Muggle studies, as it turned out, was not just a whole new subject. To Draco, it was a whole new language.
He woke up early the next day – torn from sleep by the usual dreams; nightmares of being back in his Manor, the Dark Lord's cape swishing round corners, his serpent sliding along their floors. The kind of dream where – somewhere, in the back of his mind – he knows it's not happening. He knows it's a dream. And then the panic and fear mounts as that little voice grows louder and louder and his subconscious jerks him awake to make it stop.
It could have been worse. He had an enchanted window, like all the bedrooms in the Slytherin dungeon – and with the light gathering along the horizon he guessed it was nearing six. A glance at his watch confirmed it – five forty five.
Sleep was pointless at that point – he got dressed and ready for his day, grabbing fresh robes from the trunk at the end of his bed. For an effective prison cell, his room was alright. The window was a good size and his bed was adequate – four poster with emerald green hangings. He would have liked a desk, but he supposed very little about this year had been decided based on things he might like.
He fished his timetable from the pocket of yesterday's trousers, and his stomach sank. Muggle studies, first thing. He collapsed onto his bed and stared at the piece of paper. He had eight Muggle studies lessons in total – four with the fourth years, and four with the fifth years – which meant that three days a week, he'd be forced to suffer through it twice. He glared at his timetable until breakfast was nearly open, and then shoved it in his pocket and left his dorm.
The common room was empty when he emerged, as was the Slytherin table when he made it down. There were only a few students dotted around the room, and one or two teachers up on the staff table. McGonagall had introduced the new teachers before the feast yesterday – a tall wizard with short, greying hair who would be teaching Defence Against The Dark Arts, and the young witch with short, cropped hair who would be teaching his Muggle Studies lessons. Neither had come to breakfast yet.
He thought about his Muggle Studies teacher – wondered if she was aware of the part Draco's family had played in her predecessor's death. He wondered if she'd be prejudiced against him – if he was already doomed to a year's worth of snide remarks and down-graded homework. He pondered this – shitty mood growing shittier – until it was time to drag himself towards the classroom.
Muggle studies was, however, not like he imagined.
It was not – as he had presumed – an hour lecture on the correct way to treat Mudbloods – the importance of muggles, and Professor Hall did not spend half the lesson fantasising aloud about the destruction of pureblood ideals.
He supposed he'd expected it to be the Carrows' version of Muggle Studies but in reverse. Instead, the class of fourths years sat down – Draco slouching in a chair at the back – and were introduced to the topic to be covered over the next few weeks. Muggle sports and leisure activities.
Draco had expected some of it – he'd expected to feel disgusted, humiliated – he'd expected to feel juvenile and patronised by the presence of the fourth years around him, to feel them stare and smirk on their way in. He hadn't expected to feel all that, and to feel fucking confused to.
They spent a whole lesson going through different muggle sports – and discussing all the ways there were different to wizarding ones. For an hour Draco tried to grasp what was being said – talk about Football and Rugby and Golf and Cricket.
And every time he listened hard enough to somewhat grasp what the professor was banging on about – Rugby, some game with an oval ball that can only be passed backwards – he found himself so incredulous to the stupid, pointless rules and crude, simple nature that he would stop focussing. He would drift into states of mind where snarling at the eager, kiss-arse fourth years as they dutifully supplied answers and watching the clock tick by was all he could focus on.
A one hour lesson that felt like three.
"Right, homework," their professor announced, and waved her wand at the chalk. Select three muggle sports and write an essay describing their rules, comparing them to one or two popular wizarding sports. "Copy the title down, I want ten inches on that in a week's time."
Draco sat there, scowling at the chalkboard, glaring at the homework he knew he'd struggle to complete.
"Mr Malfoy?" Professor Hall's sharp voice brought him to the present. "Are you going to write the title down, or are you currently committing it to memory?"
He snarled at his new professor, at her sardonic, patronising tone, and pulled a sheet of parchment from his bag. He scratched the title onto his page and then looked back up at her, giving her a sarcastic smile that said happy?
She nodded at him. "Class dismissed," she said, and Draco crammed the parchment and quill into his bag as the fourth years began to file out of the room.
"And Malfoy?" she called, as he turned to leave. He span round on the spot, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Taking notes might be useful next time. You'll struggle to complete the homeworks without them."
