Chapter 7: Chris Holloway
The hall had transformed. The silence was gone, replaced by a low, polyphonic hum of a hundred separate conversations, the rustle of synthetic fabrics, the thud of backpacks hitting floorboards. Draco kept his gaze fixed forward on the empty lectern, the blank blackboard. He was peripherally aware of bodies filling the rows around him, a warmth of collective presence at his back, the scent spectrum shifting from lemon polish to cheap detergent, mint gum, and the tang of anxiety sweat.
He was methodically arranging his tools: a heavy, expensive notebook with thick, cream-colored pages, two precise pens—one black, one a deep burgundy for emphasis—and his phone placed face-down in the upper left corner. A ritual. A ward against chaos.
The empty seat to his right was an anomaly in the now-packed row. Then a shadow fell across his page, and the anomaly was filled.
The chair groaned under a significant weight. Draco didn’t look up, but his senses catalogued the newcomer: the scent of athletic-grade deodorant and fresh cotton, the bulk of a quarterback’s frame in a black varsity jacket with red leather sleeves, the quiet whump of a much-abused knapsack hitting the floor.
“Jesus, these seats are from, like, the medieval period they’re gonna teach us about,” a voice said, deep but young, with a rounded, Midwestern flatness. It was cheerful, slightly winded.
Draco’s eyebrow twitched. He finally glanced sideways.
The boy was big. Not just tall, but broad, with the solid, packed musculature of dedicated weight training. A shock of thick, black hair was styled into what could, with charity, be called a mullet—business in the front, a cascade of rebellious curls at the back. His face was open, friendly, with a square jaw currently working a piece of gum and eyes the dark, clear green of bottle glass. He wore a simple white tee beneath the open jacket, faded jeans, and pristine, towering white trainers. He looked like he’d walked off a sports recruitment poster, if the poster had been designed by a somewhat confused 1980s enthusiast.
“The university considers them ‘vintage,’” Draco said, turning back to his notebook. “They charge extra for the orthopedic trauma.”
The boy laughed, a short, surprised burst. “Right? I’m already gonna need a chiropractor. Chris Holloway.” He extended a hand across the narrow gap between their chairs. It was the size of a dinner plate, nails trimmed short, knuckles slightly scarred.
Social protocol demanded compliance. Draco took the hand, his own slender, ring-adorned fingers swallowed whole in the grasp. The shake was firm, but not a power-play. “Draco Black.”
“Draco.” Chris released his hand, leaning back in his creaking seat. “That’s a hell of a name. Like the dragon. Or the constellation. Or the… you know, the wizard guy.”
“The etymology is debated, but ‘dragon’ is the generally accepted root,” Draco said, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle on his page. “I’ve heard all the references. I’ve aged out of most of them.”
“It’s cool. Suits you.” Chris’s gaze was unashamedly curious, traveling from the beret to the boots. “You’re not from around here. The accent. London?”
“Thereabouts.” Draco offered no more. He picked up the burgundy pen, testing its flow in the margin. Test. Test. Anno Domini.
“Well, welcome to the thrilling world of History 101. You ready for…” Chris squinted at the syllabus he’d just pulled, a crumpled piece of paper, “...‘The Making of the Medieval World, 500-1500 AD’? Because I took this to fulfill a requirement and I’m already lost looking at the reading list. ‘Gregory of Tours’? ‘Einhard’s Life of Charlemagne’? Is that a person or a breakfast cereal?”
A smirk threatened Draco’s composure. He quashed it. “It’s a person. A biographer. Though a breakfast cereal called ‘Einhard’s Life’ does have a certain grim wholesomenance. Bran flakes with a monastic vow of silence on the box.”
Chris grinned, popping his gum. “See, you already know stuff. I’m screwed. I can tell you the playbook for a Cover Two defense, but ask me about the Holy Roman Empire and I’d guess it was a heavy metal band from Cleveland.”
“You’re an athlete.” It wasn’t a question.
“Guilty. Football. Freshman. So, you know, they herd us into these gen-ed classes. ‘Broaden our horizons.’” He said it without malice, a simple statement of fact. “You a… theatre major or something?” He gestured vaguely at Draco’s ensemble.
“Fashion design.”
“Makes sense.” Chris nodded as if something profound had been confirmed. “So, you’re gonna be, like, making clothes. That’s cool. Creative.”
“That is the general aspiration, yes.” The hall was nearly full now, the noise hitting a steady, anticipatory pitch. Draco saw Remus’s shadow move behind the small window in the door at the front. Any second.
“Look,” Chris said, leaning a bit closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial rumble. “I’m gonna be real. I need to not fail this class. Coach will have me running stadiums until I puke. Any chance… I could, like, glance at your notes sometimes? You seem like you’ve got a system.” He nodded at the pristine notebook.
