'Once more, congratulations, Harry!' Professor Harley Wainstone smiled. 'You deserve it, you've worked hard to gain your new title. You've more than proven yourself over the past few years and your lecture was fascinating. Very worthy. I'm glad Facilities didn't hang around with this,' she tapped on the new shiny silver nameplate on the outside of Harry's office door which read 'Witan-Professor Harry J. Potter, Head of the Department of Defence Studies'. Smiling as if she were exceptionally pleased with herself, Harley turned on her heel and marched of down the corridor towards her own office, humming quietly.
Harry pushed open his door, stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leant against it, letting out a large sigh of relief. It didn't help that his inauguration had happened today of all days, the date still played on his mind despite it being some twenty-six years since his parents had died. He let the tension fall away, at least it was over now. He could simply collect Teddy, go home, and relax.
He whipped off the ridiculous floppy hat he'd had to wear all day and sent it like a Frisbee across the room. He may or may not have aided it with wordless, wandless magic so that it landed neatly on the cream porcelain Phrenology Head that was sitting on his bookshelf.
'Thank you so much, Witan-Professor,' the head said snarkily.
'Don't you start, Anthony!' Harry replied good humouredly as he racked his fingers through his hair, leaving it in its familiar messy state. 'I think it rather suits you.'
He shrugged off his formal academic robes and hung them on the back of his door (thank Merlin he only needed to wear them on official university days).
Anthony harrumphed and muttered, 'your propensity for wit is severely lacking, your mental faculties must be tired after your inauguration and the lecture. Or is it the date, you always become morose on the 31st, understandably, of course.'
'I don't need your analysis tonight, Anthony,' Harry answered. Then he grumbled, 'Godric only knows why Ron thought I needed talking Phrenology Head for my office.'
'And so you say every day.' The head muttered softly. 'You love me really, and the largeness of your Faculty of Philoprogenitiveness reveals you would miss me terribly were I to be absent from your life.'
'You mean your ego would be rather bruised if I were to get rid of you.'
'Don't you dare throw Freudian theories at me, Professor,' Anthony harrumphed again. 'He's severely discredited these days.'
'What? And Phrenology isn't a pseudoscience?'
'Hmph!'
Harry turned away from the head, smirking to himself, and rubbed his hands softly over the soft material of his suit, he didn't think he'd ever get used to formal wear. He loosened his tie, slipped it over his head, and lobbed it into the top drawer of his desk. He was happier in his normal wear of jeans, t-shirt, and an understated, slightly saggy, blue jacket: a 'European suit', one of his students called it. He was nonplussed by the name; it was comfortable and practical and he didn't stand out when he walked across campus to the Apparation point which was hidden at the back of the large Sports Hall behind Disillusionment Charms and Muggle Repelling Wards. Today, he felt like a spectacle, all dressed up to the nines.
He wrapped a multi-coloured Weasley-knit scarf snuggly around his neck and pulled on a black beanie hat.
'Goodnight, Anthony,' said Harry as he reached for the door handle and did a last-minute survey of his office. The stack of paperwork could definitely wait until tomorrow.
'Til morning, Professor,' the head replied.
Harry smiled as the door clicked to behind him and automatically locked. He looked up at the large glass ceiling that cast its light down through the four storeys of the central atrium of the building. It was currently dark outside and the night sky created a black canvas against which the building's lights were mirrored back into the open community area below. He loved working here at the university and, in particular, in this building. It was far away from Hogwarts in feel: all modern and glass, designed exactingly to suit the purposes of the students and so that it didn't stand out to the muggle students on campus.
The building for the Faculty of Advanced Magical Studies was one of three matching four-storey modern edifices on the edge of the campus. To the rest of the university it was simply part of the Faculty of Advanced Applied Sciences. Only the Vice Chancellor of the university, a few members of the finance department, and a squib in Facilities Management were aware of the true nature of the department which was tucked away on the edges of the muggle university in the depths of south Wales. The building itself, like the Apparation area, had a number of muggle repelling wards set up, people came and went but they were always students or staff with magical abilities.
Harry took the stairs, liking the exercise. As Head of Department, he seldom got to teach these days; the number of lectures and seminars he gave were much reduced and he rarely got to take some of the more physical sessions. These days, for fitness, he relied on occasionally swimming at the university facilities, the odd Quidditch knockabout up on the Brecon Beacons, and taking the stairs to his office on the fourth floor.