He didn't acknowledge her advice, but turned back around and left the classroom. His indignation, his humiliation was twisting nastily into anger, and he knew then he wouldn't be taking a single note in her lessons if he could possibly help it.
For the rest of Draco's day, doubts about his new subject lingered, and he felt painfully aware that his future freedom depended on a pass on it.
And when he wasn't turning that fact over in his head it was because his thoughts were interrupted by the stabbing nostalgia that came with the rest of his lessons.
Potions was just the same as sixth year – Slughorn's blind favouritism to certain students unhindered by the war, much like the speed with which Hermione Granger's hand shot into the air. Draco thought back to a time where the know-it-all's behaviour was something he could sit and mock with Crabbe and Goyle –
And then thinking about Crabbe and Goyle made him think of Goyle in Azkaban – of himself in Azkaban – and the lingering anxiety about Muggle Studies returned.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was worse. The new teacher seemed fine – competent, stable. He supposed that's what they'd hired him for – someone boring enough to end the chaotic stream of teacher's they'd once had. But the nostalgia about his former Hogwarts days he'd been feeling in most his lessons was nothing compared to the flashbacks he endured in Defence –
The professor's discussions of dark magic and methods of torture did nothing but bring up the memories of those very spells flowing from the tip of his own wand, and the screams of the people he'd once been forced to torture rattled in his subconscious. He would jerk uncomfortably with each memory the lesson conjured whilst the rest of the class sat diligently taking notes.
He thought about Longbottom's reaction to seeing the cruciatus curse from back in forth year – pictured the fat lump twitching and shivering in his seat and felt disgusted by the comparison his mind couldn't help but draw.
Get a fucking grip, he told himself at dinner, sitting down on the end of the Slytherin table as the feast appeared, and he pushed the painful memories as far back into his mind as they would go.
His next muggle studies – the following afternoon – was much of the same, except harder. He was sharing this lesson with fifth years, and the content was even more fucking bizarre than the previous one. They were studying the muggle government and its interaction with the Ministry of Magic – and once again, Draco placed himself as far back in the classroom as he could whilst Professor Hall explained about the two systems running in parallel, and then, at the end, she set another bloody essay.
Write a brief summary of the Muggle system of Government and consider the ways in which the decisions they make can effect witches and wizards across the country.
Once again, panic twisted Draco's core. Another homework he was sure he wouldn't be able to complete – another internal reminder that if he didn't get to grips with this fucking subject, he would complete his sentence here with one at Azkaban nicely lined up. He copied the title onto a scrap piece of parchment and left the classroom before Professor Hall could admonish him for – once again – not taking down a single note.
After three months of house arrest Draco was struck uncomfortably by the feeling of routine that life in Hogwarts gave. Before he'd lived by his erratic sleeping pattern – lying awake half the night, napping throughout the day – eating whenever he felt he could stomach it or when his mother basically forced food down his throat. Days had blurred into nights and unbearable cabin fever had blurred it all into one.
Here, he a had routine. He was so swept up in the strange, repetitive thud of his new – slash old – life that he was almost surprised when a week had gone by – when Sunday snuck up on him.
He'd crept through his first week back with as much subtlety as he could manage. Apparently the shock of having his formerly destructive presence back in their common room still hadn't worn off, and his fellow Slytherin's regarded him with him fascination, resentment and disgust all in one.
He spent as little time in the common room as possible.
The library was useful – he could tuck himself in a corner, find a table crammed between two bookshelves, hidden with the dusty volumes that no one ever looked at or cared about, and get on with schoolwork in peace.
Whilst the lessons themselves were not Draco's favourite place to be – stuck in a room with people from other houses, from the year below, and quite often the insufferable presence of Granger – working by himself, completing his homework, Draco didn't mind that.
If he stayed late at the library then he could go back to the common room when it had nearly emptied, avoid the awkward glances and whispers on the way to his dorm. And doing his homework for his other subjects made him slightly less wary of the increasing numbers of Muggle Studies essays with their encroaching deadlines. My other subjects are more important, Draco thought, ignoring that Muggle Studies was probably the most important, actually, and ranking them solely based on his respect for them. I'll get to it when I've finished potions.