Draco considered. The request was transparent, guileless. This boy was a strategic asset in a world of vague, possibly judgmental peers. He represented a clean slate, a connection untainted by family history or expectation. A potential ally, or at least a neutral party.
“I can do better than glances,” Draco said, closing his pen with a soft click. “I can lend you the notes. Provided you promise not to get barbecue sauce or Gatorade on them. And I can explain the concepts. I’ve had a… a tutor of sorts on this subject for years.”
Chris’s face lit up with a relief so profound it was almost comical. “Are you serious? Dude, you’d be saving my life. I’m a good student, I swear, history just goes in one ear and out the other. All the dates and pope names…”
“It’s more than dates and pope names. It’s about systems of power, cultural exchange, the construction of identity through material culture…” Draco caught himself, hearing his father’s intonations in his own voice. He cleared his throat. “But yes. We can study. I have a free period after this on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“You’re a legend. An absolute legend.” Chris beamed, then his green eyes narrowed in thought. “Hey, how come you know so much already? Your tutor must be some kind of history ninja.”
The door at the front opened. Professor Remus Lupin walked in, not with a theatrical flourish, but with a quiet, focused authority. The room’s din dropped by several decibels. He placed his satchel on the lectern, powered on the projector with a practiced tap. A sleek, minimalist title slide appeared on the screen behind him: HIST 101: THE MAKING OF THE MEDIEVAL WORLD. PROF. R. LUPIN.
Draco watched his father become the Professor. The slight shift in posture, the calm, sweeping gaze that took in the entire room, landing for a millisecond on Draco—a blink of recognition—before moving on.
“He is,” Draco said, his voice lower. He kept his eyes on Remus. “The tutor. He’s… my dad.”
Chris froze, his gum-chewing jaw going slack. He slowly swiveled his head from the confident, mustached man at the front setting up his wireless mic, back to the pale, sharp-featured boy beside him. The pieces visibly clicked into place in his mind—the same grey eyes, the same precise way of moving, the preternatural calm.
“No shit,” Chris breathed, a mix of awe and horror in his voice. “Professor Lupin is your dad?”
“Keep your voice down,” Draco murmured, a flicker of amusement finally breaking through his veneer. “And yes. So, you see, my investment in you passing this course is now also a matter of familial pride. No pressure.”
“Oh, my God. This is so much pressure.” Chris ran a large hand through his dark mullet. “Okay. Okay. Does he… grade harder on you? Or easier?”
“I’ll let you know when I get my first paper back. Now shut up, he’s starting.”
Remus had finished his adjustments. He didn’t call for attention. He simply stood, hands resting lightly on the lectern, and let the silence settle. It did, completely.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice amplified just enough, warm and clear. It was the ‘Dad’ voice, but with the volume and projection turned up to ‘Professional.’ “Welcome to History 101. I am Professor Remus Lupin. This,” he gestured to the slide, “is our terrain for the next fifteen weeks. We will be mapping the collapse of a world and the fraught, chaotic, and often surprisingly innovative construction of what came after.”
He picked up a piece of chalk, turning to the blackboard. “Forget what you think you know about ‘the Dark Ages.’ It’s a unhelpful, pejorative term invented by people who thought their own Renaissance was particularly shiny.” He wrote in quick, clean script: TRANSFORMATION, NOT DARKNESS.
Chris was staring, rapt, as if watching a magic trick. He scribbled the phrase clumsily in his notebook.
“We begin not with a bang, but with a long, complicated sigh,” Remus continued, turning back, his eyes scanning the room, engaging them. “The Roman administrative apparatus in the West didn’t vanish overnight. It leaked away. It was ignored, it was repurposed. A tax collector becomes a local strongman. A crumbling basilica becomes a church. The pipes in the bathhouse are melted down to make spearheads. This is our starting point: reuse, adaptation, survival.”
Draco found himself slipping into a familiar, comfortable rhythm. He took notes, not just transcription, but annotation, drawing a quick, sharp sketch of a crumbling column entwined with new vine in the margin. He heard his father explain complex concepts with devastating clarity, throwing in the occasional dry, witty aside that made a cluster of students in the front row chuckle. It was bizarre, hearing the dinner table explanations in this grand, theatrical setting.
Halfway through, Remus posed a question about the continuity of Roman law in Germanic kingdoms. He let the silence hang, a pedagogical tool. A few tentative hands went up. Draco kept his firmly on his desk. He felt Chris’s anxious energy beside him, the big athlete willing himself to be invisible.
Remus called on a girl with purple glasses. Her answer was fragmented.
