If there was one thing about Hermione Granger, it was that she brought a book with her wherever she went. Her choice that afternoon was a collection of poems by Anne Sexton. It sat idly on her lap as she rapped her knuckles against the hard cover, anxiously waiting for time to pass.
Hermione waited on the wide burgundy armchair in Professor McGonagall's office, her right leg crossed over her left as she absentmindedly fiddled with the hem of her cardigan. McGonagall had summoned Hermione to her office for a meeting at noon, for which Hermione arrived fifteen minutes early. Now, ten minutes past the hour, the witch had still not appeared. In the nearly thirty minutes she had waited, Hermione's anxiety had duplicated.
That morning at breakfast, Hermione received an unexpected owl. The note it carried was neatly folded with Hermione's name scrawled across the front flap in perfect penmanship. Receiving notes from McGonagall was hardly out of the ordinary, at least in Hermione's case. While Ron or Harry might worry about sudden communication from their professor—beignet he two students who most often found themselves in trouble—Hermione was different. Her correspondence with the Deputy Headmistress dated back years, occurring on a regular basis throughout each term. They checked in on one another every few days, mostly to discuss Hermione's studies or a book McGonagall found that she wanted to share with her pupil.
Recently, however, every bit of news made Hermione uneasy. Especially when it came from McGonagall. In the current state of the world, people were on high alert, constantly awaiting news on Voldemort's inevitable next attack. He had officially returned—so what was his plan? These days, Hermione could only assume that any news was bad news.
She often marvelled at the fact that she was once able to feel totally at ease. There was a time where her greatest worry was passing her final exams. Now, every moment felt like a battle between life and death.
Nevertheless, she arrived early, albeit apprehensively, to the Deputy Headmistress' office that afternoon. Outwardly calm, she awaited the professor's report with bated breath.
McGonagall's office was a quaint, cozy room tucked away in a quiet corner of the castle. It was one of the most inviting spaces that Hermione had ever encountered, in spite of the fact that McGonagall could sometimes seem severe. The office boasted a large window that offered a picturesque view of the beautiful Scottish landscape, the vast grounds and of course, the Quidditch pitch. A fire, which Hermione believed to be perpetually burning, flickered and crackled, warming the room to the perfect temperature to beat the frigid air outside.
In spite of this, Hermione felt uncomfortably warm. The stress made her cheeks burn. Her sweater was too itchy against her skin. With the nerves bubbling within her, she couldn't stop herself from bouncing her knee in anticipation.
After what seemed like ages, the thick wooden door flung open and McGonagall, clad in her signature emerald green robes, strode into the room in a blur. "Miss Granger," she addressed Hermione without slowing her pace. She moved towards the desk, pausing briefly to sigh aloud. "My apologies. Unfortunately, a number of first year students were involved in a misuse of magic this morning. Very unpleasant."
The older woman flicked her wand and the door swung shut behind her as though thrown by a gust of wind. McGonagall used magic like it was effortless. Hermione was constantly in awe. She could only hope to possess even an ounce of McGonagall's talent.
Hermione quietly cleared her throat and sat tall, assuring her professor that she was happy to wait. She watched McGonagall glide through the room, flickering her wand again but this time to boil water over the fire for tea. Once everything was set into motion, McGonagall lowered herself into the chair opposite Hermione.
"I suppose you're wondering why I've called you to my office this afternoon. I have a rather important subject to discuss with you."
Hermione's stomach churned. She tried to steady her breathing as she prepared herself for the truth. "Professor, is it… Are my parents alright?"
McGonagall's eyes widened in surprise. Hermione could have sworn that she saw the witch's perfect posture fall for a moment before she quickly recovered. "Oh, yes. They are fine. Only, it had not occurred to me… You children are so much more aware of the state of our world than us adults often realize. Although, I suppose you aren't much of a child anymore. I understand it was your seventeenth birthday just the other day."
Hermione's shoulders loosened as the conversation turned more relaxed. "Yes, it was."
"Happy birthday," McGonagall said. With the pleasantries aside, McGonagall clasped her hands firmly in her lap. "I've asked you here today because as it happens, I am in need of your assistance.
"You see," McGonagall continued. "A certain classmate of yours has been, shall we say… struggling more than usual with their studies this year. In the past, I have not found reason to be especially concern with their academic performance. In fact, they are quite bright. However, I have been alarmed as of late. I fear that it is not a lack of understanding—that would be much easier to correct. No, I believe it is a lack of interest that plagues this student. That's where you come in."
