Anatomy of Ghosts / Drarry

Draco had wrestled with the dilemma gnawing at his mind for so long that he only managed to give his answer to Dumbledore’s offer a mere day before the school term was set to open. Deep down, part of him hoped the Headmaster had already found another professor for the subject, while another part was terrified by that very same notion.

Dumbledore had told him this was a position perfectly suited for him. For some reason, Draco believed the offer stemmed from the fact that he hadn’t taken a single step outside Malfoy Manor since his family had fled the country.

When Hermione hadn’t heard from him at all—save for a few minor instances of magical activity, accessible to her in her capacity as Minister for Magic—she had gone to Malfoy Manor out of concern, only to find the once-magnificent structure transformed into little more than a ruin. As this was the second time she had set foot in the house, she was able to compare its former state with its current one.

While it took the young woman over an hour to clean the house even with magic, Draco had spent the first ten minutes insisting it was unnecessary, stating he wouldn’t acquire a house-elf or lift his wand to clean it again. However, because Hermione was more stubborn than he was, ten minutes later he had simply shrugged, lit his fireplace the Muggle way, and continued turning the pages of his book while eating an apple in his armchair.

Of course, following these long hours of cleaning, it didn’t seem possible for Hermione to leave without delivering a lecture.

The young witch easily summoned a chair opposite him with her wand, sat down, and for a while observed his unkempt hair, the beard he hadn’t bothered to trim, and the sharp lines of his bones, made prominent by emaciation. The moment Draco began to feel genuinely uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he tossed the apple core into the fireplace, closed his book, and placed it into Hermione’s outstretched hand.

Afterwards, Draco was finally granted the honor of hearing her interminable lectures. Hermione began by telling him what a great service he had done for them during the war, stating that his decision to switch sides at the last minute had meant saving Professor Dumbledore’s life. She continued by adding that he was the one who had saved Snape’s life as well, which was true; for no one else—except Draco—had sought the cure for his wounds through Chinese Alchemy. Even Snape had tried to reach him after recovering, but Draco had always remained unreachable. Because he had concealed the Manor with powerful magic, no one who wasn’t a Secret-Keeper could find him. That was why it had taken Hermione eight years to access this information and locate Draco.

In truth, Draco’s skill at hiding was not the sole reason for this length of time. The ancient wards protecting the Manor fed on the owner’s state of mind; as Draco’s will to live dwindled, breaches had begun to appear in the house’s shields. Although Hermione had noticed this weakening on Ministry sensors months prior, she had only just managed to muster the courage to knock on his door. The fear of whether she would find an unrepentant war criminal or a broken man had kept her away all this time.

His decision to switch sides at the last moment and share Voldemort’s plans had ultimately saved countless lives.

Draco didn’t want to hear any of this; he simply wanted Hermione out of his house so he could return to his routine indolence. Stepping outside meant seeing that everyone else had managed to move on with their lives. Ron had children and a good career, Neville was Professor Sprout’s assistant, and Fred and George were opening branches in different countries. The list was endless… Harry and Ginny too—

Hermione cut Draco’s mental list short by revealing that Harry and Ginny had separated. Not everyone’s life was progressing quite so much like a fairy tale.

At this point, Draco offered tea to his friend, who seemed to have no intention of leaving, and prepared it without magic, accompanied by Hermione’s anxious gazes. In reality, there was no cause for concern; he was simply killing time by performing such tasks without magic, making the day pass faster.

After Hermione left via the fireplace, the Manor wrapped itself once again in that familiar, dusty silence. Yet Draco could not silence the noise in his mind. The traces the young witch left behind were as concrete as the dregs remaining in her teacup. As days turned into identical nights, Draco tried to convince himself that this visit had been a one-time exception, and that the ghosts of the past would leave him be once more. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was mistaken.

When Draco received the teaching offer from Dumbledore shortly after this conversation—delivered in person at Malfoy Manor—he was absolutely certain that the person who had spoken to the old man was Hermione.

When Dumbledore entered, he looked around as if he wanted to see with his own eyes what he had heard from her. Draco realized his peace was about to be shattered, but Dumbledore’s first words, spoken in a rather cheerful tone, were, “Long hair, my dear Mr. Malfoy, does not suit you quite as well as it does me.”

Then, without waiting for an invitation, he settled into Draco’s armchair by the fireplace and, while rocking slightly, ignited the hearth with a small flick of his wand.

Draco grabbed one of the chairs from the dining table, placed it in front of him, crossed his arms, and looked expectantly into his former professor’s eyes.

“I do so love to take the long way around a subject,” Dumbledore began with a chuckle. “But I can see you are not pleased by my presence here. I would love to say I shall keep it brief, present only the important details, and depart—but are not all the details life offers us important, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco offered no vocal response, merely stroking the fabric of his shirt with his fingers.

“I must not withhold telling you that, according to information acquired from a few distant friends, Narcissa and Lucius are quite well.”

Draco nodded and turned toward the burning fire. He knew that after his betrayal, his father would never reach out to him.

“Another important matter is that I am short a teacher at Hogwarts. I am a close witness to the success you demonstrated in Potions; however, thanks to you, Professor Snape continues to teach that subject. On the other hand, I am in search of a teacher to continue the Alchemy course—and you, Mr. Malfoy, are the only student of mine to have passed this subject in the N.E.W.T.s.”

A sardonic smile settled on Draco’s lips. Having barely found the strength to complete his education at Hogwarts after the war, he didn’t know what to say to the offer of returning. He slowly shook his head, though it was clear from Dumbledore’s gaze that this had been the expected response.

“Perhaps, since there is no longer a war to contend with, you should teach this class yourself, Professor. In the preface of his book, Nicholas Flamel mentioned that you are an alchemist at least as accomplished as he…”

Dumbledore smiled. “People have always surprised me with their mastery of exaggeration.” He then rose and looked down at him. “I am of the opinion that time is required to consider this matter from every angle. I shall be waiting for the letter containing your final decision as I sit alone in my office until the school term begins, Mr. Malfoy.”

Exactly two months had passed since that peculiar meeting at Malfoy Manor. Minerva McGonagall continued to argue fervently that, despite the Headmaster’s optimism, they should begin searching for a new Alchemy teacher as a contingency. She trusted Dumbledore’s intuition, yes—but when a variable like Draco Malfoy was involved, the possibility of error was always present.

Now, Dumbledore and McGonagall were watching from the high window of the Headmaster’s office as the young man entered the Hogwarts grounds, wearing a razor-sharp black suit, his hair cut and meticulously combed just like in the old days. Though his appearance was flawless, there was no trace of his former arrogance in his stride; he walked with a subtle, barely perceptible hesitation, as though considering turning back and fleeing at any moment.

McGonagall sighed deeply, trying to erase the thin line of dissatisfaction at the corner of her lips.

“You were right again. I don’t know why I bother…”

As McGonagall adjusted her hat and left the room, Dumbledore stroked the phoenix’s head, wearing that familiar, annoyingly calm smile upon his face.