can’t have a birthday without cake,” Draco says instead, placing Stanley on the floor and retrieving a small confection from the kitchen. “It has cherries and cream and—”
“Sold,” Harry interrupts, eagerly accepting a slice. “You should give Stanley Seaton a piece, you know. If it wasn’t for him, well…”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Draco says firmly, picking a cherry from his slice of cake and biting into it. “He’s rather good at Transfiguration now. I shouldn’t be surprised, there was a lot of power in that spell.”
“Tack-tack-tack-tack-tack!” Stanley clicks, scrabbling at Draco’s legs and demanding to be shown the cake.
“You don’t want that,” Draco says, reaching into the tea cupboard and extracting an extra large serving of mint leaves. “Here you are, you ludicrous beetle. Happy birthday.”
He goes to place the mint on the floor but Harry grabs his wand, lifting the leaves from his hand with a fluttering breeze of a spell that sends them raining down around Stanley in a delicious-smelling storm. The beetle tacks with delight and spins in circles, jumping to catch the leaves as they fall and clicking with joy when they land softly on his shell. Draco watches him for a moment and then watches Harry, who is sitting back on his heels and regarding Stanley with an expression of pure happiness. His hair is sticking up in at least five different directions and there is a smudge of chocolate ganache on his top lip. Draco’s heart hurts with loving him, with loving both of them. Both are unexpected and wonderful and a little bit bizarre, each taking his staid, careful existence and exploding it into beautiful chaos. It’s delirious and inexplicable and he’s not sure he deserves any of it, but it’s his now, and he wouldn’t give it up for all the order in the world.
“Bedtime,” Harry says, and Draco stares at him, realising that his cake plate is empty and not a single mint leaf remains on the floor. Harry smiles and gets to his feet, stuffing the sleepy beetle under his arm and reaching out for Draco’s hand. “Come on. The birthday boy needs his rest.”
“Tack,” Stanley offers sleepily, little feet making a half-hearted attempt to scrabble at Harry’s jumper.
Impulsively, Draco hugs them both, breathing in the sweet scent of mint and the warm aroma of Harry’s aftershave. He still has chocolate on his face. Draco kisses him and leads them both to bed.