CHAPTER 1

The relative hush of Draco’s classroom is disturbed by an irritatingly familiar crackling sound and he looks up from the stack of fourth-year essays he has been marking. For a moment, he regards the group of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students, all of whom are supposed to be engaged in a simple theory exercise. Most of them are scratching away with their quills or frowning at their textbooks or biting their nails, and though the latter makes Draco’s nose wrinkle, he knows that they are, at least, attempting to understand the fundamentals of organic-to-non-organic Transfiguration. Which is, as usual, more than can be said for Jasper Bracknell and his little band of followers.

Jasper, one of the many banes of Draco’s existence, is leaning back in his chair and obnoxiously popping bubbles of acid green exploding gum as he conducts a muttered conversation with his friend in the row behind him—a conversation which Draco is certain has nothing to do with Transfiguration, organic or otherwise. The thing about Jaspers, Draco thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose as another series of crack-crack-bangs issues from his student’s mouth, is that there is one in every class. And they are almost all Gryffindors. Not that he’s biased. No, if he’s honest, he finds nearly all of his pupils completely maddening.

Crackle-pop-bang, goes Jasper’s bubblegum, and now all the students within a two-chair radius of him are looking up from their work and murmuring gently. Draco sighs.

“Mr. Bracknell,” he says quietly, taking some satisfaction in the fact that the classroom falls immediately silent.

Jasper continues to lean back in his chair but his impudent blue eyes swivel to meet Draco’s. “Yes, sir?”

“Tell me you are not eating that disgusting green gunge in my class again,” he demands, covering his weariness with severity.

Jasper blinks. Shrugs. Grins. “Okay. I’m not,” he says, and his friends titter appreciatively.

Draco grimaces, feeling a headache blooming behind one eye. “Be grateful for the fact that your friends find you so hilarious, Mr. Bracknell, because you are unlikely to amount to much without your Transfiguration OWL, which you are highly unlikely to achieve without an understanding of Lockheed’s Law.” He pauses, relishing the puzzled expression twisting the usually smug face. “If you could apply yourself to your textbook for a moment or so, you might find it illuminating. In the meantime, I think that’s five points from Gryffindor.”

“Sir, that’s not fair! It’s always...” Jasper falls silent, mouth twitching.

“What is it?”

“Oh... nothing. I think I’ll just have a look at the old... Lockheed... erm... sorry, sir,” Jasper mumbles, frowning and pulling his textbook towards him.

Instantly suspicious, Draco looks around. Nothing seems amiss, but he is unsettled as he returns to his marking, and the next few essays in the pile are subject to a more savage application of red ink than usual. When the giggling starts, his uneasiness turns to alarm.

Gripping his quill hard, he looks around at his class.

“Settle down,” he says sharply, drawing down his eyebrows and shooting them his tried and tested silencing look. Inexplicably, this only makes them giggle harder. Every single person in the room seems to find him an object of amusement. Even the quiet, generally well-behaved Ravenclaw girls at the front are watching him with bright eyes and ill-concealed grins. Equal parts cross and anxious, he stares wildly around at his students. They’re laughing at him. He has no idea what to do with that. After ten years of teaching, he’s used to be feared, disliked, and occasionally respected, but this is something completely new, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Desperately, he turns to Jasper, who is smirking heartily and making a show of staring at his textbook.

Draco throws down his quill and presses his hands against the familiar grain of his desk. It’s reassuringly solid and takes the weight he rests on it without complaint. Or giggling. When the bell rings some minutes later and the classroom empties of students and their strange amusement, Draco waits only seconds before locking the door behind them and stalking around the classroom, searching for clues to the unwelcome hilarity. Finding nothing beyond a nothing-out-of-the-ordinary unflattering drawing of himself, he heads for his rooms. A giggle or two along the way only fuels the suspicion that something is very wrong, and when he arrives in front of his bathroom mirror, that suspicion is quickly confirmed.

His eyebrows have been turned red. Bright red. Gryffindor red, in fact, he realises as he stands there and seethes at his own reflection. He looks ridiculous, and he knows exactly who is to blame.

Furious, he storms out of his quarters and through corridors packed with students looking for mischief with which to occupy their afternoon breaks. He knows exactly where he is going, and despite the whispers and glances, he doesn’t think to correct his eyebrows until he is already halfway across the lawn, and by then, he’s built up far too much momentum to stop and think of a spell to reverse such a ridiculous curse. The grass is springy and damp under his feet as he approaches his target, and he can already feel the wet hem of his cloak slapping heavily against his legs but he doesn’t care—he can see Potter now, and, more importantly, Potter has not yet seen him.

And of course he hasn’t, because at a time when all other students have gleefully abandoned their professors for more diverting company, Potter’s class of first-years are still gathered around him, eager faces turned up to their favourite teacher as he clutches a stack of school brooms and chats away to them as though he hasn’t a care in the world. Perhaps he hasn’t, Draco thinks irritably, as he draws close enough to the group to hear a Hufflepuff boy cry, “That’s so cool, Professor Potter!”

Potter laughs, lifting a hand to scrub at his ridiculous hair as the fresh autumn wind catches and pulls at it, making him look like an over-eager scarecrow. No wonder he’s happy, the lazy bugger. No lesson plans, no marking; nothing to do, in fact, besides supervising first-years on broomsticks. No wonder he has time to cook up juvenile eyebrow-reddening schemes.

“Professor Potter,” Draco snaps, just about managing to remember his manners in front of the students. As Potter turns, the wind whirls savagely across the lawn and flips Draco’s sodden cloak over his head. Growling inwardly, he yanks it down and wipes his damp forehead, noting with resignation that the few students who weren’t already laughing at his impromptu Dementor impression are now giggling at the sight of his eyebrows.

“Hello, Professor Malfoy,” Potter says, blinking his ridiculous green eyes innocently. “Is something the matter?”

Draco grits his teeth, feeling multiple sets of expectant eyes all over him. “Could I speak to you alone for a moment?” he manages. “The bell has gone for afternoon break, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, we were just getting to know each other a bit,” Potter says mildly, glancing at the first-years, who are now following the exchange in pin-drop silence. Realising that Draco isn’t going anywhere, he sighs and turns to dismiss them. “Off you go, then. I’ll see you next time.”

Amid some grumbling and disappointment, the group disperses and Draco watches them meander across the lawn for a moment before he turns back to Potter, who is now grinning. Draco drags in a breath of cold, woodsmoke-scented air and refocuses. Fuck, he hates Potter. Well, perhaps hate is a very strong word, but there’s no denying that Potter is the most infuriating and idiotic person Draco has ever known, and he has known plenty of contenders in his thirty-two years on this earth.

“What do you want, Malfoy? I’ve got stuff to do.”

Draco snorts. “Like what? Counting broomsticks? Checking which way is up? Making sure... actually, that’s all I can think of. What is it you do, exactly?” he snipes, temper compounded by the wind blowing his hair across his forehead and his wet cloak and the mud on his shoes and the fact that Potter seems to be experiencing the same with no concern at all.

“I don’t think you came storming over here to tell me what you think of my job,” Potter sighs, adjusting the broomsticks in his arms. “For one thing, I already know how low an opinion you have of me, and for another, I can’t see you getting your feet wet just to snipe at me.”

“No,” Draco grinds out, hating that Potter has him bang to rights for once. “Perhaps I’d just like to know what the hell you think you’re playing at?” he says softly and with venom, lifting one scarlet eyebrow in inquiry.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Draco fumes. “What—did—you—do—to—my—eyebrows?” he demands.

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