Somehow, Ginny Weasley (she'd returned to her maiden name after the divorce, an amicable, quiet separation) had managed not to think about exactly how it would feel to return to Hogwarts after all these years. She'd left so much behind here. Left a lot, gave a lot, lost even more. And still she's grinning, bright and genuine, as she walks through the gates, into the halls, dodges student and professors alike, grateful for her youthful appearance, for the way she knows these halls as well as her home. No one questions a woman who looks like she knows where she's going.
She'd been greeted on the way in, of course, but she hadn't yet informed her children she was on campus, though they knew to expect her. There was someone else she was interested in finding first. Maybe it was a whim, or nostalgia, professional courtesy, or all of the above. Couldn't possibly be she just wanted to catch up with an old friend.
Albus had kept her updated, the dear, so she knew exactly where to find Draco Malfoy. Professor Malfoy. Somehow, it wasn't surprising he'd returned to stay. Even less surprising he'd been the first to hold the position for years. More than one curse had seemed to break within these walls.
She knocks on the closed and locked (yes, she tried the door without knocking first) door and waits. And knocks again.
Inside, Professor Malfoy is marking essays, and muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath, and his office hours are not right now, so no one should be knocking at his door, let alone twice. The other professors know he prefers firecalls to personal visits when he's trying to get through his stacks of essays, who is that?
"If that's someone wanting me to look over an essay, it might be better to change your mind," he calls, letting the forbidding irritation leak into his voice. He stands abruptly, tossing his quill in the direction of the inkwell and not even watching as it sails over to land in it (every time, a gift from Scorpius from that joke shop Albus' uncles look after), and he whips his teaching robes back on in a billow of black before wrenching the door open. "Oh." That isn't a student. "Al's Mum." ...no. A pained expression crosses his face as he hears the nonsense he's just said. "Ginny. What are you doing here?"
When the door wrenches open, Ginny's hand is actually raised to knock for a third time, and he takes her so by surprise she freezes. And then crosses her arms as her eyes widen, and widen. And then she's laughing, high and bright and so genuinely amused and she can't actually stop. She tries, but she just ends up snorting, and then covering her mouth with her hand, eyes still wide and shining as she stares at him.
When she stops, too long later, still grinning widely, she's finally able to speak properly. His expression is almost enough to send her giggling again, it's a near thing, but she swallows it down.
"It's funny how you lose your own name when you become a parent, isn't it, Draco?" she asks instead of answering his question, eyes his hair, resists the urge to smooth it a bit. She'll blame the mothering on that urge, her arms tightly crossed once again.
"I'm the interim flight instructor, quidditch director, the like. I would have thought Scorpius told you, I've certainly heard of nothing else since I agreed."
Draco's expression of pained exasperation holds out for every moment Ginny spends giggling and snorting at him. He can wait this out. He's had worse. Although accidentally calling Ginny Al's Mum to her face when they hadn't really come face to face in several years hadn't been on his list of things to do, ever.
"Scorpius speaks highly of you. And often of you," he counters. "It's what he calls you." Blame the children. He certainly does. "I've heard of nothing else either, congratulations, but why are you here?" he adds, a bit confused. "I haven't had anything to do with Quidditch since I started here, apart from watching the matches."
Well, ten points from Gryffindor for just barging right ahead without actually thinking it through. Or would that be to Gryffindor, for being true to her nature? She blamed the children, too.
"Perhaps I'll withhold what Al calls you and call us even, then?" she decides with more of her usual smirk. "All complimentary, of course," she continues. And Scorpius was a darling. It gave her hope, in ways she couldn't quite put to words.
But she's run out of time to counter his perfectly legitimate question. And seems at maybe a bit of a loss to explain, because she really didn't think it through much farther than he was one of the first people she wanted to see when she arrived. A familiar face. Someone who understood her history, maybe. Even had a place in it.
