//SUMMARY// In a turbulent post-HBP seventh year, the Golden Trio finds itself, as always in the middle of peril. Increasing tensions between the houses come to a head, and an increasingly frazzled McGonagall is trying to hold Hogwarts together as best as she can in the absence of Dumbledore. Harry, surprisingly, and Draco (even more so) are still at Hogwarts. New classes—on Saturdays—have everyone irritated, and new policies emerge along with old faces. And in the midst of the chaos, is Hermione, who is given a special task concerning Malfoy that she doesn't have any clue how to tackle. //DM&HG, HP&HG//
//DISCLAIMER// don't own, don't sue, don't have anything clever written here.
//AUTHOR'S NOTE// please read&review. :)

THE HOUSE WINS
chapter i the one in which minerva is utterly lost

I guess there's gotta be a break in the monotony,
but Jesus, when it rains how it pours.

ok go – here it goes again

--

An elderly woman primly sat behind the desk in the middle of the large, circular room. The sun shone brightly, streaming through the sturdy glass windows as it had for years before. The rays cast a pink-gold glow, warm yellow stained with the pink gold of rapidly approaching sunset. A dusty old hat, portraits of famous wizards and witches, and the polished mahogany desk were illuminated in the light. Her feet were tucked beneath the seat of her chair, and her arms moved quickly and purposefully towards a small teacup of Earl Grey sitting on a matching saucer precariously on the very edge of the desk.

The desk was bare, the teacup the only item resting on the desk.

Minerva McGonagall sighed, her mouth crinkling in grief, the wrinkles ingrained in her forehead becoming more apparent with the motion. Only the polished, dark wood of the desk could be seen where Minerva would have found it more comforting to discover light, golden wood barely visible under mounds of Transfiguration papers. She longed for her own oak desk, in the smaller, cozy office that she had held for forty years. But there would be no more Transfiguration essays for her, no more neat red ink in the margins directing Dobbs to focus more on her description of wand movements, and for McLaggen to focus on cleaner visualization. She had new duties now.

Rampant, stormy thoughts seized her—this was certainly not her desk, this was not her absolutely not her beautiful circular room—this was not her desk. It felt so terribly, terribly wrong to be seated in the high-backed chair—staring at the wood grain that was unadorned with the familiar knickknacks of Albus Dumbledore. There was no comforting silver jar of liquid black ink, nor any the familiar red feather resting in the jar.

Faintly, Minerva remembered that Dumbledore was simply, gone. There was no wise old wizard to place trust in, to ask questions of, to look to as a leader for what to do.

She was terrified. Scared, petrified that a single flash of green light had entirely eradicated her support that had lasted through so many years. Hundreds of students, now left under her care, and amongst them—Harry Potter! No, she simply felt unequipped to handle the responsibility. A shudder escaped her as she wrung her hands together, scarcely believing the possibilities the following year could bring. Imagine, a single slip, and the deaths of dozens of students could very well stain her hands. What to do, what to do, what to do. There was simply no one anymore for her to ask. As Headmistress, Minerva discovered much too quickly that she would no longer receive counsel, but give it.

A flood of troubled thoughts surrounded her brain. Wards would have to be strengthened, the Room of Requirements destroyed; who would dare to imagine that the Death Eaters would not strike Hogwarts again? New classes would have to be scheduled to prepare—but how could she possibly prepare first-years for battle against a pale, cold monster? How could students that could not even master wingardium leviosa learn stupefy or impedimenta? Minerva felt overwhelmed, and she sagged against the lean surface of her—no, Dumbledore's chair. How she wished that he was here now, here to prop her up and to know exactly what to do.

Wildly, her gaze shifted to her right, where dozens of paintings clamored for space on the crowded wall. Large portraits of Everard and Dilys commanded space while smaller ones like Dippet and Phineas crowded in the nearby perimeter. All were pretending to be snoozing, the rise and fall of their breaths too short to be genuine.

A sharp, yet timid knock rippled through the air, focusing Minerva's attention to the heavy door.

"Come in," she stated clearly.

The profile of Hermione Granger stepped through the doorway, unruly curls bouncing with each step. Her face was worried, timid, as she asked, "You wanted to see me, Professor?"

There was no denying that Hermione was nervous; the term had barely started, and yet Professor—no, the Headmistress had personally requested her. She wondered frantically if perhaps she would be required to turn in her Head Girl badge (and, at the notion, touched the shiny surface of her badge worriedly) and if McGonagall felt she could not handle the position.

Minerva nodded curtly. "No need to worry, Ms. Granger. You aren't in any trouble. I'm afraid I don't have any biscuits, you see, I've just begun to… unpack." She gestured to the almost-empty desk, movements sharp and eyes anxious. She took a quick sip of her tea. "Do sit, please."

