Chapter 6: First Day
The dawn was a pale, watercolor smear behind the skeletal downtown skyline as Remus’s sensible sedan navigated the sleepy streets. Draco, curled in the passenger seat with his knees drawn up, watched streetlights flicker off one by one. His reflection in the window was a ghost over the passing buildings—pale hair, the dark slash of his beret, the silver gleam of hoops in his ears. He felt simultaneously overdressed and like he was wearing a costume. The wine-red sweater was soft, the baggy jeans comfortably restrictive, the heeled boots a vote of confidence he wasn’t entirely sure he’d cast for himself.
“You’re quiet,” Remus said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of the car. The heater vent whispered warm air onto their legs.
“I’m conserving my energy for vigorous note-taking,” Draco replied, not turning from the window. “And for the profound sense of existential dread that’s scheduled to arrive in approximately…” He checked the silver watch on his wrist. “Forty-seven minutes.”
“It’s just a room full of chairs, Draco.”
“It’s a pedagogical amphitheater where I will be intellectually assessed by my primary paternal unit. The psychological implications are fraught.”
Remus signaled a turn onto the long, tree-lined drive that led to the university. “You’ve been assessed by me your entire life. ‘Don’t touch the stove,’ ‘That essay on Macbeth needs more analysis,’ ‘For God’s sake, please separate the colors from the whites.’ This is just a different kind of laundry.”
Draco finally looked over, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You compared your lecture on the Carolingian Renaissance to a mixed load of delicates. Papá would be proud.”
“He would. And he’d also tell you to stop fussing. You look… très chic. As always.”
“I look like I’m trying,” Draco sighed, picking at a thread on his sweater. “Which is, apparently, the first mistake.”
“Nonsense. Trying is the entire point.”
The campus unfurled before them, a landscape of old stone and new glass slowly stirring to life. A few determined joggers puffed steam in the cool air. A custodian pushed a wide bin across a distant quad. The car slid into a faculty parking lot, the spaces still mostly empty.
“Right,” Remus said, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was loud. “I’ve got about an hour to set up. You can come straight to the hall, or you can wander. Find a coffee. Locate all the bathrooms. Strategic reconnaissance.”
Draco unbuckled his belt, the click echoing. “I’ll come with you. I want to see the beast in its native habitat before it’s swarming with… other freshmen.” He said the word with a delicate distaste, as if describing a peculiar type of fungus.
They stepped out into the crisp morning. The air smelled of damp grass, distant bakery, and the peculiar clean-stone scent of academia. Draco adjusted his beret, the heels of his boots clicking a definitive tattoo on the pavement. He fell into step beside Remus, who walked with a relaxed, familiar pace, a worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
The history building was a venerable old thing, all ivy and scowling gargoyles. The interior was a contrast of echoing marble floors and the stale, sweet smell of decades of chalk dust and industrial cleaner. Their footsteps clacked in the empty corridor.
“Remus! Burning the midnight oil or just the dawn oil?”
A stout, bespectacled man with a wild halo of white hair emerged from a doorway, clutching a massive thermos. He beamed.
“Morning, Alan,” Remus said, smiling warmly. “Just getting a head start. First day jitters, you know.”
“Aren’t they always?” Alan’s bright eyes landed on Draco, who had instinctively straightened his posture. “And who’s this? A new research assistant? They’re getting younger and more fashionable every year.”
“This is my son, Draco,” Remus said, and Draco heard the subtle shift, the casual pride. “Starting his first year today. Draco, this is Professor Alan Finch, our resident expert in Byzantine economic history.”
Draco extended a hand, the silver rings catching the fluorescent light. “A pleasure. Just don’t quiz me on the solidus yet. I’m still on my first coffee.”
Alan laughed, a wheezing, joyful sound. “A smart one! Welcome, welcome. And in the sartorial trenches, I see. Much more interesting than our usual tweed and corduroy.” He gave Remus a wink. “Don’t terrify him too much, Lupin. The Crusades are bloody enough without your death-by-PowerPoint.”
“My PowerPoints are tastefully minimalist,” Remus said with mock offense as Alan shuffled away, chuckling to himself.
They encountered two more professors—a severe-looking woman who nodded curtly and a younger man who greeted Remus with an easy “Morning, Remus,” and gave Draco an openly curious glance. Each interaction was a tiny performance, and Draco watched his father seamlessly become ‘Professor Lupin’: friendly, professional, slightly detached. It was fascinating and deeply strange.
Finally, they reached a heavy wooden door with a brass plaque: LECTURE HALL B-14. Remus pushed it open.
The space was vast and dim, a slanted canyon of fixed, scarred wooden seats descending towards a central stage and a wide, clean blackboard. A lone lectern stood sentinel. Motes of dust drifted in the shafts of pale morning light struggling through the high, narrow windows. It was cold, and it smelled of old wood, lemon polish, and the faint, metallic hint of the heating system kicking on.
“Home sweet home,” Remus murmured, walking down the center aisle with a proprietorial air. He dumped his satchel on the lectern with a thump.
Draco hovered at the top of the aisle, his grip tightening on the strap of his own bag. The sheer scale of it was intimidating. A hundred empty seats, all facing the spot where his father would stand. The silence was a physical presence.
“Come down,” Remus called, his voice bouncing softly in the emptiness. “Test the acoustics. Shout something obscene in French, see how it carries.”