"Well, to hear Scorpius tell it, you're practically the reserve seeker for the next team without," she informs him, and it's not exactly a lie. "But no, that's not why I'm here," and for the first time she looks apologetic. And she smiles warmly through it all the same. "Just thought I'd give you fair warning, I suppose."
"It isn't 'Scorp's Dad'?" he asks a bit dryly, but curious too. Isn't it? He'd just assumed, his son and his son's best friend share so many mannerisms. But whatever Albus calls him when he talks about him to his parents, Draco can't help the affectionate little smile at Scorpius' confidence in his flying abilities.
It lasts as long as it takes her to get to fair warning, when it immediately transforms into a wary stare. "Fair warning for?" he asks suspiciously, and then it occurs to him that he's keeping her standing in the corridor and he steps back to let her inside the Dark Arts and Defense classroom. It's the same one they've always used, lined now with narrow, locked bookshelves that hold sinister-looking volumes, but the tall windows let in a surprising amount of light and it isn't as forbidding in here as it had been when they'd been students.
That's the point, after all. He's working hard to turn the Dark Arts into a subject students sleep through as readily as History of Magic.
She'd heard they'd rearranged the wording a little, made it DAaD instead of DADA. She couldn't be held responsible for giggling a little to herself in time to come when she realizes that made him the professor of DAD.
The only answer he gets to his question is the return of her bright grin as she steps into the classroom, though she only makes it about halfway in when she spins slowly, taking it all in.
One of her eyebrows is raised when she catches his eyes again, before she goes to find what might have been her usual seat, and sets herself down on the desktop itself. Finally she looks at him again, like she's reassessing something. Comes to a decision.
He lets the door close behind her, and it doesn't boom shut but just gently clicks, not at all forbidding. "Er. Thank you," he says, a little surprised, and considers advising her to get off the desk, but he quickly realizes that 1) she probably wouldn't, just because he's the one telling her, and 2) it will be much more amusing to let her find out for herself what happens when anyone perches like that on one of his desks.
He sweeps to his own desk and leans against it, arms folded expectantly, and it only takes a few more moments for the desk to rumble ominously, and rattle, and finally start to rise slowly into the air. If she gets high enough, it will tip her right off. He will, of course, step in before that happens.
It's his smirk that warns her, even before the desk had begun to animate. She'd known that sitting on the desktops would unnerve him, had done it on purpose for that very reason. Really, she'd be impressed at his foresight and the brilliant wicked streak it betrayed, if it weren't for the fact that she was suddenly rising in the air, and riding a desk was nothing like a broom.
And her belt loop is stuck on a worn out corner of the desk, and suddenly she's screeching at him. She could have slid off the desk without any effort, landed on her feet like a cat, and they could have had a good laugh, but no, her trousers are caught and she is rapidly rising, and she is absolutely certain she knows what's coming.
"MALFOY!" is all she manages to start, but she sure packs a wallop of spite in it. At the very last moment, an uncomfortable but not unmanageable distance from the classroom floor, she manages to shimmy loose and slide off the desk. Her landing is graceless and punctuated by no small amount of cursing.
And she scrambles quickly away, just in case the desk's descent comes quicker without its prey.
She's on her hands and knees in the center aisle of the classroom, fire in her eyes as she stands slowly, brushes her hair out of her face and stares him down. She really doesn't have a leg to stand on and she knows it, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.
She doesn't remember deciding to stalk right up into his space, stopping just inches from him, entirely too close, fists clenched at her sides, embarrassment a bright crimson flush across every inch of exposed skin. To her credit, she at least manages to remain silent long enough to compose a few thoughts. But by then she's already in his face, and backing down would be even more embarrassing.
"When did you develop a sense of humour?" she manages, almost successfully making it sound like an insult instead of grudgingly impressed. Almost.
Oh. Oh. It's so beautiful. It's so worth every frustrating infuriating moment, months of them, it had taken him to perfect that charm. It's even better than he could have imagined. Ginny screeches at him like a banshee, clearly incensed, and she's stuck, and he'd lied, he absolutely will not step in, she's got herself into this situation and she can get herself out.