Hermione had always seen Minerva McGonagall as anything but a portrait of composure and reassurance. But after the past year's events, Minerva's calm seemed to be slipping more often. The first incident had been last year, when Snape was discovered to be a traitor. And since, at Order meetings, McGonagall seemed to Hermione more and more tense. The lines on her face were often stretched taut, almost to the point of snapping.

Hermione hastened to sit. Startled, she pressed, "What is it, Professor?"

Minerva's face tensed. "Ms. Granger—surely, you've noticed Draco Malfoy's presence at Hogwarts again?"

Hermione's face darkened. How could she forget? "I—I hadn't expected it, to be sure after the… events of last year." She still couldn't force the reality of the events to escape her lips. Her mouth went dry, and a lump of sadness wedged into her throat.

"Has Mr. Potter informed you of exactly what happened?" Minerva asked sharply, quickly.

"Yes—Harry explained. It wasn't Malfoy that killed Dumbledore. I—It was Snape. Malfoy couldn't do it," she finished numbly.

"It is," began Minerva more slowly and a bit shakily, "to my—my best knowledge that Albus clearly stated that he did not believe Mr. Malfoy was a murderer. And I believe that he was right. I have an important request to ask of you, Ms. Granger. You must not reveal this to Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley. Keep this to yourself. Do you understand?"

"I—I will, Professor, but what does Malfoy have to do with me?" Hermione was surprised to find a pounding in her skull, her mind flitting from possibility to possibility. What did McGonagall want her to do? What was she missing?"Professor? I don't understand what you're asking."

Controlled urgency mixed with nervous anger combined on her former Transfiguration professor's brow. Her fingers shook with tense apprehension. Was this even possible? Was she throwing Hogwarts' most brilliant student to the wolves? Was there any other way?

The questions were futile; Minerva had already reached her conclusions.

"Ms. Granger, this is a time of great peril. I trust you understand this." At Hermione's nod, she continued, eyes sharp and voice sharper. "At the Sorting Feast tonight, I would like for you to glance around at the faces surrounding you. Take special care to identify the faces of the sixth and seventh years. We are facing a war—and many of them may indeed be on the opposing side. My task this year is to try to save them... as best as I can. I don't believe Draco Malfoy is a murderer, but he has immense influence in the Wizarding World, and I don't wish to lose him. That is where you come in."

"Immense influence?" asked Hermione, slightly puzzled. What influence could Malfoy possibly hold? How much power did a spoiled, rich brat honestly have?

"Wealth, social influence—contacts with every powerful Wizard family save for the Weasleys. I don't want to lose him to Vol—You-Know-Who. Something must be done. We must save him."

We? thought Hermione incredulously. Save? she thought, more disbelievingly. "I don't--How could anyone possibly save Malfoy? He's always been a bigot, a rich bully. I can't possibly see how anyone could..."

Minerva leaned back in the chair, fingers still clenched around the handle of the dainty teacup. Abruptly, she slammed the teacup onto the saucer violently, causing Hermione to flinch. "Ms. Granger, I have lived through the rises and falls of both Dark Lords. I've seen what no teacher should have to." Her voice was shaky, uneven as she continued. "I have taught Lily Evans, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and Sirius Black. The only one currently living is serving a half-human monster. I should--I should not be outliving my students. For God's sake, Ms. Granger, do you understand--you couldn't possibly--how it feels to have the children you taught killing each other on the battlefield? Do you understand how it feels to kill a man that you taught how to transfigure a match into a needle when he was eleven?"

Hermione was speechless.

When Minerva next spoke, it was out of weariness, not anger. "When I see Pettigrew, I see an awkward little boy. Socially inept, but with so much potential. All I can think is--where did I go wrong?

"I went to Hogwarts a year before Tom Riddle. I did not stop him. I taught Peter Pettigrew, and he betrayed his best friends. And Severus Snape..." Her words trailed off. "I've seen Harry Potter grow up before my very eyes, forced into adulthood, into becoming the savior of the Wizarding World before he's even hit puberty. I've been helpless to stop it." Her eyes shone with a ferocity that Hermione seldom saw nowadays. "I have had enough. This is why I'm going to ask this of you. Because I can no longer tolerate it."

"So what you are asking of me is..."

"I need you to befriend Draco Malfoy."

Feeling her heart sinking, Hermione asked, "You want me to save him." Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief, and as she swallowed, tongue heavy in her mouth. She understood McGonagall clearly; the horror of the situation had hit her immediately. How could Lucius Malfoy, a merely pompous teenager, become a twisted fragment of the boy he once was? She imagined, one day, possibly fighting Marcus Flint or having to kill Adrian Pucey. But the sharp knife of reality sliced through her thoughts--at how impossible her task really would be. She couldn't be expected to become friends with Malfoy in six years, let alone one. So many barriers stood in the way, the least of which was six years of mutual enmity.

