― CHAPTER NINE ―
Defense Against Draco's Arts
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Ginny Weasley agreed with Hermione that censorship of Malfoy's debut in the rôle of renegade was wise. The Order already knew; if Lupin shared facts on a need-to-know basis, he must have his reasons why Harry and Ron should not hear of their archenemy's state of affairs. So Hermione wrote a letter on all the changes at Hogwarts minus one, and reminded her friends to inform her of the Gringotts result.
Life at Hogwarts resumed its normalcy as classes began and both faculty and students willed to put ghosts to rest and plough on with it. Hermione soon found herself buried in mountains of seventh-year homework, patrol shifts, and during what free time she had, library research on the lives and lineages of Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor. So far, she had not found anything noteworthy about valuable artifacts or living descendants, but there was always the Restricted Section if nothing turned up.
A few Gryffindors had abstained from returning to school: Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnegan, for example, which led to a new friendship between Lavender Brown and Dean Thomas. Hermione could see that Hogwarts students were really taking the 'united we stand' approach to heart this time; it was no longer unusual to see cross-house amity … Ginny was hanging out with Luna and other Ravenclaws, Neville was seen potting plants alongside Hannah Abbot of Hufflepuff, and even Slytherin prefect Blaise Zabini got along with the other prefects. Some Slytherins, of course, like Parkinson and her friends, still kept to themselves, biased, aloof, and antagonistic.
As for Draco Malfoy, he was rarely in the company of anyone at all. Even though most students fairly believed in his conversion, they were still distrustful of the Dark Mark-carrying Slytherin and the uncharacteristically impassive expression that had replaced his trademark sneers and smirks. Pansy Parkinson seemed to be the only person who tried to approach him, but for some unfathomable reason he had brushed her off, causing her to studiously ignore him thereafter.
Three days after start-of-term, Hermione's brown barn owl came swooping in amid the morning post delivery rush, and a letter fluttered onto her milk jug. She gave Hermes a treat and excitedly opened the envelope which was addressed in Harry's hand.
Dear H,
Hope you're well and not missing editing our essays for us … the 1.7 karat gold was successfully sold off at the bank. We are looking forward to a walk down memory lane this weekend with captain hook … let us know if key to ancient runes are found in your studies.
We certainly miss you,
P.W.
Hermione smiled to herself. Another Horcrux down, three to go. Voldemort was half-mortal now … and they might find new clues at Godric's Hollow, and they would be protected by a veteran Auror –she assumed the alias for Moody was based on the lack of eye & leg, not on his pirate-like gruffness … a tiny frown creased her brow. She hadn't found any hints of the relics yet; perhaps it was time to get a note from Professor McGonagall for deeper delving …
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The Headmistress still occupied her old Transfiguration office, because Minerva McGonagall staunchly refused to move to Dumbledore's quarters. Hermione knocked and, hearing her Head of House call "Come in," entered the austere, book-lined room. McGonagall looked up from the papers she was grading –not yet a week into term and she had foot-long scrolls back –at her desk. "Miss Granger, how did you know I wanted to see you?"
"I didn't," said Hermione. "I came to ask for a library pass."
"Restricted topics, I presume?"
Hermione smile demurely. "Extra-curricular."
"Very well," said McGonagall, scratching out her signature on a permit. Without looking up from what she was doing, she asked, "Have you noticed changes Mr. Malfoy's behavior?"
Hermione shrugged. "He keeps to himself. Seems numb."
"Precisely," said McGonagall. "That is why I want you to befriend him."
"Pardon, Professor?"
"To befriend is to become someone's friend," said McGonagall wryly. "Mr. Malfoy was a minor when he made his mistakes last year, so legally he is entitled to Ministry pardon. We, however (the accentuated word translated as Order) don't wholly trust him … not after what happened with Severus," she finished softly.
"But –how would I be able to tell?"
"My dear," sighed her teacher. "You are an intelligent young woman. I am certain you will find a way."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but promptly closed it, knowing that McGonagall was not the kind to be dissuaded. Or disappointed. So she slipped out of the office and walked to her Charms class feeling very out of her depth. Hard-to-find Horcrux hints, and now, harder-to-find-out enemy (ex-enemy?) true colors … this was a very different kind of challenge set before her, and books could not give her answers. Assuming she managed to accost the unapproachable Malfoy, how was she supposed to be congenial to him when he routinely called her 'Mudblood'?
She spent most of Charms racking her brains on how to best handle the situation. During lunch, she snapped out of her reverie as a fork prodded her upper arm. Hermione saw that Ginny was regarding her with curious amusement.
"You have that look of distracted concentration," the redhead said, sticking her fork back into her mashed potatoes. "So no Eureka! yet, huh?"
"It's complicated," said Hermione.
"Your life is about to get worse. Wait til you have Defense, we had it this morning, and two words: Power. Trip." Ginny rolled her eyes.
Hermione stared at her. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?
"I can see the light bulb has switched on," laughed Ginny. "I just have that effect on people, I guess!"
Hermione smiled too and reached for the potatoes. Her appetite had come back the way it always did when her brain was no longer expending its energy on higher-than-instinct impulses.