She does, hitting the floor so hard it sends a few things in jars rocking on top of his bookshelves, and although his eyes flare in mild alarm when she steams up to him like a locomotive, he doesn't back down either, going so far as to lean back on his desk, so when she stops a little closer than she might have intended, the height difference isn't nearly so pronounced. Hm.
"Almost the very moment I realized they were serious about allowing me to shape young minds through the wonder of teaching," he says, with, incredibly, a straight face, even managing to affect a bit of that posh pureblood boredom to top it off. "The desks aren't for sitting, Weasley."
She snorts, inches from his face, and unflexes her hands, stretching her fingers a moment before she crosses her arms. And remains decidedly in his space, staring him down. Assessing.
"You were going to let it drop me on my arse, weren't you."
It's almost more of a statement than a question, and she's already sure she knows the answer. She's not exactly looking for a reason to punch him, but he's different and she has to prod at it. While they might never have been close enough to be friends, something had shifted over the years just enough to give her entirely too many questions.
But for now she's deeply annoyed, embarrassed, and altogether unsure why the bloody hell she'd gone to find him in the first place. Oh, that's right. Apparently there was a bit of a wager going around. And for Old Time's Sake she'd come to warn him.
"I might not have," he points out, wondering if he should be this amused that she isn't backing down. He can vividly remember another time he'd had an angry Gryffindor in his face like this, he'd been punched straight in the nose, and hit his head, and possibly acquired a concussion. He has little doubt Ginny would enjoy doing the same.
"They go high enough that I have plenty of time to cast an Arresto Momentum if I need to." And there's a smile, as innocent as he can manage, which isn't really very much, considering. "Wouldn't want someone getting hurt."
She's much more likely to try a Bat Bogey Hex on him and see if it's just as delightful as it used to be. Better that than to bruise her hand on his face. Maybe another time.
Her answering smile is about as innocent as his and she cocks her head to the side a moment, amused in spite of herself.
"You have hidden depths, Malfoy," she decides, and then without consulting any kind of time-telling device whatsoever, in fact her eyes never leaving his, "Would you look at the time, I reckon I should find my children after all. Be seeing you, Professor." And with barely a wink she turns in a swish and sashays away with purpose anew.
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It's a couple of uneventful weeks later, and Ginny's Flying Practice classes with the first years are going about as well as expected. Which is to say, hilariously, if not well at all. This particular class seems much more keen on beating each other with the brooms than actually mounting them, and she's feeling less and less guilty about letting them. It's entertaining if not particularly helpful, and she's just managed to call them back to order by promising them a demonstration, when as luck would have it, an even better idea comes striding by in a hurry.
"Professor Malfoy," she calls out, just barely able to hold back the smirk that threatens to curve her lips into more than her perfected, professional smile. "A moment of your time?" she turns back to her class, conspiratorially, and just loud enough she knows he can hear her, "Professor Malfoy played Seeker for Slytherin house, back in the day," she tells them all with a wink, and though they might be ickle firsties, they all turn nearly as one to gaze upon him with new eyes. Wicked, demanding eyes, a couple gasps, and Ginny's grin is nothing but innocent joy, and not entirely a lie.
"Think you can help me show them how it's done? This lot seems to need another take on it."
As the days go by and revenge does not descend upon him, Draco slowly uncoils from a state of constant readiness and starts to grow used to the idea of a Weasley teaching in proximity to him. It's made easier by how delighted Scorpius is to have his best friend's mother teaching at Hogwarts as well as his dad. More than once, he's looked up at his son's bursting into his office to babble a story about 'Professor Al's Mum' and then disappearing just as quickly, and going back to grading with an affectionate smile on his face.
Never in a million years had he believed his son's best friend would be Albus Potter. He isn't even certain stranger things have happened. But he's glad it has happened.