“You’re touching on a key tension,” Remus said, kindly. “The written law versus the practiced custom. Think of it not as a replacement, but as a… messy merger. Like a questionable Spotify playlist that shuffles Gregorian chant with… let’s say, aggressive folk metal. They share some themes of mortality and power, but the experience is distinctly different.”
The class laughed. Chris snorted softly. “He’s good,” he whispered, incredulous.
“I know,” Draco whispered back, a flicker of pride in his chest.
The lecture flowed on, a river of names, dates, and ideas—Theodoric, Justinian, the plague, monastic scribes. Remus made them see the monks not as mere copyists, but as the IT department of the early medieval world, preserving data through systemic collapse. Chris was trying valiantly to keep up, his notes a chaotic scramble of half-phrases and question marks.
With five minutes left, Remus concluded. “Next time, we delve into the world of Charlemagne—a man who thought so highly of civilization, he decided to build one himself, with blunt force and scholarly outreach. Please read Einhard, our intrepid breakfast cereal biographer. The introduction will suffice. Don’t be intimidated. He’s gossipy. Think of it as an early medieval celebrity profile.”
Chuckles. The rustle of packing began.
“And Mr. Black,” Remus said, his voice cutting through the noise. Every head in Draco’s vicinity swiveled.
Draco went very still, pen poised. “Yes, Professor?”
“A word on your way out, please.”
A few curious glances lingered. Chris looked at Draco with wide, ‘you’re-dead-man’ eyes. Draco simply nodded. “Of course.”
He took his time packing his beautiful notebook, his pens, letting the crowd thin. Chris hovered, uncertain.
“Go on,” Draco said. “I’ll text you. We’ll set up that study session.”
“You sure you’re not in trouble?”
“It’s a familial negotiation. More nuanced. Go. Your giant shoes are blocking the egress.”
Chris laughed, slinging his knapsack over one shoulder. “Okay. Thanks, Draco. Seriously. Catch you later.” He lumbered up the stairs, quickly absorbed by the exiting stream.
Draco made his way down to the front, the heels of his boots the only sound in the nearly empty hall. Remus was erasing the board, his back to him.
“You summoned, Professor?” Draco asked, leaning against the lectern.
Remus finished wiping away TRANSFORMATION, NOT DARKNESS. He turned, dusting chalk from his hands. The professional mask softened into a smile. “I did. Two things. First, purely pedagogical: your focused note-taking is a model for the front row. I appreciate it.”
“I live to model.”
“Second, domestically: Papá wants to know if you’re coming home for lunch, or if you’re diving into the campus ecosystem. He’s attempting a croque-monsieur and is nervous about the béchamel.”
Draco felt a wave of affection for the absurd normalcy of it. “Tell him I’ll brave the béchamel. I have a library orientation at one for fashion majors. I should stay.”
“Good. He’ll be pleased.” Remus’s eyes twinkled. “Your friend seems… lively.”
“Chris? He’s a football player. He thinks Einhard is a cereal. I’ve taken him on as a philanthropic project.”
“Ah. The tutoring begins. And does this project know his tutor’s father is the professor?”
“I may have disclosed that. His reaction was appropriately gratifying.”
Remus laughed, a rich, warm sound that echoed softly in the empty space. “I bet it was. Just remember, no special favors. He earns his grade.”
“Obviously. I have a reputation to maintain. I can’t be seen to carry intellectual dead weight. It would ruin my aesthetic.”
“Of course.” Remus looked at him, really looked at him. The professor was gone. It was just Daddy. “How was it? Really?”
Draco looked around the vast hall, now silent again, the ghosts of the departed lecture still hovering in the chalk-dusted air. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a humming, satisfied energy. He had sat in his father’s class. He had understood everything. He had even, in a small way, begun to build something of his own—a tentative, surprising connection.
“It was,” he said, finding the right word, “interesting.”
Remus’s smile deepened. He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, squeezed, then let go. “High praise. Now go. Navigate your new world. I have to prep for a seminar on heretical movements, which, after parenting a teenager, feels like a refresher course.”
Draco shoved him playfully, then headed up the aisle. At the top, he paused, as he had that morning. He looked back.
Remus was at the lectern, already absorbed in his notes for the next class, a man in his element. The sunlight from the high windows caught the dust motes, turning them to gold around him.
Draco slipped out into the bustling corridor, the noise a wall of living sound after the hall’s quiet. He pulled out his phone, pulling up a new contact. He typed: Chris. It’s Draco Black. Library, third floor study carrels. Thursday after class. Don’t be late. And for God’s sake, buy a notebook that isn’t made of recycled shame.
He hit send, shouldered his bag, and turned not towards the exit, but deeper into the heart of the building, following the signs for the art and design libraries. The first hurdle was cleared. The day, and the new world, stretched out before him, full of unknowns. For the first time, that didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like material.