And it wasn't until Sunday night – with two Muggle Studies essays due in the next two days – that procrastination was no longer an option, and with great reluctance Draco pulled a fresh roll of parchment and his Muggle Studies textbook from his bag, glancing at the title he'd scribbled down.
Select three muggle sports and write an essay describing their rules, comparing them to one or two popular wizarding sports.
He licked his teeth with irritation and tugged his textbook towards him, flicking through the chapters with more force than necessary. He skim-read the descriptions of the muggle sports he would have to describe, scowling when still, the rules seemed confusing and non-sensical and when still, his anger and resentment at having to study this bullshit made his head spin and his heart throb and he found it difficult to focus.
Evening had sunk into night by the time Draco completed his essay. It was shit – he knew that much. He'd found the passages in the text book that had seemed most coherent and, having given up on trying to understand them, had simply copied them down. He could see it already – Professor Hall's irritation at him basically plagiarising the set text, his lack of notes meaning he had nothing else to go on.
He scratched out a brief paragraph on a comparison to wizarding sports – glancing at the illustration of some sport called Basketball and writing some nonsense about the hoops used in the wizarding sport being similar to those in Quidditch – except muggles only used one ball and couldn't even fly, so it seemed pretty fucking pointless to Draco.
It was a good few inches shorter than what she'd wanted and Draco stared at the completed homework with distaste. He thought about what his father would say if he could see him now – comparing the most popular sport in the wizarding world – a sport he and his father had both loved – to some bullshit sport that muggles played. He thought about the Carrows, the Dark Lord – all the people who would laugh and tease him in the same cold, calculating manner they'd done last year, and seriously considered setting the fucking thing on fire.
He felt humiliated, belittled, and after rolling up the essay with hands that shook with anger, he shoved his things into his bag.
He was on his way out of the library, glaring at the floor and hoping that the Slytherin common room was empty, because he felt the next person he saw he might end up cursing into the next fucking century – when he rounded a corner and crashed into a book-laden figure.
Textbooks crashed to the floor and he looked up to see Hermione Granger with an annoyed and flustered look on her face, her books and quills and parchment now scattered on the space beneath them.
She glared up at him, and his resentment towards her increased ten-fold. His frustration, his entrapment, suddenly it all felt like her fucking fault. The mudbloods and their pathetic preaching – their hysterical cries to be accepted, to be respected – that was why he was here, studying this bullshit subject. She was the reason he was here and not at home with his mother, and he felt an anger so violent it took him all the self-restraint he that not to hex her right there.
"Watch where you're fucking going, Granger," he spat, and her eyes widened.
"Don't speak to me like that," she said indignantly, "You walked into me, you're the one who should – "
He barked a humourless laugh. "Oh, let me guess, – it was my fault – "
"Well, yes – "
" – because we should all make way for our esteemed head girl," he sneered, stalking towards her, backing her up against the bookshelf. "Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Granger," he snarled, "But being a know-it-all suck-up and wasting time hanging out with Saint Potter may grant you respect in the eyes of this fucking school – "
She scoffed. "How dare – "
"But it doesn't grant you respect with me," he shifted further into her space, and hissed his next few words into the inches left between them. "To me, you're still the mudblood bitch with big front teeth and even bigger hair with no business ever stepping foot in this castle."
Outrage erupted on her features, and she shoved him back with so much force he staggered. "You are the one with no business here, Malfoy. You're only here because the ministry pitied you too much to send you to Azkaban. Maybe Ron was right," she said, disgust written in the curl of her lip. "Maybe Harry should have let you rot in prison."
Draco seethed. Of course she'd fucking brought that up. It was probably why the twat had gone and done it – he wanted another thing to hold over Draco's head, another reminder of his various fuck-ups. "I never asked Potter to go and – "
"Save your breath, Malfoy, I get it. You didn't want Harry to testify to for you, he just did it because he's a decent guy – "
Draco scoffed. "More like meddling twat who can't mind his own – "
"He's just like everyone else," she interrupted. "Trying in vain to help you out even though you prove, again and again, that you don't bloody deserve it. I'm done with it, I'm going to bed."
"Whatever," he snarled, as she stooped to pick up her fallen books. "Go run to McGonagall, tell her I used the M word. Maybe that will get me out of this place."