As it turns out, he'd let his guard down far too easily, and he can hear the ring of triumph in Ginny's voice as she flags him down. He casts about a little desperately for a suitable excuse, but for once, he's come up entirely empty: his afternoon is open, he hasn't got a stack of essays to review, and there's no reason for him not to swing by her class to assist. "Of course I'd be delighted, Professor Weasley," he says, looking forbiddingly over the class, some of which snaps to attention. "Back in the day, is it?" he murmurs for her to hear as he folds his arms and waits.
Her laugh is quiet, personal, and she elbows him gently in the ribs, the move concealed from her class by their robes.
"You owe me, old man," she murmurs right back, eyeing her class but doing nothing to discourage their growing curiosity at the conversation happening before them, seen but unheard.
Her own engraved broom is in her hand already, though it hovers nearby of its own accord whether she asks it to or not. She's not about to offer it to him, as it may or may not possess any number of enchantments to prevent tampering. The habit has served her well through the years.
Instead, she reaches out with a silent, wandless command, and a nearby "vintage" Firebolt (one of her visual Incentives for her class) flies into her outstretched hand. She passes it over to Draco with very little ceremony.
"I promise it's perfectly safe," she informs him, honestly. Though she'd be only mildly offended if he didn't believe her. "You'll forgive me if I don't release a proper Snitch, we really don't need history repeating itself," she continues with a fond grin, shaking her head before turning back to her class.
"Professor Malfoy, out of the kindness of his heart, has agreed to show you lot a few of the basics," she addresses them, and even to her surprise, they're mostly silent and actually paying attention. She really should have abused her coworkers sooner. And then she turns to Draco with a small, sweeping gesture, eyebrows raised as if to say take it away.
"Brooms down until I tell you otherwise," she adds before he can get started, though, mounting her own broom and hovering there, ready to assist, if necessary. Or if the mood strikes her.
"I'm one year older than you, and we graduated together," he mutters testily, but accepts the broom she shoves at him, giving it a quick once-over despite her assurances and finding it perfectly acceptable, to his mild surprise. Perhaps she really does want his help in instructing her students. What a strange thought.
He rolls his eyes as he takes a few steps away and mounts his broom. "I'd forfeit over spending the night lying on the Quidditch pitch again," he says dismissively, and kicks off to hover about fifteen feet up, pressing the broom handle between his knees and locking his ankles to free up both his hands. It's fairly basic, and not very maneuverable, but it looks impressive.
"Right. First off, if you mess about, your broom will mess you about, so don't do it." He directs a stare at a pair of students, naturally Gryffindors, who are messing about trying to press the twigs of their broomsticks into each other's faces. It takes a moment, but they stop. Good enough. "Second, each broom is a little different, but they'll still respond quite quickly to whatever movements you're making. Err on the side of caution." To emphasize the point, he shifts his weight just enough to spin the broom in midair without needing his hands. "Lean left to go left, right to go right, obviously. Forward to accelerate, lean back to stop. Everything else is just a matter of reflexes."
He looks down at Ginny, arms folded. "If you're not releasing an actual Snitch, what am I doing up here?" he asks with a little smirk.
She grins warmly in contrast to his dismissal, glad they're on the same page once again, even if they clearly have differing emotions regarding nostalgia.
She's nodding along with his improvised lesson, much the same as she's been telling the little bastards all along, and his direct question seems to pull her out a reverie. Her grin is a little too wicked for her audience, but she manages to reign it in enough to say, "Providing valuable, informative entertainment," before summoning a sealed chest of Quidditch paraphernalia from one of the sheds nearby.
There's no ceremony to opening it, but everything remains in its place, for now.
"Alright, you lot remember about all of these, yeah? Bludgers, Quaffle, and Snitch?" she scans the faces, majority of them nodding eagerly, a few more vocal about their understanding. "Think you're up for a match?" Even more vocal affirmations, though a couple look a bit worried.
