All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 8

In the interests of organisation and of distracting himself from the weirdness he has somehow invited into his life, Draco spends much of the weekend surrounded by folders and bits of parchment as he sits cross-legged on his hearthrug and thrashes out a new schedule for himself. Stanley watches from a chair and does not even attempt to get involved, which only fuels Draco's nagging fear that he has already been usurped in the beetle's affections, and by sodding Weasley at that.

Draco sighs. It won't do to fret about it, and besides, he has more pressing issues right now, such as how on earth he is supposed to fit all of his old and new obligations into the time available. There just aren't enough hours in the day. Draco rubs his weary eyes and picks up his quill to extend his workday further into the evening. If he shifts all the flying lessons to four o'clock and sees the house-elves after dinner, then...

Monday
As soon as his last Transfiguration lesson is over, Draco races to his rooms and changes from his teaching robes into a warm, lightweight jacket, a less formal pair of trousers and a pair of boots with soles that he thinks will just about cut it on wet grass. He hasn't dressed for the outdoors in years and he feels extremely self conscious as he walks through the castle, out to the broomshed (which is an absolute state) and strides out to meet his first years.

These students are a mixture of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who will take lessons with him on Mondays and Wednesdays, leaving Tuesdays and Thursdays for the Gryffindors and Slytherins, and Fridays for broomshed maintenance. Having just seen the condition of the broomshed, though, Draco is already wondering if he should have scheduled more time for it.

The wind is particularly cold today, even for September, and the children have huddled into little knots in which to whisper and wait, but they all fall silent when they see Draco, and he is treated to the unnerving experience of twenty-odd pairs of eyes raking over his outfit at once. He looks down at his perfectly serviceable trousers and his plain, moss green jacket and frowns. In their collective time at Hogwarts so far, which amounts to less than a month, he doesn't suppose they have ever seen him out of black robes, but really, there's no need to stare.

Dismissing the very real urge to walk quickly back to the castle and sit in his chair until McGonagall comes knocking, he nods briskly at the children and starts handing out broomsticks.

"Good afternoon," he says finally, raising his voice above the wind.

"Good afternoon, Professor Malfoy," comes the uncertain response.

"Right. Well, as I'm sure you are aware, I will be taking over your flying instruction until Professor Potter has recovered. Could someone tell me where the class was up to?" he asks, thinking mutinously of Potter's notes, which, while extensive, appear to be written in code. Or by a drunken spider; it's difficult to tell.

"Most of us were just getting comfortable with hovering in the air," offers a girl with freckles and a light Scottish accent. Draco can't remember her name—he's still sorting out most of the first-years from one another at this point in the year—but he will learn it, of course he will.

"Hovering," he repeats, slightly incredulous. By the time he was eleven, he could... he exhales slowly and shakes away the unhelpful thought. His eleven-year-old self is hardly a good example of anything to these children.

"Sir? When is Professor Potter coming back?" asks a chubby boy, and Draco is almost certain he is the one who nearly fainted in his first Transfiguration lesson.

Draco isn't really surprised by the question, or by the hopeful faces that suddenly surround him, but it still stings a little bit to be such a huge disappointment before he has even started.