CHAPTER SIX

"And now for something completely different."

John Cleese (and assorted others), MONTY PYTHON

"Professor McGonagall," Draco said at the end of the lesson. "Could I have a word with you, if you're not busy?"

She looked up at him sharply. McGonagall was crotchety at the best of times, and Draco knew that he had never been one of her favourites. Unlike Professor Snape and the Slytherins, she didn't openly favour the Gryffindors in class- well, as far as he knew, as Transfiguration was about the only class the Slytherins and the Gryffindors didn't have together- and most Hogwarts students agreed that she was strict but fair. But there was no reason for her to like the son of a Death Eater, especially if that particular son had been openly unenthusiastic to disdainful about the Professor and her subject for the past five years. She wasn't vindictive about her dislike for Draco, but when she did have to address him, she did tend to look at him as though he were something that came out of a raccoon's bottom.

"Yes Malfoy, what is it?" she said tersely.

"It's about my OWL exam," Draco answered. This obviously wasn't what she was expecting- nor it seemed, was his mark because she actually gave him a thin-lipped smile. Draco had seen it happen before, but never directed at him.

"Yes Malfoy, I meant to congratulate you on that mark. Most surprising. I never knew Transfiguration was one of your fortes." She raised a thin eyebrow.

"It's not usually," said Draco. He took a deep breath. "But I'd like it to be."

She put down the quill she had been writing with after a moment or two of quiet, unreadable regard. "And why is that?"

Draco hadn't been expecting that question. The simplest way to answer it, obviously, was to tell her the truth. "Well…I never realised I could be so good at it. It's difficult, and the challenge is good for me. I also…" He sighed uncertainly. "I just…I just…"

Professor McGonagall's thin lipped smile had softened slightly. "You don't have to tell me." Draco was finding it hard explaining it to himself, so he stopped rambling, gratefully. She picked up her quill again. "All right Mr. Malfoy, I admire your decision to become more acquainted with Transfiguration. How do you suggest you do it?"

"Well I was hoping you would give me some kind of tutoring, you know. Out of class."

Professor McGonagall was jotting something down on the piece of parchment in front of her. "Hogwarts Professors are not allowed to tutor their students, according to the school rules. It would be unfair. However, I can offer you tutelage from one of our more advanced Transfiguration students, if you would like. I'm sure she would be willing to oblige."

Draco felt a stab of anxiety. He was hoping to do it secretly, so no one would know that Draco Malfoy was trying to improve at Transfiguration, of all things. "Um, Professor…"

"She will, of course, be sworn to secrecy, though I myself cannot vouch for her silence. However, I'm sure that she will uphold the promise- if you ask her nicely."

"Sure," mumbled Draco. He had the bizarre feeling that Professor McGonagall was making fun of him, somehow. She folded the parchment twice and then handed it to him. "I've arranged your first tutoring session for Friday night. That is, if you yourself are not busy."

"No, professor," Draco said, pocketing the parchment. "I'll go to the school owlery now."

"Good," said professor McGonagall, turning back to her work. "Good day, Malfoy."

"Good day, Professor." Draco left the classroom and turned into the by now empty corridors- Transfiguration had been the last class for the day and everyone was at dinner. He could hear the rumble of a thousand Hogwarts students beneath his feet as he walked along the second floor to the staircase that led upwards to the Owlery.

Already he could feel shame beginning to boil in his stomach. If his father knew…! But he doesn't, Draco reminded himself. And Lucius wouldn't find out, either. Just like he had never found out that Draco had always relatively liked Transfiguration. Aware that it was not prudent for someone from a long line of Slytherins to show an active interest in a subject that was not only run by the Head of Gryffindor house (and indeed, it was tradition for the Head of Gryffindor to run it) but was also closely studied by most of those in the order of the Phoenix and the Aurors of Britain, Draco had never told anyone that he had always quite liked the subject. Dumbledore himself had once taught Transfiguration at Hogwarts, before going on to become headmaster after Harold Dippet died.

It was most definitely a subject prized by Gryffindors and/or those against Voldemort. It was no coincidence that most students in Gryffindor found transfiguration was their forte- except perhaps that hapless half-wit, Longbottom.

So why did Draco find himself drawn to the subject? Well…why not? He had always liked the process of turning something into something else, and he had the kind of mind that could very easily decipher all of the complicated notes and apply it with ease to the actual process of transfiguration. What he had said to McGonagall was true- it was difficult, and he did like the challenge. In addition to that there was an idea behind transfiguration that also appealed to him. Nothing was concrete, set in stone, if everything on the earth could be transformed into something else. There was always hope for the bad, and condemnation for the good. It was fascinating, in a way.