"Professor Malfoy and I will captain, and play Seeker," she tells them. "And so there's no nonsense, we're mixing the houses, so don't get any ideas," she tells them, enjoying a little too much the air of scandal this announcement has declared. And not for any desire to prevent house rivalry, mostly it would just keep them a little more likely to pay attention and hopefully play just a little less dirty. It's a lost cause, but maybe it'll be entertaining in the end.
"I can't promise the Snitch will care about our time limit, so everyone mount up and follow me to the pitch." The Quidditch pitch where a lower, slightly more safety-conscious set of goals has been erected, just for practice such as this. The full-size exist if the danger proves to be a non-issue.
"You six," she points out four Slytherins and two Gryffindors, "Are with me. You lot," she motions to six more, four Gryffindors and two Slytherins. "With Professor Malfoy. And you," she motions to the remaining few. "Stand at the ready to swap in."
She rubs her hands together, balancing on her broom much as Draco is, clearly vibrating with the excitement of it all.
"Any questions?" she'll at least let them try to sort out what positions they'd like to play of the remaining, and then the game shall begin. With maybe only one Bludger in play to start.
He has a few amazing entrances that he uses in his work, but in this particular instance, he just knocks on the door and pokes his head into the office to see if his intended target is here for the afternoon. He'd been careful to ask about the man's office hours, but he was well aware that when children were involved, things could come up.
The first year, Draco had been almost impossible to find outside of class itself, or immediately after. It had been too strange, speaking to the students one at a time. Slowly, though, he'd begun to get to know a few of them, and whether they knew it or not, they'd drawn him out of his shell. Now in his seventh year teaching, when the first-years he'd first taught were frantic over their NEWTs, he's in his office for long hours.
"Yes, what is it?" he calls, finishing up his comment on an essay before glancing up, and immediately going tense. "May I help you?" he asks, and it's noticeably more formal and cooler than the somewhat welcoming tone he'd had when he'd assumed it was a student.
He holds up a hand in a silent request for time and maybe a little patience since he's not trying to be a bother. He's here on business but he knows how important a little time alone can be to a professional at work.
"Auror Hawkins," he says with a bow of his head, "and I was wondering if you had a few minutes of your time that you wouldn't mind giving me?"
In the past, it might have made him freeze up even more, but it's been several years now since the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had had any questions for him. His entire demeanor changes from politely distant to sharply concerned.
"Yes, of course, come in. Has something happened to a student?" he asks, rising from his desk and waving Auror Hawkins into the office, drawing his wand to flick a wordless spell at the kettle. "Nothing relating to my mother, I trust."
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She'd been greeted on the way in, of course, but she hadn't yet informed her children she was on campus, though they knew to expect her. There was someone else she was interested in finding first. Maybe it was a whim, or nostalgia, professional courtesy, or all of the above. Couldn't possibly be she just wanted to catch up with an old friend.
Albus had kept her updated, the dear, so she knew exactly where to find Draco Malfoy. Professor Malfoy. Somehow, it wasn't surprising he'd returned to stay. Even less surprising he'd been the first to hold the position for years. More than one curse had seemed to break within these walls.
She knocks on the closed and locked (yes, she tried the door without knocking first) door and waits. And knocks again.
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"If that's someone wanting me to look over an essay, it might be better to change your mind," he calls, letting the forbidding irritation leak into his voice. He stands abruptly, tossing his quill in the direction of the inkwell and not even watching as it sails over to land in it (every time, a gift from Scorpius from that joke shop Albus' uncles look after), and he whips his teaching robes back on in a billow of black before wrenching the door open. "Oh." That isn't a student. "Al's Mum." ...no. A pained expression crosses his face as he hears the nonsense he's just said. "Ginny. What are you doing here?"
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When she stops, too long later, still grinning widely, she's finally able to speak properly. His expression is almost enough to send her giggling again, it's a near thing, but she swallows it down.