Draco descended slowly, the heels of his boots making hollow, important sounds on the steps. He felt like an explorer in a ruined temple. He reached the front, running his fingers along the smooth, cool edge of the lectern.
“This is it?”
“This is it.”
“It’s very… perpendicular.”
“History often is.” Remus was pulling out sheaves of notes, a laptop, setting up a small microphone. His movements were efficient, routine. “You can sit anywhere. Though I’d advise against the front row on the first day. That’s for the unnervingly enthusiastic or the utterly terrified.”
“Which am I?”
“A unique hybrid.” Remus glanced up, his eyes soft. “Sit… there.” He pointed to a seat in the third row, just left of center. “It’s a good spot. You can see the board, you can see me, you can see the door for a quick escape, and you’re not in the direct line of fire.”
Draco moved to the indicated seat, sliding his bag to the floor. He sat, the wooden chair creaking under him. He looked up at the lectern, at his father arranging papers, and the reality of the situation crashed over him with a fresh, cold wave.
“You’re really going to stand up there,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. “And talk at me. At all of us.”
“I am.” Remus plugged in his laptop; a fan whirred to life. “And you’re going to sit there and decide if I’m any good at it.”
“What if you’re boring?”
“Then you’ll have a very long semester, and I’ll expect detailed, constructive criticism at dinner.”
Draco smiled despite himself. He spun one of his rings around his finger. “What if someone asks a really stupid question?”
“Then I will answer it with patience and clarity, as is my job.” Remus came around the lectern and leaned against it, facing Draco. “And you will not, under any circumstances, roll your eyes or audibly groan. Professional detachment, remember?”
“What if I have a really brilliant question?”
“Then you will raise your hand, wait to be called upon, and ask it. And I will be secretly, unbearably proud, and I will answer it. Probably at excessive length.”
They looked at each other across the void of empty seats. The hum of the projector powering up was a low drone.
“This is weird, Daddy.”
“I know, chou-chou. It’s weird for me, too.” He pushed off the lectern and walked over, sitting in the seat next to Draco. For a moment, they were just father and son in an empty, dusty room. “But it’s also just… a thing that’s happening. We’ll navigate it. The rules are simple. In this room, I’m the professor. Outside of it, I’m yours. You can do this. You are doing this. You’re already here.”
Draco leaned his head against Remus’s shoulder, just for a second, drawing in the familiar scent of his soap and shaving cream beneath the chalk dust. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Remus patted his knee and stood up, the moment broken. “Now, I have to finish prepping. And you should probably find that coffee. The café in the student union opens in ten minutes. Use your new ID. Feel the power.”
Draco stood, picking up his bag. He took one last look around the hall, trying to imprint it, to make the strange familiar. “Don’t do any of your impressions. No funny voices for historical figures until I’m psychologically prepared.”
“No promises on Pope Gregory,” Remus said, already turning back to his notes, a smile in his voice. “Go. Caffeinate. Come back in forty minutes as a student. Not my son. A student.”
Draco nodded, a new determination settling in his spine. He walked back up the aisle, his footsteps less tentative. At the top, he paused, hand on the door.
“Professor Lupin?” he said, not turning around.
“Yes, Mr. Black?”
The name, his chosen name for this place, sent a jolt through him. He liked it.
“Make it interesting.”
He pushed the door open and stepped back into the brightening hall, leaving his father in the quiet dark of the lecture hall. The corridor was still mostly empty, but he could hear distant sounds now—doors closing, the trundle of a cart, a burst of laughter from somewhere far away. The university was waking up.
He found his way outside, the cool air a shock. He followed the signs for the student union, his boots clicking on the brick paths. A few more people were about now, backpacks slung over shoulders, faces still puffy with sleep. He saw a girl with rainbow braces on her teeth, a guy wearing a faded band t-shirt, a group whispering intensely about a problem set. He was one of them. He was part of the ecosystem.
The café was a warm, noisy cave smelling of roasted beans and steamed milk. He fumbled with his new lanyard, presented his ID, and ordered a ridiculously large latte with an extra shot. He didn’t need it, but the ritual felt necessary.
He took a seat by a window, watching the flow of people outside grow steadier, thicker. He sipped his coffee, too hot, and scrolled through his phone, seeing a chaotic string of text messages from Sirius—a blurry photo of a misbehaving tattoo needle, a question about whether to use thyme or rosemary in a stew, a final message that just read: TRÈS BONNE CHANCE MON LAPIN. FAIS-LEUR BAISSER LES YEUX. (GOOD LUCK MY BUNNY. MAKE THEM LOWER THEIR EYES.)
He smiled, typing back a simple: Je vais les éblouir. (I will dazzle them.)
The minutes ticked down. The crowd in the café swelled, the noise level rising to a din. He saw other students clutching schedules, looking around with the same wide-eyed navigation he felt. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup, and walked back into the morning.
The history building was different now. It buzzed. Students clogged the halls, checking room numbers, calling out to friends. The air was charged with that specific first-day energy—a mix of panic, excitement, and profound disorientation. Draco moved through it, a sliver of cool wine-red and platinum in a sea of hoodies and backpacks.
He pushed open the heavy door to B-14.
It was no longer a silent temple. It was filling, quickly. The rustle of bags, the scrape of chairs, low chatter. He saw the backs of heads, the glow of phone screens under desks. He didn’t look at the lectern. He kept his eyes forward, navigating the steps down to the third row, left of center. The seat was still empty. He slid into it, placing his bag at his feet.