Part of Harry was sorely tempted to take the Hogwarts Express. He didn't actually want to spend hours on a stuffy train with no one he knew and a bunch of gawking children, but the pull of nostalgia was surprisingly intense.

In the end, practicality won out and he Apparated to Hogsmeade from the front step of the ever-dismal Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

He had cleared it out a bit in the past year, since moving back in after his split with Ginny, but it was still admittedly rather forbidding, and would probably always stay that way. Giving Kreacher the run of the place probably hadn't helped, but honestly, Harry didn't think anything would help, so he wasn't sure it mattered.

He made his way down to Hogwarts, not in any particular rush as he strolled around the Black Lake, taking in the grounds of the place that had been his first real home and such an integral part of his life for so long, but which he hadn't seen in over half a decade.

After the war — soon after, for the first few years — he had actively avoided it, excusing himself from any offers to finish his schooling and take his N.E.W.T.s, or from invitations to attend Remembrance Day ceremonies. It was painful; there had been so much loss on these grounds, and he hadn't wanted to be reminded so vividly, to see it all again in person and stand right there with everybody — what should have been everybody — and feel all of those empty places where so many others should be standing.

But...it had been seven years now. It still hurt like mad sometimes, and from time to time the empty places in his life would smack him so painfully sharply that he would wonder how it was he ever managed to put it out of his mind. But he did. Most of the time, the grief had settled down into something lower and deep, something nearly unnoticeable when there weren't any reminders.

Hogwarts was a reminder, though, and it ached. But not as bad as he'd feared it might.

His return here felt bittersweet, filled with so many mixed memories and feelings. In the end, however, it was still his home, even if it was a dusty one with a few ghosts, and even if the both of them had changed a bit in his absence.

It had still been his home and he felt that familiarity, and he was sure he could make it his home once again.

McGonagall was waiting at the doors when he reached them, and she gave him a small smile, and he was happy to see that her eyes looked genuinely pleased to see him. It wasn't that he had expected her not to, but he had caused a lot of trouble for her over the years (though he'd never gotten the impression she actually disliked him — she'd always ultimately been very kind, if stern).

She looked much the same as the last time he'd seen her, though perhaps with a bit more silver shot through her black hair, which was neatly pulled back as always into its severe bun below her hat.

"Professor Potter," she greeted, with a small gleam in her eye. "How lovely to have you back in the castle."

"That's gonna take some getting used to," he blurted out before he could help it, which only made her look more amused, and he suspected that was exactly why she'd done it.

"That's exactly what Professor Malfoy said."

The mention of Malfoy made Harry pause. "Oh, er, yeah. I'm, er... I didn't actually know he would be teaching here until recently."

McGonagall's expression turned stern, and he half expected her to say she would be taking away house points.

"I trust there will be no issues? I would like to see you two behave like grown men instead of the way you carried on whilst you were students here at Hogwarts." She eyed him for another moment. "I had hoped you would be a bit less antagonistic, considering the way you spoke at his trial."

"Er, no, no." Harry put his hands up in surrender. "I'll— I'm not going to...fight with him or anything like that," he tried to assure. He had already promised Hermione, after all.

McGonagall nodded. "Well, see that you don't." She turned to open the castle doors. "Let me show you to your living quarters."

Harry followed along behind her up to the sixth floor, where they stopped in front of an ornate pillar covered in marble vines that formed abstract swirls.

"For now the password is 'bowtruckle'," McGonagall informed him, rapping her wand against the pillar, and it swung open slightly as if on a hinge, revealing a glimpse of a cosy living area inside. "You may change it whenever you like — tap your wand to each of these three leaves in sequence, and the incantation is tessera immutatio."

"Thank you."

"Shall I show you to the Defence classroom?"

"Er— No, I've got it!" Even if Harry remembered wrong, he had brought the Marauder's Map, so he would be able to find it alright.

She paused, but then gave him a brisk nod. "Very well, then I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you, er— Headmistress McGonagall." Oh it still felt so weird think of her as the headmistress instead of merely a teacher now, but he supposed she had been for a long time and he was the one behind the times.

McGonagall gave him a small smile. "Minerva is fine, Harry. You are, after all, one of the staff now too."

Harry nodded. "Right. Minerva. Thank you."

That felt a thousand times weirder, and he was going to have a hell of a time getting used to that. Merlin.

McGonagall — Minerva — looked unfortunately amused at his discomfort and wrongfootedness. "The feast is at six thirty. Please try to be on time, but other than that, you're free to do as you please until then."

And with that, she was off down the corridor.

That was another advantage to not taking the train, he supposed: he had plenty of time now to get settled and set up his office before the feast.