"It's funny how you lose your own name when you become a parent, isn't it, Draco?" she asks instead of answering his question, eyes his hair, resists the urge to smooth it a bit. She'll blame the mothering on that urge, her arms tightly crossed once again.
"I'm the interim flight instructor, quidditch director, the like. I would have thought Scorpius told you, I've certainly heard of nothing else since I agreed."
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"Scorpius speaks highly of you. And often of you," he counters. "It's what he calls you." Blame the children. He certainly does. "I've heard of nothing else either, congratulations, but why are you here?" he adds, a bit confused. "I haven't had anything to do with Quidditch since I started here, apart from watching the matches."
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"Perhaps I'll withhold what Al calls you and call us even, then?" she decides with more of her usual smirk. "All complimentary, of course," she continues. And Scorpius was a darling. It gave her hope, in ways she couldn't quite put to words.
But she's run out of time to counter his perfectly legitimate question. And seems at maybe a bit of a loss to explain, because she really didn't think it through much farther than he was one of the first people she wanted to see when she arrived. A familiar face. Someone who understood her history, maybe. Even had a place in it.
"Well, to hear Scorpius tell it, you're practically the reserve seeker for the next team without," she informs him, and it's not exactly a lie. "But no, that's not why I'm here," and for the first time she looks apologetic. And she smiles warmly through it all the same. "Just thought I'd give you fair warning, I suppose."
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It lasts as long as it takes her to get to fair warning, when it immediately transforms into a wary stare. "Fair warning for?" he asks suspiciously, and then it occurs to him that he's keeping her standing in the corridor and he steps back to let her inside the Dark Arts and Defense classroom. It's the same one they've always used, lined now with narrow, locked bookshelves that hold sinister-looking volumes, but the tall windows let in a surprising amount of light and it isn't as forbidding in here as it had been when they'd been students.
That's the point, after all. He's working hard to turn the Dark Arts into a subject students sleep through as readily as History of Magic.
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The only answer he gets to his question is the return of her bright grin as she steps into the classroom, though she only makes it about halfway in when she spins slowly, taking it all in.
One of her eyebrows is raised when she catches his eyes again, before she goes to find what might have been her usual seat, and sets herself down on the desktop itself. Finally she looks at him again, like she's reassessing something. Comes to a decision.
"This suits you."
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He sweeps to his own desk and leans against it, arms folded expectantly, and it only takes a few more moments for the desk to rumble ominously, and rattle, and finally start to rise slowly into the air. If she gets high enough, it will tip her right off. He will, of course, step in before that happens.
Really, he will.
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And her belt loop is stuck on a worn out corner of the desk, and suddenly she's screeching at him. She could have slid off the desk without any effort, landed on her feet like a cat, and they could have had a good laugh, but no, her trousers are caught and she is rapidly rising, and she is absolutely certain she knows what's coming.
"MALFOY!" is all she manages to start, but she sure packs a wallop of spite in it. At the very last moment, an uncomfortable but not unmanageable distance from the classroom floor, she manages to shimmy loose and slide off the desk. Her landing is graceless and punctuated by no small amount of cursing.
And she scrambles quickly away, just in case the desk's descent comes quicker without its prey.
She's on her hands and knees in the center aisle of the classroom, fire in her eyes as she stands slowly, brushes her hair out of her face and stares him down. She really doesn't have a leg to stand on and she knows it, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.
She doesn't remember deciding to stalk right up into his space, stopping just inches from him, entirely too close, fists clenched at her sides, embarrassment a bright crimson flush across every inch of exposed skin. To her credit, she at least manages to remain silent long enough to compose a few thoughts. But by then she's already in his face, and backing down would be even more embarrassing.
"When did you develop a sense of humour?" she manages, almost successfully making it sound like an insult instead of grudgingly impressed. Almost.