As he reached atrium, he noticed a lone student sitting at one of the tall tables. It was unusual at this time of night, especially as the student was alone, perusing through a stack of library books obviously taken from the shelves that lined the atrium walls on each floor. There was something familiar about the hunch of the man and his white-blond hair which took Harry straight back to Hogwarts. He hasn't changed, Harry thought. In all these years, he still looks the same: thin, and pointy, and good-looking. Harry stood in the shadows, watching for a moment and his heart thumping slightly harder than usual. He rolled his eyes at himself, at his old behaviour, and stepped into the lighted area.
'Draco?'
The blond man looked up and stared, slightly startled. 'Professor,' he muttered.
'Oh, for fucks sake! Can't you manage Harry, even after all these years?'
'I-I...'
This wasn't the Draco that Harry remembered from nine years previously, the arrogance had gone, the mask slipped, instead Harry was faced with a vulnerable looking man full of uncertainty.
He wandered over nonchalantly, his hands in his trouser pockets, until he reached the table. He hitched a hip slightly to perch a bum cheek onto the high polished stool opposite Draco.
'Are you okay?' Harry asked.
'Yes, just a bit taken aback. I mean, I knew you worked here, but I thought...' Draco's words faded, he looked slightly embarrassed.
'You thought you might avoid me by coming here late?' Harry questioned.
'Yes,' Draco said quietly.
'I see. What are you doing here anyway?'
'Reading,' that familiar drawl tainted Draco's voice and Harry smiled at the returned recognisable trait.
'So I see.' Next to Draco was a well-leafed, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë crammed with post-it notes. There were also two stacks of books and Harry picked up a book from the top of the nearest pile, 'Mansfield Park by Jane Austen.' He tilted his head and read, 'Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, A Sign of Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. Not from these bookshelves.'
'No, apart from Jane Eyre, those are from the main library. These ones are from here.' Draco indicated to the second pile of books.
'Empire and Representations of Native Magic in Muggle Literature by Ashton Limpton, South African Magical Practices in the Nineteenth-Century by Cass Adobo. The Caribbean and Magic...'
As he read through the list of titles, Draco was watching Harry like a wary trapped animal, he seemed unsure whether to bolt or attack.
'Sounds interesting,' Harry said evenly, 'what are you researching for?'
'A muggle doctorate in Nineteenth-Century Muggle and Magical Literature, equivalent to our professorships.'
'Sounds interesting, we should grab a coffee some time and you could tell me about it.' Harry slid off the stool. 'Unfortunately, I need to head off now to collect Teddy. I've imposed on Nanny Molly enough for today.'
'Your son?' Draco asked quietly. Harry didn't fail to notice that Draco glanced at Harry's hand to see if he wore a wedding ring.
'Yes. And no. Remus Lupin's son, my Godson, and your second cousin. I adopted him formally before Andromeda Tonks passed away.'
'Oh.'
'Night, Draco. And Owl me about that coffee.'
As Harry walked away, Draco's quiet voice called out softly after him, 'did you get my book.'
Harry stopped in his tracks but didn't turn around.
'Yes. Yes, I did, Draco.'
'Did you read it?'
Harry turned around slowly to see a very flushed Draco staring at him. 'Yes, I did.'
An awkward silence fell between them.
Harry had purposely tried not to think about the book since the moment he's seen Draco sitting at the table in the atrium of his workplace. He'd tried not to think about that day, some eighteen months after the Battle of Hogwarts, when, as the Christmas tree lights sparkled against the darkness of the gloomy winter morning, an Owl swooped into the kitchen at Andromeda's house in Walpole Street, London, and dropped a small package in front of Harry. He'd tried not to think about sitting at the breakfast table with Teddy in a highchair next to him and Andy watching him as he tore open the brown paper thinking it was an early Christmas present. He'd tried not to think about the book that fell out: it was a slim book, a novella, entitled Confessions of an Ex-Death-Eater: An Explanation and an Apology, it had Draco's name underneath the title. Harry'd tried not to think about the brief note inside that was written in unsteady cursive writing on the title page which said:
'I thought it only fair that you should have the first copy off the press, I suppose it might give you a bit of a heads up too... D.'
And Harry'd tried very hard not to think about the dedication printed on the next page which simply said:
'To Harry...'
*****