𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭 & 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 | drarry

3

A week before the start of term, Hogwarts was already awakening from its summer slumber. Professors had begun trickling in, their footsteps echoing in the quiet hallways as they prepared classrooms and gathered materials for the year ahead. The castle itself seemed to sigh in anticipation, magic buzzing faintly in the air, as if eager for the return of students.

Draco stood alone in the empty Potions laboratory, his gaze sweeping across the familiar space. A rare flutter stirred in his chest—an unfamiliar mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. He had always prided himself on his composure, but the quiet of the room, filled only with the faint rustle of his robes and the subtle scents of potions past, suddenly felt daunting.

For so long, this place had been his sanctuary—an arena where he had always felt confident, where his skills had earned him respect, even if begrudgingly.

But now, standing here as a professor, everything felt different. The rows of polished workstations, the shelves lined with jars of dried ingredients, the faint, earthy scent of herbs and minerals—it all seemed to look at him expectantly, awaiting something he wasn't sure he could deliver.

He had never taught before. The responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders, a feeling that, to Draco, was far more intimidating than brewing the most complex potion. Teaching was an entirely different beast, and the realization of just how many young minds he'd be shaping loomed in his thoughts.

What if I make a complete and utter hash of it? What if I don't know the first thing about imparting knowledge to those insufferable children? What if I'm as useless as my father always feared?

He tried to remind himself of who he was—a thought he didn't know should be uplifting, or depressing. He tried to draw out the confidence he always wore like armor, the self-righteousness, the superiority complex—but it was safe to say, the aftermath of the war had dulled all those feelings.

I will not fail.

I cannot fail this.

I cannot fail them—any of them. Not as I was failed.

By who?—I don't even know.

Draco's eyes traced the room, lingering on each detail as if searching for reassurance in the familiarity. The familiar scent of dried herbs and simmering brews brought back memories of his previous life— the thrill of experimentation, the rush of discovery, and the satisfaction of crafting innovative potions.

As a former Potions Developer for the Ministry, Draco had spent years perfecting his craft. He had created cutting-edge brews, pushed the boundaries of magical pharmacology, and earned a reputation as one of the most talented potion-makers of his generation.

But that life was behind him now.

Teaching, however, was uncharted territory. It required more than technical expertise—patience, empathy, and the ability to inspire. Qualities Draco wasn't sure he possessed.

"Where to begin?" he muttered under his breath, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls of the dungeon.

He turned his attention to the crates beside him, filled with his own collection of potions ingredients, tools, and notes. As he began to unpack, Draco's thoughts drifted to those who had stood in this very spot before him—Slughorn, with his ever annoying sociable manner and indulgent nature, and Snape, whose brilliance and intensity had cast a long shadow over this very classroom.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness, pulling Draco from his thoughts. He turned to see Professor McGonagall standing in the doorway, a faint hint of amusement glimmering in her sharp eyes.