"Me?" Hermione squeaked.
The water shrieked as the water came to a boil over the fireplace. McGonagall nodded thoughtfully, using her wand to make a pot of tea. She poured piping hot brown liquid into two porcelain teacups before continuing. One glided towards Hermione and she caught it carefully in mid-air with both of her hands.
"You are, without question, one of my brightest students, Miss Granger. I doubt anyone would have the gall to argue that."
The declaration made Hermione's chest swell with pride. She could feel the satisfied pink glow in her cheeks. It wasn't often that her professor doled out compliments, so when you did happen to receive one, you could be sure that McGonagall meant it earnestly.
"I believe that it would be sufficient for this student to be influenced by your presence. They have previously shown an interest in you, so to speak. It might be beneficial to create an environment that would challenge them to work harder. Would you be willing to take on this task?"
"I'm sorry, professor. I don't understand," Hermione confessed. Her hands were growing warm from the teacup so she adjusted her grip to hold the handle instead. "Are you asking me to tutor someone?"
"Not exactly." McGonagall spun a spoonful of sugar around in slow circles inside her teacup. "You wouldn't be teaching them. The aptitude for knowledge is there. They simply require encouragement. I realize you must be busy with your own studies as well as… certain extracurricular activities that have preoccupied everyone as of late. But it shouldn't be too much extra work. Just an hour every day is all I ask. I'm positive you could manage it."
"Oh, I'm not worried about the workload," Hermione assured her. She thought back to her third year, when she juggled extra courses with the help of the Time Turner. Time management had always been her strong suit. "I'm honoured that you would consider me. Thank you for the opportunity, professor."
An accomplished smile spread across McGonagall's lips. "Good. I'm glad that's settled."
"So, who is that I'll be working with?"
McGonagall paused to take a long sip of her tea. She quietly smacked her lips together before replying. "I'm afraid that the student in question is Mr. Malfoy."
"Malfoy?" Hermione's blood ran cold. "As in Draco Malfoy?"
McGonagall raised a hand in the air. "Miss Granger, before you are tempted to pass judgement, I urge you to remember that Mr. Malfoy earned his spot at this institution, the same as you did. He deserves an equal opportunity at success, regardless of your personal feelings."
"Begging your pardon, professor. But Draco doesn't deserve anything," Hermione protested. While she was often quick to voice her opinion, Hermione never spoke so bluntly to a teacher before. At least, she was never stupid enough to do so vocally. On this subject, however, she couldn't stay silent. "He's… Well, he's the most horrid person. He isn't doing well in his classes because he doesn't care. I have classes with him, professor. He is disrespectful to our professors and to any other student who actually cares to learn."
"Hermione, you are the only one who challenges him," McGonagall appealed with a desperate sigh. Hermione had never heard McGonagall say her first name aloud before, at least not since the Sorting Hat on her first day at Hogwarts, and the sound caught her by surprise. "You might be our only hope of getting through to him."
"I think you underestimate how much Draco despises me."
"Respectfully, Miss Granger, I must disagree with you."
The proposal was not only horrifying; it was demeaning. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Help Draco Malfoy? This had to be some sort of a sick joke.
McGonagall rose to her feet and strolled to the window. As she glanced out upon the school's expansive grounds, she gingerly sipped her tea. Hermione craned her neck to try and steal a glance at what the older witch saw, but Hermione couldn't see anything from her obstructed view.
Finally, the witch turned back to face Hermione. "You are at perfect liberty to decline my request, if you so wish. I'm not here to force you to do something you don't want to do. However, I must admit that I would be greatly disappointed if you were to turn it down."
Unbelievable, Hermione thought. Professor McGonagall—who had witnessed firsthand how Draco Malfoy spent the past five years tormenting the entire student body—was asking Hermione to voluntarily sacrifice her time, energy, and mental wellbeing to assist him. Worse, the older woman was guilting Hermione into agreeing. Hermione reckoned that the poor woman must have been placed under an Imperius Curse. Either that or Ron actually had it right when he guessed that McGonagall was going senile.
"Professor, please understand," Hermione pleaded. "He is unteachable. He is rude… and… and… uncouth! Believe me when I say that there is no way that Malfoy will allow a Muggleborn to tutor him."
"It may be improbable. But seldom anything is ever impossible." McGonagall's eyes twinkled in an unsettling way.
