Especially Our Enemies

**Author\'s Note: Reading through the comments, I wanted to make it clear that I did not intend to deceive anyone into thinking this might be an mpreg fic. I do not read or write mpreg in any form.**

“Ferdinand can do maths,” Chaz announced. He and Malfoy seemed to share the tendency to start talking before you knew they were there. We had Flying together again today, and I waited for him to catch up to me.

“Oh yeah?” I asked, putting my arm around my boy’s shoulder. He nodded.

“Yeah. He’s quite good.”

“Well, the witch at the Magical Menagerie did say that he’d have powers and such,” I said.

“I don’t think maths is a power.”

“I can’t do them, so god bless the little chap.” Ferdinand poked his head out of Chaz’s robe pocket, and he took him in his hands.

“Mum thinks Eleanor doesn’t have any powers,” he said softly, stroking the rat’s head. It nuzzled his finger. “If a rat can have powers, why can’t she?”

I held out my hands and Chaz put Ferdinand into them. He clambered up my arm and settled on my shoulder, which was probably the best vantage point he’d ever had. Only Hagrid stood higher in the crowd that walked through the corridor.

“You have to remember that your mother is Muggle-born,” I said, straightening his unruly hair. It wasn’t as curly as his mother’s, but it had a decided kink. “Sometimes magic will skip around like that.”

“But Amelia has magic, and I have magic,” he said. “I just don’t understand.”

“My friend Neville had almost no magic.”

“He came to Hogwarts anyway?” Chaz asked. Ferdinand took a nip at my ear, and I lifted him down.

“He might have been happier if he hadn’t.” Chaz and I turned to see Malfoy behind us. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Hi Professor Malfoy.” Chaz took Ferdinand back from me.

“Have you heard from Longbottom?” Malfoy asked.

“He’s living in Hogsmeade, actually. Bought the old nursery.”

Malfoy chuckled.

“He was always very good in Herbology, if I remember right.”

“Professor Malfoy, you went to school with my dad, right?” Chaz asked. Malfoy looked at me and I suppressed a shiver.

“Oh, yes. We hated each other.”

“Why?” Chaz looked up at me. I shrugged.

“Professor Malfoy was a slime,” I said, smiling.

“And your father was an idiot,” Malfoy replied. He smiled down at Chaz. “I’ll see you in Defense, Weasley.”

We walked out onto the practice field, leaving Malfoy behind.

“Professor Malfoy was a Death Eater, wasn’t he,” Chaz said. I nodded, and Chaz made a humming noise.

“Why do you ask?”

“I saw the mark on his arm in class the other day.” He fell silent as we arrived at the practice field. I let him go over with the other students. I stretched and breathed in the fresh outside air. It must have been a twenty-four-hour bug, because I felt right as rain, if a little weak. Breakfast was staying comfortably where it was.

“Okay, everybody,” I said, checking my roll, “Today I’m not going to do any lecturing. I’m just going to send you guys up. Once everybody’s off the ground, we’ll have a little race.”

They all followed me to the flying shed and I handed out brooms. This time, no one had trouble getting their feet off the ground. In the weeks we’d been working together, most of them had shown themselves to be decent flyers. I pulled out my stopwatch after a while and timed a few of the quicker students doing sprints; their House team captains would be interested in the faster ones in their second or third year. Chaz ranked near the top in the class; he wouldn’t have bested Harry in a dead run, but he knew how to hunker down and get the best go out of his broom.

Soon the fall semester would be over, and flying classes would end. I sighed into the breeze. Administrative duties were a miserable drag without a few hours a week watching those kids zip around. At least I still had Quidditch.

Fridays are a blessing to us all, and as I headed out of the great hall after dinner it felt like the whole school had exhaled loudly. I had a satchel full of parchment to grade from my history class, but that didn’t dampen my mood. Saturday meant sleeping in; no one expects much from the Flying instructor on the weekends. I couldn’t lounge about as late as some, as a Head of House, but I could definitely miss the start of breakfast if I liked. Minerva had decided to run breakfast on the weekends until nine, so students could catch an extra hour or two of sleep. As long as I got a cup of coffee and a pastry I was happy.

“Hey, Ron.” Dooley clapped me on the shoulder. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, Clark. How about you?”

“I heard a rumor that you and Malfoy are going to have a duel on Monday.”

“We’re teaching dueling,” I corrected. Dooley shrugged.

“Same thing. You’re going to whip him good, right?”

“I might have something to say about that,” Malfoy purred. I felt a tingle of pride; I didn’t flinch at all that time. Dooley jumped like he’d been bitten.

“It’s not a real duel, Clark,” I said. Dooley eyed Malfoy suspiciously.

“Right. Bye.” He got away as quick as he could, and Malfoy and I looked at each other for a moment before I started to laugh.

“What?” he asked, but he was smirking.

“His face was just priceless,” I said. Malfoy chuckled.

“So Ron, are you?” he asked. His eyes glinted.

“Going to whip you? No, sorry, I’m not into that.”

Malfoy stifled a snort and walked away from me.

“Later,” I said after him. He nodded.

I watched him walk away with something like fondness. He’d put me to bed the night before with more care than I might have expected. Without constant reminding that he was a prick, I’d actually come to almost like him. I decided I shouldn’t tell him that.

When I got back to my quarters, I spotted the sock I had forgotten to mention. I left it on the arm of the chair. Digging around in a cabinet, I managed to locate the last of my chamomile and hellebore tea. I filled my little electric kettle with water and set it to boil. Hermione had always laughed at the Muggle appliance, which she felt was inferior to the magic ones. Still, I had carried the battered thing through all sorts of ordeals, and since my quarters had electrical wiring, unlike much of the castle, I used it occasionally.

Sipping fresh, hot tea, I sat back in my armchair and looked at the Quidditch magazine that an owl had brought in with the evening post. I wasn’t sure how they had known my address, since I hadn’t bought a subscription, but sure enough there was always a Quidditch Now! and a Balls&Brooms in the post every month. Still more piled up at the house in Kent, but our mail slot was enchanted to sort things out. Important mail was slipped out to a place where a post owl would notice it and bring it to me at the castle, the rare piece for Hermione received similar treatment, and unimportant mail was stacked up in the den where I could burn it in the fireplace at leisure. Christmas break was always toasty for me, thanks to some fat sports supply catalogs.

There was a mildly interesting article on broom rot that I read through. I finished off the tea, brushed my teeth, and climbed happily into bed.