"Maybe I will," she threatened, straightening up.
"Maybe you should," he spat back.
The two of them glared at each other for a moment – tension building with their locked stares – and then Granger whirled around, storming out of the library without another word.
Draco watched her leave – adrenaline from their row coursing through him, and he felt some of the anger and frustration that had been gathering within him dwindle, and for a second, he almost felt – better.
It was only when the rush of their argument began to wear off that her words begun to sink in, and on his walk back he found himself replaying her insults in his mind –
Maybe Harry should have let you rot in prison.
"Maybe he fucking should've," Draco muttered to himself as he approached the Slytherin dungeon.
He wondered – once he was back in his dorm – if she'd go run to McGonagall like he'd suggested. He wondered if he'd be called to the head's office tomorrow – if his use of the word Mudblood to the teacher's pet was enough to get him kicked out of Hogwarts and landed in Azkaban.
He climbed into bed, staring up at the hangings, with one thought moving round his mind in circles. "I don't give a shit," he whispered, shutting his eyes. "Send me to Azkaban, I don't fucking care."
.
.
Anger flowed through Hermione as she walked back to Gryffindor Tower – her indignation occupying her thoughts to the extent she was surprised to find herself back at her dorm.
As head girl, she'd been given her own room – one that could be accessed both by a door in the common room, and a portrait that she'd never even noticed before (she supposed that it was charmed) that was around the corner from the fat lady.
She bypassed the usual portrait hole and went to her own one, giving the password and climbing into her room. It was styled a bit like the common room, only a bit lighter, a bit fresher. The walls weren't laden with red and gold tapestries like the main room in the tower, but had been painted cream like the other dorms, and she had a large window. There was a large four poster bed with red hangings, which sat next to the door to the common room, and opposite that she had a desk.
"It's charmed to suit each head girl or boy," Ginny had informed her when they'd first looked around, and this had made perfect sense. It was Gryffindor themed, and cosy like the common room, without being too over-the-top, or too crowded or musty. She had a window seat for reading, the desk for working, and a large bookshelf.
She worked at the desk when she couldn't be bothered to go to the library, or when she woke up in the early hours of the morning and couldn't fall back asleep – but not all the time. Tonight, for example, she'd felt like the walk, felt like the distance from the Gryffindor tower.
It had been – strange, coming back. Strange without Harry and Ron. Their absence was everywhere.
And like the absence of a quarter of the students – like the uncharacteristically quiet presence of Dennis Creevey, the lost, distant demeanour of the newly-made orphans among them, the occasional look on Ginny's face that told her she was thinking of Fred – it reminded Hermione of how everything had changed, and it was as though the War was a presence in itself, lingering like smoke in the hallways and classrooms.
And that morning, she'd received a letter from her mother.
Her parents had found it hard, coming back to the life they'd lost. The whirlwind of emotions they'd felt upon suddenly remembering their only daughter had by this point, to an extent, subsided – and now they had to fit themselves back into a life they'd forgotten. Trying to reach out to old friends who at times, were almost bitter – confused and hurt at their friends taking off to Australia without a word.
Hermione had explained – she'd explained she couldn't have kept them with their memories of their friends – what if one of them called? Asked how Hermione was getting on? Asked after the daughter they had no recollection of?
The letter had landed by her breakfast this morning, and it had been hard to read. Her parents had sold their dentist practice prior to the move, their usual clients drifting off to other dentists in their area, and they were struggling with what to do with it all. Someone else living in the house they'd sold, their jobs taken over.
They were trying to fit back into the holes and gaps that had long since been filled.
And through it all they'd been kind, of course. We know it's not your fault, darling, you did what you thought was best. We're grateful to you for keeping us safe.
Hermione had read the letter and the pain she felt for her parents – the guilt she felt for putting them in that situation – she'd carried it with her for the rest of the day.
She'd been in a bad mood.
Maybe that was why she'd snapped at Malfoy.
She almost felt ashamed; she'd promised herself she'd let go of all that petty hate, the feuding with the Slytherins. She'd listened to McGonagall's words about unity and had vowed to take them to heart – the aftermath of the war would be enough of a struggle without the constant bickering between houses.