He decided, upon reaching the Owlery, to send one of the school owls with the note, lest his new tutor, whoever she was, recognise it and be put off from tutoring him immediately. If she was a Gryffindor- and it was more than likely that she was, as most of the advanced students in transfiguration were- then it was probably best that she didn't know to whom she was giving lesson until she had actually been commissioned into doing it. Draco had been aware for some time that he wasn't particularly well liked around the school, even before Lord Voldemort had risen again. Even some of the other Slytherins tended to glare at him nowadays. Not many people, not even the most pure-blooded Slytherins, wanted Voldemort back, being for the most part quite content to exercise their disliked for Mudbloods by antagonizing those who were not of wizard born just at Hogwarts. But even the Muggle baiting within the Hogwarts walls seemed to have dissolved. Everyone was in the same boat, now. Scared.

It was more likely to see a pure blood like himself being bullied than a Muggle born, these days. He hadn't as yet gotten any more comments about his father like the one Hermione Granger had delivered to him on platform nine and three Quarters, but it was only a matter of time. Even Muggle-lovers like Weasley and his ilk were being given a rest by the Muggle-baiters.

Draco frowned as he tied the parchment to the leg of a big brown school owl, ready to be sent off in the morning's post as he thought about how turned the tables were. Now he, Malfoy, was at the aft of the school pecking order, and people like Weasley were at the helm. And speaking of which, what exactly had been the meaning of Weasley's outburst at dinner the previous night? Why, the only words Draco had spoken to Weasley since the holidays had ended had been "Oh, calm down, Weasel," as Weasley had been trying to wrap his hands around Draco's throat after that unfortunate incident on platform Nine and Three Quarters. He smirked, suddenly, as he closed the cage door on the owl he had just tied a letter to. Just watching Granger and Weasley- Mudblood and Mudblood-lover, really it should have been a perfect match- anyone could see that they were unsuited to each other. Both had ridiculously prominent faults about their person, far too much to create any real sense of harmony in a relationship. To Draco's eye, it was a case of Weasley being smitten and Granger being not smitten enough. But that was fair enough.

"Really, how could anyone fall for a creature like Weasley?" Draco muttered aloud. Even Weasley's imposing height worked against him, as did the freckles, the bright red hair, and the prominent nose. When he walked it was as though he were unused to having limbs, as his spindly arms elbowed this way and that through the crowded corridors. It was too easy to make the idiot flush with anger, and no one really distinguished had ever had red hair. Weasley could have made himself into something piquantly graceful and inspiring if it weren't for his hopeless personal traits and country background. True, he appeared to have filled out a little bit this year and his height didn't look quite so ridiculous in comparison with his gangling extremities, but the fact remained that Weasley was a ridiculous and almost pathetic creature in every respect. The only thing that could make him more pathetic was if he has Longbottom's personality. Draco grinned at the thought as he got his own owl out from its cage next to the window. "Hello, Shakespeare," he crooned, stroking the soft feathers on the eagle owls head. Shakespeare had been a present for his mother, complete with the name.

"What's Shakespeare?" Draco had said, trying to contain his delight as his mother presented him with a cage full of owl a few days before he had started at Hogwarts.

"He was a man."

"A powerful man? I've never heard of him."

"I don't expect you would have."

"Was he rich and famous, mummy?"

"Sometimes," she had answered mysteriously. That had been when Draco was eleven, and his mother was straight at least seventy percent of the time. That was when he would sometimes find her in the kitchen in the middle of the night, whiling away the hours with a bottle of wine and a glass.

"What are you doing mummy? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Leave me alone, Draco."

"Mother?"

"Just leave mummy alone."

That's what he did, nowadays. Left her alone. It was difficult to get an answer out of her, anyway, and when he went down to the kitchen at night there wouldn't be a glass, just a bottle and a packet of pills next to her trembling hands.

"Headache, mother?"

"Draco?"

"It's me."

"I'm in a sad mood, Draco. Leave mummy alone."

Once she had taken his hand and bade him sit down next to her. "I saw him, once," she had said, her eyes glossy with drugs and tears.

"Saw who, mother?"

"I saw him killing one."

All the hairs on Draco's neck had stood on end. Her hair was down, floating around her shoulders in an ash-blonde cloud. A few strings hung down on her face, catching in her mouth as she talked. "I saw him killing one," she repeated, in an unbearably tear stricken whisper. "A muggle."

Draco's mouth had gone dry then. He knew what she meant. He just didn't want to believe it. "Who did you see?"

His mother didn't appear to have heard him. Her hand clenched tight around his wrist. "I saw him killing a muggle." With sudden ferocity, she let go of his wrist and slapped both her hands over her face, covering her eyes. "The…mask!" she hissed at him, between her fingers. Then she had started to scream. Draco had been so surprised he had knocked the bottle of wine to the floor, which had only evoked more screams from her. When Draco had cut himself on the glass in an effort to clean it up, she had shuddered and spoke in a harsh whisper. "The blood of the innocent," was all she said. And again. "The blood of the innocent."