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Class was already in session when Hermione rushed into the dungeon where Snape had taughtPotions the years before. Malfoy was leaning against the blackboard near the door and pushed it shut behind her, saying carelessly, "Ten points from Gryffindor. Buy a watch, Granger."
Hermione turned pink as she found an empty seat. He was allowed to take away House points? Behold the power trip.
Everyone was shifting uneasily under Malfoy's coolly blank stare, so unlike his prior explicit cockiness yet somehow exuding stronger confidence.
"I don't want to be here," he began in a flat voice. "I'm not Potter, out to avenge Evil by training the children of Hope as my private army." He shrugged languidly. "But McGonagall didn't give me a choice, so I'm going to illuminate you innocents on the –ah– 'fearless acts of Deatheathing.'"
A shudder went through the classroom. It sounded so much more up, close, and personal than what they had heard from other teachers.
"Instead of practicing a bunch of shield charms and counter-jinx crap, which my esteemed colleague –" here Malfoy allowed himself a faint derisive smirk –"has already covered, I'll be focusing on the core of Defense Against the Dark Arts … that is, how to resist their seduction."
Malfoy looked at Hermione as he said this, and again, for the briefest of moments, she saw a strange secret smile pass his lips as if he knew something she didn't. Determined not to feel unnerved, she stared right back at him unblinkingly.
"There are lots of ways the Dark Lord holds court over his servants," he continued, drawing out his wand and flicking it so that a black smoky serpent appeared in the air next to him. The class drew back instinctively; Malfoy rolled his eyes. "It's smoke, people … and I don't speak Parceltongue anyway." His irritation smoothed into poised calm again as he gestured at the snake. "This is the Dark Lord's emblem –it symbolizes his gift for Serpentry."
Hermione could not help a small startled "Oh!" from escaping her mouth. Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "I suppose you're bursting to tell us what this means, Granger … although how you could know …"
"I d–don't," she stammered.
"Come now, Hermione," Malfoy taunted. "Don't be shy."
Hermione glared at him. So that's how you want to play, is it? "Serpentry," she said softly and clearly, "is the art of spellbinding by way of snakelike ocular hypnosis: with red eyes, to be exact."
Malfoy looked surprised. "My, Granger, I never pinned you as one to quote Magicke Moste Evil." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Has Potter been … nosing around in forbidden knowledge?"
Dean, Lavender, Neville, and others' faces twisted toward her, agape. She had to be careful Harry's secret training wasn't exposed … it would just add fuel to the 'Chosen One' rumor and savior image, which he despised …
"Of course not," Hermione spat. "I just happen to have wanted to broaden my theoretical horizons."
"Really? How interesting," said Malfoy, evidently believing her. He gave her an appraising, appreciative glance as he dispelled the snake into wisps. "Detention, for messing around with contraband books."
Hermione gritted her teeth. She had never gotten a detention before in her life, and she wasn't about to serve one to Malfoy of all … unless … maybe this was a blessing in disguise: she could use the time to 'befriend' the sneaky little snake.
The scholar in Hermione, as the lesson progressed, had to admit that the sneaky snake was an eloquent lecturer. He covered point-to-point the nature of this complex Dark Art, its effects, and ways to resist its influence. Grudgingly impressed, Hermione wondered for the umpteenth time why Malfoy had seemingly turned over a new leaf in such a shocking manner: true, his mother's death must have disillusioned him from serving Voldemort, but it was quite another thing to actively train his former master's opponents by spelling out word for word the whys and hows of the Dark Lord's power. It could all be an elaborate scheme, she mused, but to what end? What reward would justify such huge exposure risks?
When class was over and everyone had filed out, Hermione marched up to his desk and asked in the politest voice she could muster if she could reschedule her detention, as she had patrol duty that evening.
Malfoy was gathering his things, not bothering to look up. "No," he said shortly. "Tonight, here, after curfew."
Setting her mouth in a thin line, she slung her bookbag over her shoulder and turned to leave.
"And Granger …"
He finally glanced up, eyes as hard as diamonds.
"Bring the book."
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Of all the non-ladylike things she had done in her Hogwarts years –slapping Malfoy, stealing ingredients from Snape's private store, trapping Rita Skeeter in a jar, stomping out of Divination, hexing Ron for snogging Lavender –one thing Hermione had never dreamed of doing was to pinch a book from the place she considered an inviolable temple: the Library.
But she had little choice in the matter now; either stealth against McGonagall or sabotage of Harry. So it was with a quivering hand under her robes that Hermione twitched her concealed wand and mumbled, "Reducto," at the burnished leather volume in the Restricted Section. It shrank to finger-length, and, darting surreptitious peeks to her either side, she swiped the miniature Dark Arts bible quickly off the shelf and jammed it into her pocket. Letting a minute or so pass, Hermione strolled casually to the door.
"Always a pleasure to see you dear," Madame Pince called after her.
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At eight on the dot Hermione knocked on the dungeon door. When no answer issued she tentatively nudged it open and took a step forward. The room was cold and semi-dark and appeared to be empty. "Malfoy?" she called out uncertainly.
