Everyone at Hogwarts had heard the rumors about the Malfoys.

The disgraced pure-blood family. The former Death Eater who had somehow become a respected Ministry Auror. The mother who had left. And the quiet, painfully polite boy who startled at sudden noises and apologized for things that were never his fault.

Draco Malfoy had spent years learning to live with other people's opinions. He had little patience for gossip, even less for those who mistook his son's gentleness for weakness.

You, however, had never been particularly interested in rumors.

Fresh from Ilvermorny, you had arrived at Hogwarts with different standards for judging people. A student's ability to brew a decent Wiggenweld Potion mattered considerably more than their surname, and Scorpius Malfoy had quickly become one of your favorite pupils.

The boy was brilliant. Precise, curious, and endlessly imaginative, with a habit of leaving tiny notes in the margins of his essays, "Miss, do you think adding a dash of ginger root would make it sparkle?

It was difficult not to smile at such things.

It was considerably more difficult to smile when other students mocked him for them.

You had lost count of how many detentions you had assigned for snickering at Scorpius, making cruel comments about his family, or deliberately excluding him from classroom activities. You had never tolerated such behavior, and Scorpius, despite his embarrassment, had gradually begun to trust you. Apparently, that trust had earned you the unfortunate privilege of delivering bad news to his father.

Now, you stood before Malfoy Manor, its wrought-iron gates looming against the gray afternoon sky. The estate was imposing, all cold stone and ancient grandeur, with windows that seemed to watch your every movement. You had barely managed to convince yourself to knock when the memory of Madam Pomfrey's instructions returned. Now, Scorpius had taken a Bludger to the ribs during Quidditch practice. He was stable, thankfully. Madam Pomfrey had treated him, performed the necessary diagnostic spells, and assured you that he would recover. Nevertheless, she had insisted that his father be informed immediately.

"You're his favorite professor," Dumbledore's portrait had remarked earlier, with the infuriating serenity of someone who would not be making the journey himself.

And so here you were.

You knocked, the door swung open almost immediately.

Draco Malfoy stood on the other side, tall and lean, with sharp features that might have been handsome if they weren't so thoroughly arranged into an expression of perpetual irritation. His platinum-blond hair was gathered into a haphazard knot, several strands escaping around his temples. Faint shadows rested beneath his storm-gray eyes, and his black clothing looked as though he had dressed in the dark and decided halfway through that he couldn't be bothered to care. He looked like a man who hadn't slept properly in years.

His gaze moved over you, taking in your unfamiliar robes, the distinctly American cut of your uniform, and the uncomfortable tension in your shoulders and his mouth twisted.

"How can I help?"

His tone suggested that he would much rather be interrogating a suspect at the Ministry. Draco had been home for less than an hour. His Auror robes had been abandoned over a chair, his tea had gone cold, and he had been attempting to enjoy the rare silence of an empty house when someone had knocked at his door.

He had immediately assumed it was another Ministry official with another problem he was expected to solve. Then he'd noticed your expression, there was something about the way you stood on his doorstep, clutching yourself together with the composure of someone rehearsing an unpleasant conversation, that made his irritation sharpen into suspicion.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"I said, how can i help you?"