And maybe discuss a truce with Malfoy. If he wasn't being a prick. But honestly, mightn't it be better if the whole thing just went unsaid? Maybe they could just avoid each other. If they both pretended the other didn't exist, then they couldn't very well get into any sort of unbecoming spat, could they? Malfoy would probably be doing that anyway — he always was a cowardly little thing.

Harry stepped into his living quarters and pulled the pillar shut behind him, which by all appearances looked like a normal door from the inside, with a small, round brass knob and little else notable about it.

He looked around. The space was small, but he didn't need much, and it was a place of his own, which was nice.

There was a front room with a large purple-ish rug and a worn, beige, corduroy sofa, along with a small coffee table and a fireplace.

On the walls were a few sconces lighting the room in a warm glow with the fuel-less flames that lit the entire castle, which Harry hadn't quite realised he'd missed until now. His house with Ginny had had electricity, which was convenient, but had a coldness to it, and always seemed to have a faint buzzing. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was sparsely lined with magical gas lamps that never seemed to run dry, but did little against the oppressive dreariness of the place. But here, the fire was brighter — abundant and reflecting off of the stone, lighting everything in a cheery wash of warmth. It was welcoming, and he thought it was no wonder he had felt heartsick for the cosiness of the Gryffindor common room from time to time over the years since leaving Hogwarts.

He made his way toward the two doors on the other side of the room, and briefly peeked into a small but respectable bathroom — with no bath, but a shower and a vanity with a cupboard under it — before moving on to the bedroom.

He was mildly surprised to see that it housed a four poster much like his old one in Gryffindor tower (though, he supposed if the students got them, why shouldn't the teachers?) except, rather than a brilliant Gryffindor red, the bedclothes and hangings were all a gentle dove grey.

This room was small as well, with the bed taking up most of the space, but there was a bedside table to the right, a wardrobe against the wall at the foot of the bed, and room for little else. It would do, though. It wasn't like he was going to need it for anything more than sleeping anyway.

Harry took off his pointed wizard hat, tossing it onto the bed, and flopped down next to it with a sigh. Ah, Hogwarts beds were just as comfortable as he remembered, too.

He knew he probably ought to start unpacking, but he just wanted to lie there for a few moments first. It was all well and good to know what he should be doing, and have ideas about how helpful it would be to have it over and done with, but actually doing it was a different matter entirely.

He rolled over onto his stomach and then grimaced as one corner of the miniaturised trunk in his pocket stabbed him in the hip. That was probably a sign or something, but he wanted the record to show that he wasn't happy about it.

Harry groaned to himself as he pushed himself back to his feet, fixed his glasses, and took out the trunk, plopping it on the floor beside the bed and waving his hand to restore it to proper size. 

Throw him in the middle of a fight or some hands-on lesson, and Harry would have absolutely no problem, even at his most tired of times, but the boring stuff, oh Merlin, all the fucking day-to-day, tedious, boring stuff that had to be gotten through to get to the interesting parts... Awful.

Nonetheless, he attempted to get to work, pushing his trunk forward with his foot to make space, and then sighing as it went skittering into the wall with a loud ❧thunk. Right. He had forgotten to account for the lightening charms that were still in place, even if it looked big and heavy now. 

He sat himself down on the floor and leaned forward to drag the trunk closer again, and then threw the lid open and looked down at the utter mess inside. Hermione had shown him how to put an undetectable extension charm on it so he would be able to fit all of his personal and classroom supplies in, but all of it was mixed together (most of it thrown in haphazardly in the first place, and what little had been halfheartedly grouped now tousled by his flop onto the bed and the trunk's nice little jaunt against the wall).

There was nothing else for it, though: he'd simply have to sort it all out now.

Harry spent the better part of two hours putting away all his personal things and organising the supplies for his classroom and office neatly in the trunk so that he'd more easily and quickly be able to set everything up.

At long last, he slipped the Marauder's Map into his pocket and finally closed the trunk again, quite proud of himself. Then he sat back and checked the time.

Well, he still likely had plenty left to have a rest and set everything up before the feast, but he should probably go ahead and set up now whilst he was already working and then rest after. It was always harder to get back up, plus he wouldn't have to worry about getting done on time.

With that in mind, he waved his hand and shrunk the trunk a little, just enough to fit comfortably in his arms so everything wouldn't risk getting jostled again in his pocket, and put his hat back on before heading out of his quarters and down to the Defence classroom.