But the fact that still – after everything that happened, the muggle killings, the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, the people murdered, the people forced into hiding, her own parents having to have their world upside down – the fact that still he chose to use that disgusting word, that his prejudices still seemed intact. It had tipped her over the edge, and those words had been rolling off her tongue before she could stop them.
For a moment, though, it had felt sort of…good. To direct her anger towards someone, instead of keeping the pain over her parents bottled up because – who was she to complain? She had parents. Harry never had and Ginny and Ron had lost a sibling and broken homes were dotted round the school.
Hissing insults in his face had felt good, in a way. The satisfaction that had come from his "whatever" – the feeling like that in some, twisted way, she'd won the argument. She'd felt angry and frustrated, but sort of…better.
"You could tell McGonagall," Ginny suggested at breakfast the next day, when Hermione relayed her experience with Malfoy. "You heard what she said about – using that word. If he keeps it up he'll get expelled."
Hermione shrugged. "Yeah, and then what? He gets sent to Azkaban?" She shook her head, spreading butter over her toast. "Seems pointless to make him spend a year in Azkaban over some stupid word that doesn't even bother me anymore."
"I suppose," Ginny conceded. "Although if he keeps acting that way, saying that sort of shit to other students – "
"But he's not, is he," Hermione replied. She looked over to the Slytherin table, spotting the back of Malfoy's head at the far end, a good metre away from the other members of his house. "You've seen him in Potions, in Transfiguration. He doesn't say anything, he's basically mute the whole time."
Her friend hummed. "Fair point. It's unsettling really. He has charms with Luna, apparently he's the same there too – just sits at the back, it's like he's barely even there. I guess he'd have some nerve taking the piss out of her when she was locked in his basement for however long."
Hermione grimaced. "Yeah, I guess so."
.
.
Draco spent the next day wondering if he'd be called to the head's office, if Granger had snitched on him and he'd be on the next train out. He almost didn't bother with his second essay for Muggle Studies, but when Monday dragged on to the early hours of the evening, and he'd had no word from any of the teachers, he reluctantly made a start.
It probably won't even matter, he'd thought, again copying whatever bullshit he could find from the text book. Granger'll snitch and I'll be gone. The essay was even worse than the last one, he barely understood a thing about the muggle government, and when asked to describe how their laws after wizards, he couldn't help but feel bitter about the very principle of it.
But Granger seemed to fall back on her threat and Draco was still there the next week, when he received the first of his Muggle Studies essays back.
Professor Hall tutted at him as she handed the roll of parchment back, placing the essay on his desk as he packed his bag. It had been another tiresome lesson about muggle leisure activities – this one about their means of electronic entertainment, whatever the fuck electronic meant – and she'd given the class back their homework as the end of the lesson was approaching.
Draco steeled himself and unrolled the parchment. He licked his teeth in irritation as he glanced over the grade written there, as well as the feedback underneath.
D
Most compelling points appear to be copied word for word from the textbook, and no engagement with the subject matter is shown. A lack of basic understanding about the activities described makes attempts to compare to wizarding sports – and there were few – unconvincing. Badly structured.
He'd received a D – D for dreaful. He'd failed. Draco knew the essay hadn't been great, but he'd hoped – somehow he'd hoped – that he might be able to get a pass. He'd banked on being able to scrape by – pass by a couple of marks each time and he'd be able to avoid Azkaban with some of his pride entact (because his unexpected relief about not being called up in front of McGonagall had shown that he probably did care about Azkaban). But no – he was failing.
He glanced at the piece of parchment where he'd written today's homework –
Describe muggle forms of electronic entertainment and explain why they aren't found in the wizarding world.
– and went to potions in a considerably lower mood.
His next Muggle Studies lesson was worse – more dribble on the relationship between the muggle and wizarding ministers, more facts and descriptions that Draco refused to note down, another fucking homework – and then at the end of the lesson, he got his other essay back.
T
Much too short. Most lucid parts of the summary section again, have been directly copied from the textbook. Little to no description of how muggle law can affect wizards, and the few examples have derogatory and resentful undertones.
"Malfoy?"
He looked up as Professor Hall approached his desk. "That essay will need re-doing," she said shortly, and his jaw dropped.
