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Draco’s first day as Hogwarts’ new Charms professor was an unmitigated disaster. He spilled pumpkin juice on his robes during breakfast in front of the Headmistress, his new colleagues and students. Worst of all, Potter spelled it away with a casual flick of the wrist and an infuriating grin, so Draco was forced to interact with him in public and thank him. It was unbearable.
The eldest Granger-Weasley spawn sat in the front row of his first class, performing a pitch-perfect Incendio with an air of bored self-assurance. Draco could just imagine her letter home complaining about the new Charms teacher covering spells a half-witted first year should know. Weasley would love that, Draco was certain. Rose’s wand movement and confident enunciation spoke of diligent tutoring in the home. Granger’s doing, no doubt. The Rose girl was going to be insufferable, just like her mother.
Then there were the Slytherins, with Potter’s son on the last bench next to Scorpius who was desperately trying to turn himself invisible or, failing that, slink under the desk and become one with the floor because quote, “You can’t be my teacher, I might die.” Scorpius came to his dramatics honestly, Draco had to admit.
Then, Potter flounced past in his Quidditch leathers, followed by a gaggle of first years with brooms under their arms that were twice as tall as them. One of the broomsticks hit Draco right in the face with a great big whack to the resounding gasps and giggles of Potter’s flock of little ducklings. Splendid, a black eye on his first day. And Potter was there to witness the indignity, because of course he was.
Draco collected the scattered homework parchments that had gone flying out of his arms upon impact, trying to radiate an air of cool superiority while inwardly cursing every single decision that had led him to this moment. He could feel Potter’s amusement like a physical thing. Draco smoothed a hand down his hair and whirled away in a rustle of freshly starched robes. His dramatic swish still needed a little work. He was no Professor Snape. Yet.
When he sat down for dinner that evening, he wasn’t even hungry. If things progressed like today, stress starvation was going to set in soon. He could ill afford to lose any weight or his stomach would become concave.
At the end of this first hellish day, Draco dragged himself back towards his rooms: sweaty, dishevelled and wondering darkly who had allowed children into schools, little beasties that they were (except Scorpius, his boy was perfect of course). Were the hallways always this long and the portraits this rude? He didn’t look like a bedraggled hedgehog, thank you very much.
Outside his quarters, Potter leaned against the wall, a bottle of firewhiskey dangling from his fingers, the most infuriating smirk on his stupid face. This right here was the worst development of them all: Harry Potter had grown up attractive. Draco might die.
“Drink, Malfoy?” Harry asked.
“Merlin, yes,” Draco sighed, and promptly stumbled over the threshold and face-planted into his armchair.