He didn't think much of it when he heard the staircases leading up from the ground floor moving below him as he finally turned onto the first floor corridor, nearing the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, but then somebody — presumably from one of the aforementioned infernal staircases — knocked into him hard from behind. Harry managed to catch himself, but he felt all of his books and Dark detectors and other miscellany toppling and jumbling together inside the trunk.

He closed his eyes and stood still. Fine, right, not like he'd spent way too much time on that for apparently nothing. Harry gave a deep internal sigh.

It was fine though. Surely they didn't mean to; accidents happened sometimes, and he couldn't fault every clumsy person in the world who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I'm sorry," the person behind him quickly apologised, their voice full of the stiff poshness that Harry had learnt to associate with pure-bloods, though it seemed to be making a valiant effort at personability.

Harry turned.

"I wasn't looking where I was going— Potter?"

Of course it was Draco bloody Malfoy, standing there looking stupid and startled with a very large, old, heavy-looking open book half-raised in his hands. That voice had felt familiar but Harry hadn't been able to place it without the trademark sneer. But of fucking course it was him, here to cock everything up for Harry just to be an arsehole for no good reason.

All of Harry's excuses for the hapless clumsy stranger instantly flew out the window. Because it was Malfoy. It was fucking Malfoy — how was he supposed to believe that ruining hours of his work was somehow not intentional, this was what he always did, and always had done.

Still, he remembered McGonagall and Hermione's words, and tried to remain civilised.

It was impossible to completely keep the edge from his voice, though, when he responded, "Yes; me, Malfoy. No need to sound so shocked — I'm sure you knew I was starting this year too. The Prophet has certainly had enough to say about it. What are you doing up on the first floor?"

Malfoy's face didn't quite fall into its old sneer, but his voice was certainly condescending and disdainful enough as he said, "Don't worry, I'm not up to any nefarious plots. The Boy Who Lived doesn't need to keep a special eye on me."

Harry felt that light a spark of fury in him. Malfoy was still just the same snarky bastard he always had been, and he knew just how to get under Harry's skin, like he'd fucking studied for it.

"Don't fucking call me that!" Harry snapped. Why did Malfoy seemingly have to make it his mission to be a complete wanker the moment they saw each other again? You'd think he'd at least try to be a little grateful, considering that without Harry's testimony in their favour, he and his mother may very well have still been rotting in fucking Azkaban right next to Lucius. "I didn't say you were up to anything, I just wanted to know why you were here, messing up all my stuff, when your classroom and all is in the dungeons!"

"Oh, my apologies," Malfoy drawled, dreadfully insincerely. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of The Chosen One, wouldn't want to mess anything up for him." He couldn't have sounded more mocking if he'd tried. "I was just going to see Poppy about the potions we'd spoken about earlier."

Malfoy may look a bit different now — older, not as unhealthily waxen and pale and sunken as he had been at his trial, his hair no longer brutally slicked back and grown out a bit to his chin, worn loose under his pointed hat — but clearly not a single fucking thing about that git had actually changed on the inside. He was exactly the same insufferable, pompous prick he had been eight years ago, and Harry could feel himself losing his temper. Why did Malfoy always fucking do this to him?! The little piece of shite knew exactly which buttons to press to get to him in all the worst ways, and Harry absolutely wanted to strangle him.

"I told you not to call me those things!" he gritted out.

"What, precious Potter doesn't like his so very hard earned titles? He wants to be just like everyone else?" Malfoy asked mockingly.

Harry felt something in him snap.

Nothing could be done about this little shit, there was absolutely no hope for him or any sort of truce, and he fucking deserved to be throttled, or at the very least punched in the fucking face.

Harry dropped his trunk (already a lost cause with the organisation, what was there to lose?) and bodily tackled Malfoy, trying to wrestle him to the floor.

"I! Said! Don't! Call! Me! That!" Harry emphasised as he tried to punch Malfoy in the gut, which was only partially successful. Damn desk duty the last couple years with the Auror Department after being promoted certainly hadn't done him any favours.

Malfoy's eyes went very wide and he dropped his book, doing his best to squirm away and grab Harry's wrist to keep him from punching.

"Gentlemen!"

Minerva McGonagall had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and towered above them. They both froze, and Harry looked up at her guiltily.

"Gentlemen, I am extremely disappointed in you. Both of you are teachers, and you are expected to conduct yourselves appropriately at all times. As I told you both, I had hoped you would be able to put your childish rivalry behind you on your own, but it appears not."

She looked down her nose at them and continued unamusedly, "From this point on, I expect you to act civil in each other's company. There will be no more fighting, verbal or physical. You are expected to call each other by your given names and not to antagonise each other. You don't have to be friends, but you need to be able to act professionally just like all of the other staff. If you can't do these most basic of things, I'm afraid you aren't suited for a job here — do I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes headmistress."