"What the f – "
"School rules, Mr Malfoy. Failed assignments have to be re-done, I only let you off yesterday because it was your first assignment. You have until Monday – no arguments."
He glared at her. "Fine."
Draco scowled at her retreating figure, shoving the essay into his bag and watching with satisfaction as it creased and crumpled beneath the weight of his books.
Resentful undertones – the bitch had given him a T for resentful undertones. Of course he was fucking resentful – it was muggles who'd landed him in this mess. Their laws affecting wizards, it should be the other way around –
Before Draco could finish the thought, painful memories seized him –
The Dark Lord's high-pitched voice ringing in his subconscious about making the muggles submit, succumb to wizarding law – muggles in their rightful place – and Draco shook his head to try rid himself of the thought.
I'm not like him, Draco thought determinately, as the feedback from his essay floated before his subconscious – and he shoved angrily past a first year on his way to lunch. Voldemort was a deranged psychopath – he'd murdered and tortured, he'd ripped his own bloody soul into fucking pieces and Draco – Draco wasn't like that.
He thought about his parents – his parents who'd taught him about the Wizarding world and the way it should work – thought about his mother, she wasn't a murderer, not like the Dark Lord. Being pureblood doesn't make me evil, Draco thought at lunch, staring at his food, now without much appetite for it. Just because I'm not a blood traitor it doesn't make me evil.
But then he thought about Dumbledore – his wand aimed high at the elderly wizard, death eaters storming their school – and he took off from the Slytherin table before the smell of the food made him sick. I'm not like him, Draco said to himself, but it took a fair few mental repetitions and Hogwarts's winding corridors before he could make the words stick.
He was walking past a window on the second floor when he caught sight of Granger outside – walking with the youngest Weasley and Lovegood to the tree by the lake, lunches in hand. It occurred him then, as he watched her turn to her friend and laugh, that she was the last person he'd spoken to. Staying mute in lessons, barely leaving his dorm – spending as little time as possible in the common room. Determined to avoid any and all contact with other students, and he hadn't spoken to anyone in two whole days.
Draco clicked his tongue. No wonder he was starting to go a little mad.
That Sunday, with his next Muggle Studies essay, and his re-do of the previous essay due the following day, he stared at the book in his lap – and panic rose in him as he struggled to decipher the meanings of the different, foreign terms – electricity, television, laptop, computer – and when the anxiety became too much to bear he slammed the book shut and hurled it at the wardrobe opposite him.
He wished there was something nearby made of something less robust – something he could throw and watch with satisfaction as it smashed. Instead he got the splintering of the wooden door as the textbook hit it and the heavy thud as the text fell to the floor.
He thought about tomorrow, when he'd be asked to turn two essay's he hadn't written, and how Wednesday would likely provide similar circumstances, and didn't get very much sleep that night.
.
.
Time seemed to be moving quickly for Hermione.
She didn't know if was the shock the steady, continuous routine had been to her system, and that it had made time flow quickly, or if was all the schoolwork she had keeping her busy. Either way, it was only when a letter from Ron and Harry arrived at Breakfast, detailing the visit they'd promised, that she realised nearly a month of Hogwarts had already passed.
The boys had been busy recently – their letters detailing their work at the Ministry, the chaos they were trying to untangle, George's fluctuating state of grief, how Teddy Lupin was getting on – and they hadn't had time to visit yet. They'd decided to come tomorrow, a Saturday, as it was the first Hogsmeade visit of the year. Unlike Hermione, who was a sort of honorary Eighth Year, Ginny didn't have the option to come and go from Hogwarts as she pleased – hence the Hogsmeade plan.
"Is that a letter from the boys?" Ginny asked, as Hermione read it.
"Yeah, they're gonna meet us at the Three Broomsticks tomorrow at one."
"Cool," said Ginny, and Hermione noticed her smile as the younger witch poured milk into her cereal.
She supposed Ginny was excited to see Harry – that a month must be a long time for the young couple who'd basically been living together over summer. And then she realised – with a slight jolt to her stomach – that the same could also be said of her and Ron.