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She does, hitting the floor so hard it sends a few things in jars rocking on top of his bookshelves, and although his eyes flare in mild alarm when she steams up to him like a locomotive, he doesn't back down either, going so far as to lean back on his desk, so when she stops a little closer than she might have intended, the height difference isn't nearly so pronounced. Hm.
"Almost the very moment I realized they were serious about allowing me to shape young minds through the wonder of teaching," he says, with, incredibly, a straight face, even managing to affect a bit of that posh pureblood boredom to top it off. "The desks aren't for sitting, Weasley."
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"You were going to let it drop me on my arse, weren't you."
It's almost more of a statement than a question, and she's already sure she knows the answer. She's not exactly looking for a reason to punch him, but he's different and she has to prod at it. While they might never have been close enough to be friends, something had shifted over the years just enough to give her entirely too many questions.
But for now she's deeply annoyed, embarrassed, and altogether unsure why the bloody hell she'd gone to find him in the first place. Oh, that's right. Apparently there was a bit of a wager going around. And for Old Time's Sake she'd come to warn him.
Fat chance of that, now.
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"They go high enough that I have plenty of time to cast an Arresto Momentum if I need to." And there's a smile, as innocent as he can manage, which isn't really very much, considering. "Wouldn't want someone getting hurt."
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Her answering smile is about as innocent as his and she cocks her head to the side a moment, amused in spite of herself.
"You have hidden depths, Malfoy," she decides, and then without consulting any kind of time-telling device whatsoever, in fact her eyes never leaving his, "Would you look at the time, I reckon I should find my children after all. Be seeing you, Professor." And with barely a wink she turns in a swish and sashays away with purpose anew.
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It's a couple of uneventful weeks later, and Ginny's Flying Practice classes with the first years are going about as well as expected. Which is to say, hilariously, if not well at all. This particular class seems much more keen on beating each other with the brooms than actually mounting them, and she's feeling less and less guilty about letting them. It's entertaining if not particularly helpful, and she's just managed to call them back to order by promising them a demonstration, when as luck would have it, an even better idea comes striding by in a hurry.
"Professor Malfoy," she calls out, just barely able to hold back the smirk that threatens to curve her lips into more than her perfected, professional smile. "A moment of your time?" she turns back to her class, conspiratorially, and just loud enough she knows he can hear her, "Professor Malfoy played Seeker for Slytherin house, back in the day," she tells them all with a wink, and though they might be ickle firsties, they all turn nearly as one to gaze upon him with new eyes. Wicked, demanding eyes, a couple gasps, and Ginny's grin is nothing but innocent joy, and not entirely a lie.
"Think you can help me show them how it's done? This lot seems to need another take on it."
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Never in a million years had he believed his son's best friend would be Albus Potter. He isn't even certain stranger things have happened. But he's glad it has happened.
As it turns out, he'd let his guard down far too easily, and he can hear the ring of triumph in Ginny's voice as she flags him down. He casts about a little desperately for a suitable excuse, but for once, he's come up entirely empty: his afternoon is open, he hasn't got a stack of essays to review, and there's no reason for him not to swing by her class to assist. "Of course I'd be delighted, Professor Weasley," he says, looking forbiddingly over the class, some of which snaps to attention. "Back in the day, is it?" he murmurs for her to hear as he folds his arms and waits.
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"You owe me, old man," she murmurs right back, eyeing her class but doing nothing to discourage their growing curiosity at the conversation happening before them, seen but unheard.
Her own engraved broom is in her hand already, though it hovers nearby of its own accord whether she asks it to or not. She's not about to offer it to him, as it may or may not possess any number of enchantments to prevent tampering. The habit has served her well through the years.
Instead, she reaches out with a silent, wandless command, and a nearby "vintage" Firebolt (one of her visual Incentives for her class) flies into her outstretched hand. She passes it over to Draco with very little ceremony.
"I promise it's perfectly safe," she informs him, honestly. Though she'd be only mildly offended if he didn't believe her. "You'll forgive me if I don't release a proper Snitch, we really don't need history repeating itself," she continues with a fond grin, shaking her head before turning back to her class.