She nodded briskly, and swept away down the corridor.

Harry got up, and straightened his glasses, carding a hand through his hair and feeling thoroughly shamed by McGonagall.

Fuck, this was so stupid.

Defeated, Harry bent to pick back up his fallen hat and place it back on his head.

Malfoy was still an insufferable prick, and clearly wasn't going to change anytime soon, but McGonagall would fucking eat him for breakfast if he didn't comply, so...he guessed he'd just have to follow through with Hermione's plan anyway. Even if it was stupid. And Malfoy would probably keep fucking it up anyway. They couldn't say Harry hadn't tried, right? It wasn't his fault Malfoy was the worst.

He sighed. "Look, Malfoy, do you want to call a truce?"

"Well she made it pretty fucking clear that we have to be civil to each other regardless," Draco replied snarkily, looking up from the book he'd been inspecting for damages to shoot Harry a glare.

Harry glared back at him hard.

"Fine," Draco relented, rolling his eyes, and held out his hand. "And it's Draco."

Harry shook his hand.

"I assume this truce is simply a pledge to stop antagonising each other...Harry?" He said Harry's given name with as much awkwardness as Harry had always felt trying to wrap his mouth around his, like they just weren't words meant for their respective vocabularies.

"Er, yeah, I guess. I'll see you around...Draco."

Hopefully not. Hopefully he'd just skulk around the dungeons like Snape all the time.

Harry turned and picked up his trunk, cradling it to his body as he walked toward his classroom. The poor thing probably had about ten broken items in it now. Fuck, he was in for a long afternoon of repairing and organising.

Behind him, Draco stood with his book resting open on the bannister, frantically flipping pages to find his place. When he finally found it, he picked it back up properly and continued reading as he followed a ways behind Harry toward the far end of the corridor, before finally veering off up another flight of stairs.

Harry looked back when he reached his classroom and snorted when he saw that Malfoy (no, Draco — he was going to have to remember to call him Draco now apparently, even if it was a fucking stupid pure-blood name) was once again reading as he walked, and up stairs, no less. The git just did not learn.

He turned back and opened the door, taking a step inside and then stopping short. This wasn't the Defence room at all.

Harry stepped back again and looked around the corridor. No— No, maybe it had been a while, but he could have sworn this was where the Defence room had been. First floor, second to last door from the end on the left, except on the twentieth of every month, when the room was exactly one floor up, in the same place, without a door. Naturally, you could walk through the wall just fine on the twentieth, but you'd get a nasty bruise if you got your dates mixed up and tried too assuredly on the wrong day.

Harry glanced back into the room in front of him, but it couldn't possibly be the Defence classroom. It was an acceptable size for a classroom, he supposed, maybe for something like History Of Magic, where all you had to do was sit and take notes, but for Defence, the students needed space for practical lessons as well.

Harry frowned and put his trunk down on the floor to pull his wand and the Marauder's map out of the pocket of his robes, glad he had brought it with him just in case.

He tapped it with his wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Ink bled over the map, taking the shape of Hogwarts, and he quickly scanned for the Defence Against The Dark Arts room. He found the room right there, on the first floor, opposite end from where he was, at the very end (excepting the room that now seemed to be labelled as DADA Teacher's Office, only accessible through the classroom, which he peculiarly recalled being one floor up and one room over from where he stood instead), on the left side of the corridor. Huh. ...Maybe he'd just gotten it flipped around in his mind. It had been almost a decade since he'd gone to school here. It still bothered him, though — something about that didn't feel right to him.

Still, he went to close the map again, but it was only as he did so that something else occurred to him. Hadn't that been where the Hospital Wing was? ...It was, wasn't it? He couldn't have remembered everything that incorrectly. That office had been Madam Pomfrey's nurse's room, and the Defence teacher's office had most definitely been separate. And Malfoy had said he was going to see Poppy, hadn't he? Harry didn't know any other Poppy than Madam Pomfrey, but where was the Hospital Wing now?

Harry quickly scanned over the Map again for the little dot labelled Draco Malfoy and found it indeed in the Hospital Wing, but the Hospital Wing was up on the fourth floor, much to his bafflement. Surely that couldn't be right.

Harry frowned to himself and tapped the map with his wand again, murmuring, "Mischief managed," and folding it back up to stow away in his pocket. Could he have really misremembered? It was a while ago, and so much had happened since then. Still, it seemed hard to think he could be that wrong.

He sighed and bent to pick up his trunk again, deciding to put it out of his mind for now. He had things to do.