A shiver passed through Draco. The Owlery was drafty and his stomach was rumbling. It was time for dinner. Not time for the midnight memories. "What are you doing, you stupid bird?" Draco whispered heavily, as Shakespeare climbed disappointingly readily back into its cage. "If I had wings, I'd be out of that window in a heartbeat."

*

Something awful happened on their first Friday back at Hogwarts: a muggle born was attacked. The story went that Janice Smart, a third year Ravenclaw, lost her wand. In a panic, she ran back to the library after lights out to see if that was where she had left it. In actuality, she hadn't left it anywhere- it had been taken by whoever her attackers happened to be. They (and everyone hoped it was a "they"; for one person being able to do as much damage as they did to her was frankly nauseating) accosted her in the Charms corridor; she was found on Friday morning by Professor Flitwick, unconscious and badly bruised.

Ron had privately made his own conclusions as to why she was attacked (the words "Voldemort's" and "supporters" immediately leapt to mind, closely followed by "bastard scumbag gits"), and they were pretty much the same as the rest of the school's. Janice was a kind girl with few enemies- certainly no one who would want to beat her up- and she was terribly opinionated about the war on Voldemort. In fact, the rumours went it was she who had written that dirty little poem that was circulating the school, and started off "There once was a house named Slytherin, who we want to blown into oblivion…."

In Ron's opinion it was all too obvious what was going on, and it made him sick to the stomach. It also made him incredibly wary. "If they- whoever they are- attack a little girl for writing a silly poem, what would they do to someone like Hermione?" Hermione, who was one of Harry Potter's best friends, who everyone knew to be a most powerful witch, who was one of the most outspoken against Voldemort in the school. It was dangerous. But he hadn't ever thought they would be in danger inside the Hogwarts walls. "Stupid of me not to think," Ron muttered. Voldemort was everywhere. Well, he'd just have to remedy that by keeping an eye on her every minute that he possibly can. It wasn't hard; they had almost every lesson together, as well as living in the same tower. He scowled suddenly as he remembered Hermione complaining about Draco Malfoy in Arithmancy- the one subject he didn't have with her.

His bleak mood was reflected by the sky above his head as he walked away from the Quidditch pitch, having teed up the use of the pitch with Oliver Wood. Dumbledore, sick of broken broomsticks and rogue bludgers, had decided toward the end of their fifth year that the school was in need of a Quidditch coordinator, and had thus wrote to the ex-Gryffindor captain Oliver Wood, knowing that his former student was in need of work. Oliver was delighted, as was the team he played for, Puddlemere United. Hogwarts school provided them with a very decent and free pitch to train on, and they attracted a lot of students during their training sessions. Puddlemere United had even changed their mascot to a winged boar as a tribute to the headmaster's generosity.

It had been Dean's idea to have a game after lessons. Ron and Harry, tired of playing one-on-one, had been ecstatic at the idea, and Ron had taken it upon himself to go and speak to Oliver. He'd invite the girl to join their game as well- at least that way he could keep an eye on Hermione as well. Like hell he was going to see his girlfriend get hurt.

Reminded, he shot Draco Malfoy a murderous look as he stomped into the hall, shivering from the cold (he had neglected to take his coat)- but the Slytherin was too busy picking at his Shepherd's pie to even notice. He looked different without Crabbe and Goyle, though- smaller, less intimidating. A stab of pity surprised him suddenly- but he dismissed it as quickly as possible. It didn't do to pity those on the other side. Look at Peter Pettigrew- in a moment of pity, Harry had let him get away. Ron couldn't make the same mistake with Malfoy.

He spotted Harry and Hermione sitting toward the other end of the Hall, with Dean, Seamus and Lavender. He noted that an empty seat had been reserved to Hermione left, and he shook his head. No one was bigger supporters of him and Hermione than Dean, Seamus and Lavender. It was shame he and Hermione weren't such big fans. "Okay guys," he said, upon reaching them, draping his cloak over the back of Hermione's chair. "I asked Olly, and he says it's okay if we have the pitch for a few hours after dinner."

"Right on!" Dean said.

"The pitch?" Hermione asked, turning to face Ron. He grinned at her, which he would have done involuntarily even he wasn't talking about his favorite subject. She looked beautiful, as she always did, with her hair all frizzy from the morning's shower, a few loose curls playing around her neck. He very much wanted to kiss her.

"For Quidditch! We were talking in Divination," he said, gesturing to himself, Harry, Dean and Seamus, "and we were thinking that it would be cool if we could play Quidditch for a bit, since training season hasn't started yet, and you and Lav could play too and it would be three a side. Mind you, it took about twenty minutes to convince that prat Oliver. I'm starved."