Flabbergasted, Hermione babbled, "I understand what you have said, Professor, but I can't! I don't mean any disrespect, but Malfoy—he's hated me from the second he's met me. I don't believe that I could befriend him at all. What makes you think he could be saved? He positively abhors me, and can't tolerate me, my friends, my parents—I don't believe he'd even have the slightest inclination to—"

"Ms. Granger," interrupted Minerva. "You may decline at any time. But I think you understand that these are dark times, and that we must take precautions that we have never dreamed of doing before. Think of how large of a threat he could be."

"It just seems so unlikely," Hermione replied, aware of how childish her words sounded. "I can't tolerate him, and he can't for me, and—"

"I hope I will sufficiently impress the gravity of the situation on you, Ms. Granger," Minerva interrupted stiffly. "Don't you see? You are obviously bright, capable, and responsible. I would trust few others to perform such a task." On any other day, Hermione would have blushed to hear the compliments from her mentor. But today, she remained stricken. "The fact remains that we have all underestimated the boy and his intelligence. He managed to engineer a way for Death Eaters to enter past Hogwarts' defenses under our very noses. He has found ways around thousand year-old enchantments, some of which were set up by Dumbledore himself. Combined with his wealth—which, I must assure you, is ample enough to fund You-Know-Who's endeavors—and the sway that he holds with powerful families, this could prove devastating."

"So you," Hermione began dumbly, "want me to befriend Draco Malfoy so we don't lose the War?"

Minerva nodded curtly. "Essentially. I do not presume to believe that Draco Malfoy is the sole tenet on which victory or defeat rests. But this is war, and we will use all the resources we can."

"And what," Hermione asked slowly, "would happen if I agreed?"

Minerva sighed. "Perhaps nothing. It is difficult to say. He might be too far gone to save. But if we hope for the best, perhaps we could isolate him from the Dark Lord. What I'm planning, Ms. Granger, is this: if you befriend him, we perhaps might be able to dissuade him from becoming a Death Eater. He is unmarked. We might be able to extract information about You-Know-Who's whereabouts. Perhaps we can take advantage of his influence in society and sway more of the old wizarding families to our side. In the best case scenario, he might be a spy, although that is highly unlikely."

Best-case scenario? Hermione thought. More than unlikely--impossible, more like. The task was enormous. She couldn't erase six years of hatred, bigotry, prejudice, and the strain of inter-house rivalries in the course of months. And even then, setting Malfoy against Voldemort would be even more difficult. And what about Snape? He because a spy, and nothing good had come out of it. What if she befriended Malfoy, turned him against Voldemort, and then was betrayed? She doubted that Malfoy's backbone would be strong enough to even consider spying, anyway.

"Professor, assuming that he and I became… friends, how would I even begin to sway him from Voldemort's side?"

"You will need," began Minerva wryly, "mutual trust, which will be much more difficult task."

"This isn't going to be an easy year at all, will it?" asked Hermione, already conscious of the answer. Her eyes were almost as weary as Minerva's.

Minerva sighed. "Many changes will be present at Hogwarts this year. Instructions will be delegated to you after tonight's feast. Meet me in my office after I speak with you and Mr. Boot. Bring Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. Please consider what we have discussed—if you decide not to attempt it, please inform me by the end of the week. If you do, please set up a meeting so that we may discuss the matter further. I urge you to consider carefully, and to use the utmost discretion in your decision. You are dismissed."

Nodding dully, Hermione rose from the seat, walking through the doorway with a calm she could not believe she possessed.

I can't do this, Hermione thought as her feet carried her to the door. As she reached for the doorknob, she stopped.

"Might I ask one question, Professor?" asked Hermione, still dazed. "Why is it that—that Malfoy's been allowed to return to Hogwarts?"

The afternoon sky had darkened in Minerva's new office, transitioning from a pale pink-gold to the soft navy of early night. But the office remained warmly-lit, the candles on the walls automatically lighting when dark threatened to touch the circular, interior wars.

Minerva noticed this as her gaze, for the second time that day, turned to the right to the only portrait that appeared to be genuinely sleeping. Gilded gold framed a portrait of a wizened old wizard whose closed eyes rested behind half-moon glasses that were threatening to slip off his nose. His long, white beard twitched as he calmly, serenely, inhaled and exhaled. A small, golden plaque with rounded corners beneath the portrait was engraved with the words "Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore."

"Albus believed in second chances. The least I could do is to honor his sentiments."

Hermione nodded, and began to walk to the Great Hall for dinner.

On a nearby wall, the twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore remained closed, as McGonagall listened to the soft sound of the portraits' even breathing.