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The trip from Durmstrang had been hell. What possessed Fitz to take his broomstick across the Baltic he’d never know. Perhaps it was the bloody-minded Quidditch player in him - he couldn’t say no to a challenge.
He quickly dried off his navy blue robes with his wand and navigated the castle hallways with accustomed ease despite the thirteen years that had passed since he’d last set foot inside.
As he approached he could hear the buzz of excited conversation from the Great Hall.
The first feast he’d attended at Hogwarts was still one of Fitz’s fondest memories. Born to a Muggle mother (who’d been nothing short of delighted when he’d received his letter at eleven), beginning at Hogwarts freed him from being the square peg in the round hole that was his Muggle school experience.
From the moment the Sorting Hat placed him in Gryffindor House the comparisons had begun flooding in. Of course, he hadn’t survived an attack by the now-defeated Dark Lord as an infant and again and again until his seventh-year of school, but so much else seemed to fit. A gifted seeker, a brilliant mind and a natural aptitude for magic along with a special knack for getting himself into trouble, Fitz had been Hogwarts’ golden child from the moment of his arrival to the moment of his graduation complete with a full compliment of impressively record-breaking N.E.W.T.S. Two more recent gold-lettered names stood over the H. Granger of 1998 on the mahogany Board of Astoundingly Astute Academic Achievement.
He had not, of course, been alone in gaining this raft of accolades. By his side, almost from the moment he stepped onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, had been the student who, from Day One, was consistently compared to that long-past brightest witch of her age.
Brave and brilliant, Jemma Simmons had been the best friend a young wizard could ask for. Together they had astounded professors and eclipsed classmates. Together they were twice as smart and brave and resourceful. The familiarity of the stone corridors wasn’t as warm without her, Fitz thought glumly.
Though they’d sworn they could never be parted, that their friendship would last forever, Fitz’s giftedness in Quidditch had him called to Durmstrang straight after graduation to assist in training up a group of impressive young players while Jemma’s precocious contributions to the magical lore of potion making and her understanding of its uses for healing had her immediately seconded to the Ministry’s top research facility based at St Mungo’s.
As devastated as he was to be separated from Jemma, he knew it was for the best. If he didn’t leave, he’d inevitably tell her how he felt and that was bound to bring an end to everything anyway. Why couldn’t he just love her as a friend? Like the boy he was compared to was supposed to have loved the girl she was compared to? That was all she ever wanted from him. But there had been no red-headed boy to make up their trio, and consequently, no red-headed younger sister. Fitz and Jemma only had each other.
He slipped into the antechamber behind the hall and made his way through to where the teachers sat, arrayed along the lengthy table. McGonagall caught sight of him him just as she stood to address the school and, with a small smile, indicated an empty seat on the end of the table. He sank into it gratefully and murmured a quick greeting the man to his right, his old teacher, Professor Longbottom, who shook his hand warmly. Fitz didn’t even have time to wonder if the House Elves he’d befriended would remember him before the golden plate in front of him filled with his favourite hearty lamb and barley stew and a steaming pot of tea appeared at his elbow.
“Thanks, Magwitch!” he whispered into the air.
McGonagall barely had to stir from her seat before the entire school fell silent. Fitz well remembered the cool, calm authority she projected and would always be thankful for the way the Head Mistress had looked out for him and demanded the best of him during his days as a pupil. He was quite looking forward to learning how to relate to her as his boss.
He looked out over the sea of faces (many of whom were eyeing him curiously or nudging one another to enthusiastically point him out), and wondered if, out in that crowd, there might be another boy like him, another girl like Simmons. Maybe there were a pair like them in every generation at Hogwarts. Maybe he’d have the joy of teaching the next Simmons in his own Arithmancy classes. On second thoughts, he mused into his stew, maybe teaching a kid like Simmons would be the very opposite of a joy.
Professor McGonagall was giving a speech the like of which he’d heard her give on seven separate occasions and it seemed to still contain many of the same words and phrases even with thirteen opportunities for variation in between.
“And lastly,” she said, “though we met our Potions teacher earlier in the evening, allow me to introduce another new faculty member, Professor Leopold Fitz, who’ll be taking the post of Arithmancy teacher.”
An excited whisper rushed like a wave across the crowded tables at the sound of his name and those who hadn’t yet placed the familiar face gasped in recognition.
There was also an odd sort of squeak. It seemed to have come from the far end of the staff table. Fitz looked but he couldn’t see anything past the enormous bulk of Hagrid, his bushy hair and beard now considerably grizzled.
“Professor Fitz comes to us with a great deal of experience,” McGonagall continued proudly, “having been teaching Arithmancy at Durmstrang Academy whenever he was free from his responsibilities as Seeker for Scotland’s five-time world champion Quidditch team. In addition to taking those in third year and up that choose to study Arithmancy, Professor Fitz is eager to work with our Quidditch teams across all the houses and all the year groups and see how he might help to raise the standard of all of our players.”
Fitz raised a hand in acknowledgement of the roaring applause from the student body.
“Alright, students,” said McGonagall when the din had died down. “Your prefects will lead you to your dormitories.”
In the renewed racket, as benches were pushed back from tables and the students burst once more into excited conversation, Fitz took the opportunity to shovel in a few more mouthfuls of stew.
A hand appeared in front of his face, clearly expecting to be shaken. “Professor Fitz?” said a familiar voice, just audible over the ruckus. “Thought I’d come and introduce myself seeing as we’re both new to the Hogwarts staff this year. I’m the new Potions teacher, Professor Jemma Simmons.”
It felt like it took his head an eon to tilt back and take in that much-loved face grinning down at him. Her honey-coloured eyes were sparkling and it took less than a second for him to be hit with a flood of conviction that he had never gotten over her, that he never would get over her. He’d love Jemma Simmons until he died. In fact, these newly resumed close-quarters might actually kill him.
He took Jemma’s hand and she used her grip on him to yank him up out of his chair and pull him into a hug.
“Merlin’s Beard, I’ve missed you,” she breathed into his shoulder.
He let his arms wrap themselves around her in the way they’d always wanted and held her close.
“I’ve missed you too, Jemma,” he replied, eventually forcing himself to loosen his grasp of her.
She stepped back and grinned at him, her eyes roving over his face. “You look good, Fitz!” she observed. “Very good.” She squeezed his hard upper arm through his robes. “I guess that’s what a world-champion Quidditch career does to a man.”
Fitz shrugged. He couldn’t tell her that after thirteen years she was more breathtakingly beautiful than ever.
He settled for “You look well too, Simmons.”
“I’ve been here a couple of days so McGonagall just asked me to show you to your office,” she said excitedly. “Can you believe it? Back at Hogwarts together but this time as teachers!?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, Simmons,” he replied. “I cannot believe it.”
“Come have a hot chocolate with me in my office once you’re unpacked,” she urged. “You won’t believe how different the dungeons are these days!”
It was too much. He didn’t even know how he’d make it through his first week.
“I’m pretty tired actually, Simmons,” he mumbled.
She rolled her eyes indulgently. “You flew here didn’t you. I can smell the sea spray on your robes.”
“Yeah,” he nodded turning towards the door, “so I might just…”
But she was beside him, slipping her arm through his and tolerating none of his evasion.
“We’ve got thirteen years of lost time to make up for, Fitz,” she wheedled. “Besides, you always used to fall asleep on me in the Common Room. It’ll feel just like old times.”
That was precisely what Fitz was afraid of.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” she warned.
Fitz sighed. He optimistically predicted he had about three days before he snapped and tried to kiss her.
Ah well, at least then they’d have to have a conversation.