Haha so the plot for this literally just appeared in my head overnight, looks like I'll be working on this for a while :P Please remember to read and review and let me know if you liked it!
Draco Malfoy sat in his dorm, lost in thought.
He was sitting on his four-poster bed, the dark green curtains drawn around him. The rest of the seventh-year Slytherin boys would (he hoped) have hardly have noticed he was there, if any of them were to walk in.
He hoped they wouldn't.
Draco did not like the rest of the seventh years. Or rather, they did not like him.
It was bad enough that Mother had made him come back to school with the year below. He'd never liked the younger years much, although before the war they'd seemed to hang on his every word. Back then, there was always a little second year ready to carry his books, or a fourth year girl batting her eyelids hopefully at him. He'd never been short of friends, before the war had begun.
Before he'd become a Death Eater.
Now, it was a different story. Those who were still afraid of the Malfoy reputation would shrink back from him and scurry out of his path, and those who saw the skull and snake burned into his skin would soon scuttle out of his way like frightened mice. Most of the Slytherins fell into this category. They were all ambitious, bright students, who knew that it would never be a good idea to cross the heir to the Malfoy estate.
But there were a lot more people who hated him for what he'd done.
There were people in this school, in this house, who'd suffered because of what he'd done. Persephone Khong, a third year Slytherin girl, had lost her parents in the war, and Draco suspected that it might be his fault. The Khongs had been some of Dumbledore's strongest supporters; when the Dark Lord had taken over Draco and his father had been sent to their house to…
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about what he'd done, about what made Persephone narrow her dark eyes at him every time he passed. She wasn't the only one he'd hurt. There wasn't a student in this school who didn't hold a grudge against the Malfoys and who wasn't taking it out on him. His books were ripped, his bag was stolen, his trunk had been broken into and all his clothes had been sprinkled with itching powder and, if he wasn't back in the dorms before night fell, he knew for a fact that Charlie Jackson – an enormous sixth-year Gryffindor with a face like a bull – would grind him into a paste.
The only one who didn't seem to hate him was Hermione Granger.
He'd thought that she would despise him after what he'd done. Even if he hadn't become a Death Eater, he'd bullied her for years – surely she must hate him for that.
But he'd seen her taking points from people who'd smashed his brass scales, he knew that she'd put more people in detention for stealing his bag and once, he'd overheard her telling Charlie Jackson in no uncertain terms that if he ever tried to hit Draco again she'd hex his fingers together.
No, Hermione did not hate him.
He didn't know why, but he was grateful for it all the same.
There was a sharp rap on the window and Draco stuck his head out from behind the curtains of his four-poster. A slightly ruffled-looking screech owl was tapping on his window. He climbed out of bed – cautiously, just in case – crossed over to the window and opened it. He took the letter from the owl, who flew off at once, in a slightly lopsided sort of way.
His mail must have been searched again.
He settled himself back down on his bed and opened the letter.
Dearest Draco, it read, in his mother's swooping handwriting, thank you for your last letter. Your father and I miss you terribly, but I'm afraid you must continue your education at Hogwarts. As much as we would like to have you back, we've simply been unable to find a tutor prepared to educate you at home, and so you must remain at Hogwarts for the time being. Be strong, my darling, and think of this as an opportunity to rebuild the Malfoy reputation and prove yourself to the rest of the wizarding world. I have every confidence in you, darling.
Your loving Mother
Draco slumped back on his pillows moodily, his mother's letter crumpled in his hand.
His mother's confidence was entirely misplaced.
Of course, he knew that he would have to build his image back up again after his involvement with the Death Eaters. The Malfoys had been let off after Potter had revealed their last-minute change of allegiance to the Wizengamotte, but although they may have escaped Azkaban, there was a lot more work to be done. Half the family fortune had been spent on repairing – and cleaning – Malfoy Manor, not to mention lawyer's fees. Neither of his parents had been able to get a job, not when their ties to the Dark Lord were so widely known.
No, thought Draco, it was all down to him. Potter had spoken out publicly about the ways that he'd helped him, but that wasn't going to be enough. He had to prove to everyone who would listen that despite his past, he was just as clever, just as resourceful and just as hard-working as Hermione Granger. And to do that, he needed to pass his NEWTs with flying colours.
Only that was proving to be quite difficult.
He'd been so preoccupied in sixth year that he'd missed out on all the basic spellwork, and now he was so confused that his textbooks may well have been written in runes for all the good it did him. He would have to re-learn everything he was taught in sixth year as well as everything he would need for seventh year if he was going to even dream of passing, and it wasn't going well. He spent hours poring over his textbooks and yet more hours poring over the library books, and none of it was sinking in.
Draco lay back on his bed and sighed, loudly.
He was going to have to find a tutor.