"Sit down and eat something," Hermione said, returning his grin. Ron felt his appetite subdue a little as she put her hand on his knee. He swallowed hard and turned to lunch.

"So, will you play, girls?" he said, piling sausages onto his plate.

"I suppose so," said Lavender, wrinkling her nose.

"Definitely," said Hermione. Ron felt lifted immediately, so he turned to her and gave her a big grin. Her heart felt lifted once more as he leaned over and gave her an enthusiastic peck on the cheek. Dean and Seamus "awwww"d, and Ron didn't even mind, he was so looking forward to their game of Quidditch.

"Fantastic, it'll be great. I haven't been able to play Quidditch for ages since Fred and George went to London. Then maybe,' he said, turning once again to Hermione, "we should go to the library and do our homework." But then, her pleased expression changed. Ron's heart froze as her face did.

"Oh, no…" she groaned, putting a hand to her head.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you remember on Wednesday I got that letter from professor McGonagall asking me to tutor someone in Transfiguration? Well, our first session is supposed to be tonight, right after dinner."

"Re-schedule it," Ron said immediately.

"I don't think I can," Hermione said, looking miserable. "I told her I'd do it, and she said to meet the tute at seven thirty sharp outside the library. I promised her, Ron," she added hopelessly.

"Huh," said Ron, feeling awful. Not even her disappointed expression atoned for the fact that she had to go off and tutor some random in a library instead of playing Quidditch with him. How could she even think about it? The only time they had time for fun during the term was at the very beginning, when all they were doing was going over what they learnt last year anyway. There she sat, perfectly calm, dismissing their time together in favour of a favour to Professor McGonagall. He felt himself beginning to droop, but tried desperately not to let it show.

"Do you know who it is you're supposed to be tutoring, Hermione?" Lavender asked keenly.

"No idea, Professor McGonagall didn't say who- in any case, she said I'm supposed to keep it secret. Sort of a tutor's code," she said with a laugh. "She just said I'd been recommended as an advanced Transfiguration student and would I be able to give a few relaxed tutoring sessions to someone who wants to improve." She was being nothing less than flippant about it! It wouldn't stand. He felt more than hurt- he felt pissed off. And Pissed Off With Hermione was something he hadn't felt for a very long while.

"Recommended, eh?' said Seamus, puffing out his chest like a proud father. "They really don't make them like our Hermione any more, do they?"

"Course not," said Dean fondly, "she's one in a million."

"Or at least one in a thousand," said Hermione, rolling her eyes, "there are heaps of people out there better at Transfigs than me. Well, maybe not heaps," she added with a laugh. Everyone else chuckled appreciatively. Ron forced a smile into his face, lest Hermione of being sulky. Which she tended to do. (But how would she know how he felt? Goddamit, she was so rude sometimes.)

"You want some more pumpkin juice?" Hermione asked as the others broke into a discussion about the standard of Transfiguration students at other schools.

"Nope."

"Any more food?"

"Nope."

"For heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione snapped suddenly, "you can't get mad at me because I have a prior engagement, it's not my fault!"

Ron blinked at her, startled by her outburst. Then a surge of anger, matching hers pound for pound, positively leapt up his throat. "I didn't say it was," he retorted finally, feeling his face flame, "but pardon me for not being delighted that you can't come!"

"Well, that very sweet of you but if you're angry about it, don't take it out on me!" she snapped back. She glared at him with a set jaw, her eyes blazing, and Ron was hit in the face by a sudden, awful sense of déjà vu. This was reminiscent of a thousand a one fights they might have had at this very table- before they got together. He felt his resolve rapidly deflating as his anger dissipated in a cloud of fear. He had to go, quickly.

"Fine, I'll go and take it out elsewhere," he said angrily, and shoved back his chair and got to his feet.

"Oh, nice," Hermione said, folding her arms as Ron snatched his cloak off the back of her chair. "That's really mature, Ron."

"Well if it's okay with you, I'll just go and be immature and angry somewhere-sodding-else," he threw over his shoulder.

"Fantastic, give us all a break." she muttered. In reply Ron just gave a disparaging "Chuh," and stormed off. No sooner had the door of the Great Hall swung behind him than it opened again and Harry appeared.

"Okay- what? Did I just see that or am I still hallucinating from Potions this morning?"

"I don't know- I'm not sure it happened myself…" Ron groaned, slumping against the wall. Harry slumped next to him, giving him a kind nudge with his shoulder.

"Forget about it, you guys'll make it up again. You always have."

"We haven't fought like that in ages," Ron said. Secret fears and insecurities hovered on the edge of his tongue. Should he tell Harry? Should he tell Harry that he was terrified one day Hermione would realise she was way too good for him and just break it off? "I think I might go for a walk."

"Nah," said Harry, "It's started to rain."