And she was excited – very. She just wasn't sure what sort of excitement she was feeling. She didn't know if she was excited to see Ron because of…whatever they were, or if because he was one of her best friends. She wrote to him often and he wrote back – but sometimes the letters they exchanged could easily be mistaken for letters exchanged between her and Harry – like they were perched on the tipping point between friends and lovers and she wasn't quite sure which way they'd fall.
She was interrupted from her thoughts when a first year girl she recognised from tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned round.
"Oh, sorry," the first year said, clearly shy in the presence of Hermione. "It's just, I have a note from Professor McGonagall for you."
"Oh, thank you," said Hermione, somewhat surprised, and she took the note from the young Gryffindor's hand.
Ginny frowned. "What's it say?"
Hermione unfolded the note.
Hermione,
I have a matter that I wish to discuss with you, and I was wondering if you would come to my office at seven this evening. If this does not work, kindly find me during the day and we can reschedule.
Kind regards,
Professor McGonagall
Ginny frowned. "I wonder what that's about."
Hermione re-read the letter, puzzled. "I have no idea."
"Oh, and there was one more thing," said the first year, and then laughed nervously. "She wanted me to add that, uh – tabby cats are her favourite breed."
Hermione exhaled a laugh. "Right, thanks," she said, and the first year left.
Ginny frowned. "Tabby cats?"
"The password," the older witch explained, grabbing her things for her first lesson.
She spent the rest of the day wondering what McGonagall wished to discuss with her – perhaps something to do with her Head Girl duties? She'd had discussions with McGonagall about this throughout the time they'd been back – quick conversations about how everything was going, about Hermione's organisation of the prefects, et cetera, but perhaps the headmistress wanted to discuss it all further?
Or perhaps she wanted to know how the boys were getting on? Get an update about their work within the Ministry?
Hermione wasn't sure, but gathered her things at ten to seven that night and set off from the common room.
She supplied the password to the Gargoyle, and after making her way up the slowly turning circular staircase, found the headmistress sitting comfortably behind her desk.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall greeted warmly as Hermione stepped into the office. "Have a seat. So tell me," she said as Hermione sat down before her, "How has your first month back been?"
"It's been good," she replied. "The work has been tough at times – it's been…odd, going back to doing schoolwork after a year of doing anything but."
"Struggling to adjust?" McGonagall said, with a knowing smile.
"In a way it's a relief," Hermione said thoughtfully, thinking to afternoons spent tucked away in the library, her focus on her studies forcing confusing thoughts about Ron and painful flashbacks to the war out of her mind. "I've always loved learning."
The professor smiled. "So you have. I was wondering how you were getting on with your N.E. . How much…spare time you have."
Hermione frowned. "I have some, I suppose. Having my own dorm is helpful – I find it easier to concentrate in there than in the common room at times."
McGonagall nodded. "Good, because I have a…favour, of sorts, that I wanted to ask you. If you feel you have the time."
"Professor?" She said, intrigued by what her headmistress might want of her, and keen to help Hogwarts in any way she could.
"I have a student who is…struggling with a subject. It is very important that they should pass, but they are failing to get to grips with the content. If they continue in the manner they have been, there is no way they will pass. With already a month of school gone, I worry if we leave it much longer it might be too late for them to save their grades."
Hermione frowned. "That bad?"
"They are yet to pass a single of their homework assignments, and are now apparently refusing to turn them in all together. As you can imagine, this is worrying."
"Which subject is it?"
"Muggle Studies," McGonagall replied. "Given you are not only the brightest student in the school, but also have a great understanding of the muggle world I wondered if you might consider tutoring them. If you have the time."
Hermione paused. She was quite busy – she was already doing more N.E.W.T than most other students, and the homework was only going to increase. That said – this was her first year at Hogwarts where Harry's war with Voldemort wasn't taking up any of her time, and she'd spent a fair amount of her time at Hogwarts half-tutoring the boys anyway.
"I suppose I probably have enough spare time," she said. "And muggle studies is obviously a subject I'm passionate about…" A thought occurred to her. "Which student is it?"
McGonagall hesitated, and Hermione got the feeling that this was the piece of information she'd been most reluctant to divulge.
"It's Draco Malfoy, Miss Granger."
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A/N: Been a while since the last update but hope you enjoyed – finally got a bit more Draco/Hermione interaction with this one (and lots more of that to come!). Reviews please!x