"Don't fret, I'm here," came the drawling voice she knew so well.
Ah! He's sounding like himself again: egotistical and sarcastic. Draco Malfoy was at his desk again but this time, sitting on it, with feet planted on the seat of a chair in front. Reminding me of the authority border –her eyes rolled skyward –and wanting to look down at me. What a Caesar complex! As she approached she noticed he looked different than he had in class … more casual, relaxed. His school robes were flung over the chair; he had his shirtsleeves rolled back and his green-and-silver tie slightly loosened. The white-blond hair wasn't slicked back as she was used to seeing it, but falling sleekly down in its natural state. Hermione stiffened at her own observation. What has Malfoy's hair got to do with anything?
"Reporting for detention, sir," she said with heavy sarcasm.
"Sit, Granger." Crossing his arms as he indicated a seat in the front row facing his desk. Hermione woodenly slid into the narrow table row and lowered herself on its bench, dumping her bookbag unceremoniously on the floor beside her. She had never been in such isolated proximity with the Slytherin, and felt undulating waves of dislike shimmering through her; she didn't know how she was possibly going to get through this tête-à-tête without recalling all the rotten things he had said and done to her, Harry, and Ron these six years –from the first moment in the train compartment to his moment of flight with Snape. But McGonagall had made it clear that it was vital to unearth Malfoy's true status so the Order would not be duped into letting another double-agent penetrate the walls of Hogwarts. She would have to overcome the ingrained pattern of acrimony if she really wanted to –ugh– grow friendly with him and break through his act.
As she attempted to crack a civil smile at him, Malfoy was tilting his head and scrutinizing her with a pleased half-smirk. "Your mane has been tamed, I noticed. Much less of an eyesore."
Hermione's smile faded as insult-reaction kicked into auto-pilot. Scathing come-backs danced on the tip of her tongue. Wait, dolt, that was a compliment … warped, but a positive comment nonetheless, a girly part of her that was suddenly conscious of her glossy near-waist-length curls, protested. Then her sensible self intervened. What has his opinion about your hair got to do with anything? Just concentrate on mission: ferret befriendment!
"Your flattery is priceless, Malfoy," she said good-naturedly, "You always did spotlight my best qualities."
"Your sole defining quality has always been your blood."
Blunt and blasé. Noticing her wince, he added, "I know it hurts you to hear me speak of it. I don't regret that. Because," he suddenly slithered down from the desk and up to her so rapidly that there was only an infinitesimal pause until his next words, which he leaned across to whisper so near her face that her earlobe tingled with the heat of his breath. "I adored every single time I called you Mudblood; it made you react to me. Your reactions were our only interactions … how can I regret them?"
Hermione felt a warm shockwave wash through her nervous system. He's playacting, get a grip … she angled her face slightly; it was her first close up of Malfoy, of the clear depth of his eyes, shaded by dusky lashes, and the flash in them so intense that she pulled back with a slight squeak. "Malfoy, back off!"
He straightened up immediately, and took a step backward, placing his palms flat on either side of her tabletop, elbows locked toward his own body. "Why?" he said calmly, the unreadable expression back in place.
"Why not?" she rejoined hotly. Something he once said about not wanting to touch her because it would 'slime up' his precious hand flashbacked, and unconsciously she looked down at his hands, or rather, his sinewy inner wrists that he was leaning his weight into. And saw her first live Dark Mark tattoo. Normally sheathed under robe sleeves, it glared at her now from his bare left forearm. Darkly and deeply embossed in the pale, almost translucent skin, marring it like a disfigurement. She took a steadying breath. "Maybe," she said quietly. "Because your presence as Death Eater is undesirable."
Malfoy looked bewildered; then his eyes too dropped to his arm. Defensively pushing away and yanking his sleeve over the Mark to his wrist, he hissed, "You have no idea how it is … !"
"Is?" Hermione said sharply, rising, and feeling her cheeks color. "I thought it was?"
A split-second silence.
"Don't wet yourself, Granger," he replied, drawl pronounced and cold. "For a mere slip of the tongue … unless," lightning-quick his expression changed into that sultry smile Hermione was beginning, against her will, to find not altogether 'undesirable,' "You'd like us to try?"
Her eyes widened. No boy had dared make so lewd a comment to her. The same impulse to strike Malfoy that she had given into in third year flared up, but was arrested by her Head Girl scruples. Head Girls did not punch, especially not when in detention, even if the 'teacher' was a harassing prick. Head Girls simply … report to the Headmistress.
"Dream on, ferret," she growled, reaching for her bag and removing the book she had re-engorged to its original size. "And remind me exactly how this heart-to-heart constitutes serving detention?"
"It's making you squirm," returned the blond, grinning evilly.
It was true, but Hermione would rather not ask him directly the meaning of his enigmatic behavior: the mood fluctuations from pokerfaced to expressive, the lack of insults (well, almost), the outrageous claim that provoked her in the past to was to evoke her attention, and above all, the disorienting smiles that were traditionally not aimed by Slytherins at non-Purebloods. What kind of mind game was Malfoy playing? Was she getting herself into something she wouldn't be able to handle? Especially since she was alone in it?