"Professor Malfoy, out of the kindness of his heart, has agreed to show you lot a few of the basics," she addresses them, and even to her surprise, they're mostly silent and actually paying attention. She really should have abused her coworkers sooner. And then she turns to Draco with a small, sweeping gesture, eyebrows raised as if to say take it away.
"Brooms down until I tell you otherwise," she adds before he can get started, though, mounting her own broom and hovering there, ready to assist, if necessary. Or if the mood strikes her.
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He rolls his eyes as he takes a few steps away and mounts his broom. "I'd forfeit over spending the night lying on the Quidditch pitch again," he says dismissively, and kicks off to hover about fifteen feet up, pressing the broom handle between his knees and locking his ankles to free up both his hands. It's fairly basic, and not very maneuverable, but it looks impressive.
"Right. First off, if you mess about, your broom will mess you about, so don't do it." He directs a stare at a pair of students, naturally Gryffindors, who are messing about trying to press the twigs of their broomsticks into each other's faces. It takes a moment, but they stop. Good enough. "Second, each broom is a little different, but they'll still respond quite quickly to whatever movements you're making. Err on the side of caution." To emphasize the point, he shifts his weight just enough to spin the broom in midair without needing his hands. "Lean left to go left, right to go right, obviously. Forward to accelerate, lean back to stop. Everything else is just a matter of reflexes."
He looks down at Ginny, arms folded. "If you're not releasing an actual Snitch, what am I doing up here?" he asks with a little smirk.
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She's nodding along with his improvised lesson, much the same as she's been telling the little bastards all along, and his direct question seems to pull her out a reverie. Her grin is a little too wicked for her audience, but she manages to reign it in enough to say, "Providing valuable, informative entertainment," before summoning a sealed chest of Quidditch paraphernalia from one of the sheds nearby.
There's no ceremony to opening it, but everything remains in its place, for now.
"Alright, you lot remember about all of these, yeah? Bludgers, Quaffle, and Snitch?" she scans the faces, majority of them nodding eagerly, a few more vocal about their understanding. "Think you're up for a match?" Even more vocal affirmations, though a couple look a bit worried.
"Professor Malfoy and I will captain, and play Seeker," she tells them. "And so there's no nonsense, we're mixing the houses, so don't get any ideas," she tells them, enjoying a little too much the air of scandal this announcement has declared. And not for any desire to prevent house rivalry, mostly it would just keep them a little more likely to pay attention and hopefully play just a little less dirty. It's a lost cause, but maybe it'll be entertaining in the end.
"I can't promise the Snitch will care about our time limit, so everyone mount up and follow me to the pitch." The Quidditch pitch where a lower, slightly more safety-conscious set of goals has been erected, just for practice such as this. The full-size exist if the danger proves to be a non-issue.
"You six," she points out four Slytherins and two Gryffindors, "Are with me. You lot," she motions to six more, four Gryffindors and two Slytherins. "With Professor Malfoy. And you," she motions to the remaining few. "Stand at the ready to swap in."
She rubs her hands together, balancing on her broom much as Draco is, clearly vibrating with the excitement of it all.
"Any questions?" she'll at least let them try to sort out what positions they'd like to play of the remaining, and then the game shall begin. With maybe only one Bludger in play to start.
AUs!
yessss
"Yes, what is it?" he calls, finishing up his comment on an essay before glancing up, and immediately going tense. "May I help you?" he asks, and it's noticeably more formal and cooler than the somewhat welcoming tone he'd had when he'd assumed it was a student.
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"Auror Hawkins," he says with a bow of his head, "and I was wondering if you had a few minutes of your time that you wouldn't mind giving me?"
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"Yes, of course, come in. Has something happened to a student?" he asks, rising from his desk and waving Auror Hawkins into the office, drawing his wand to flick a wordless spell at the kettle. "Nothing relating to my mother, I trust."