The most obvious tactic that McGonagall was using to get her way was by getting under Hermione's skin. Hermione recognized this almost immediately. It was hardly a secret that she valued the opinion and praise of her professors more than she did anything else in the material world.
While that might be enough alone to convince Hermione to agree to the proposition, there was something else, something far more important that inclined her to say yes. She thought back to the morning of her birthday and the conversation she had with Harry. Sure, he was being paranoid about Draco's dark proclivities. But what if he was right? Would it not be an incredible danger to the school, let alone the wizarding world at large, if Draco Malfoy was secretly initiated as as Death Eater. He had boundless access to the castle and the grounds, and there was no telling what he could do with such power. The uncertainty gnawed at her, even though she repeatedly assured herself there was nothing to worry about.
And here, she was presented with an opportunity to get to the bottom of things once and for all. Surely, if she spent an hour a day with Draco, she would be able to confirm that he was not, in fact, a Death Eater.
On the other hand, she could also find out that he was one. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
"Miss Granger, please." McGonagall was practically begging, a desperate edge to her voice. It occurred to Hermione that this was the last resort—or rather, last hope. "It would mean a great deal to me."
Hermione stared long and hard at the older witch who's eyes bored back into hers with a silent but anguished plea. God damnit. With an audible groan, Hermione finally, and reluctantly, gave her answer. "Fine. I'll do it. I'll help Malfoy."
The words made Hermione's skin itch. How was she supposed to tutor Draco when she was filled with disgust every time she looked at him? The thought of seeing him every day with no way to escape or avoid him made her feel physically ill.
"Thank you, Hermione," McGonagall replied with a genuine smile. She took another sip of her tea. Hermione barely touched her own cup.
Immediately, McGonagall fell into action mode, laying out plans for Hermione. "You will assist Malfoy in studying Transfiguration, History of Magic, and Potions. The two of you will meet for one hour each evening, except for Sundays. I secured the library for you two to work in, and Professor Snape and I have arranged to have curfew lifted for you both so that you may meet from nine to ten o'clock. Luckily, as you are both prefects, there will be less questions as to why you are out late."
Hermione stopped herself from rolling her eyes at the association of Draco Malfoy with the term "prefect". Frankly, she didn't think he deserved the title in the least. What had he done to earn the honour? He should be punished, not rewarded with more responsibility and authority in the school.
"Furthermore, I would like to request that this be kept between yourself and I, and Professor Snape and Mr. Malfoy. It would be best that the arrangement be kept discreet."
For that, at least, Hermione was grateful. God only knew that Harry would have a coronary if he found out that Hermione was spending time with an alleged Death Eater. That would really get him going.
"What should I tell my roommates?" Hermione asked.
McGonagall considered this for a moment. "Tell them that as a prefect, I've asked you to assist me with a special project. If anyone is nosy, I will deal with them myself. However, I think the explanation will be sufficient."
Hermione agreed. In fact, she was hardly concerned by how her own roommates might react to her absence. She wasn't even certain that they would notice she was gone, let alone care about where she was or what she was doing. She wasn't particularly close friends with any of them, after all. It was her friends that posed a potential problem.
Most of her friends would accept McGonagall's lie as a reasonable excuse. However, as a prefect, Ron might wonder why he wasn't called to action, too. Then again, he wasn't arsed about his own prefect duties and wouldn't be too keen in joining in on hers.
Once Professor McGonagall finished relaying her instructions and their tea had gone cold, Hermione thanked her professor for the opportunity and made her way to the door.
As she reached out her hand for the doorknob, Hermione felt the gnawing feeling that McGonagall was withholding something. She slowly turned around to look over her shoulder at the older woman. "Professor?"
McGonagall was seated at her desk, her eyes staring down the bridge of her nose at a piece of parchment. "Hm?"
"What exactly did you mean when you said that Malfoy had shown an interest in me?"
The professor glanced up at Hermione, peering over her thin spectacles at her pupil. An odd look grew in her eyes, like a secret that was bursting at the seams. "Have a good afternoon, Miss Granger."
With a huff of frustration, Hermione accepted her dismissal and bid her professor a good day. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her and planted her back against the door, squeezing her eyes tight until she saw stars appear in the darkness behind her eyelids. Either McGonagall knew something that Hermione didn't or she was a sadist who purposely wanted to watch Draco and Hermione tear each other apart. Regardless, Hermione had a suspicion that this was going to be a horrible term.
A sick feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, she felt as though she had just made a mistake that she would regret for the rest of her life.
