Draco was trying his best. Truly, he was. He had taken what McGonagall had said to heart. She had placed so much trust in him. He couldn't just throw the responsibility he'd been given out the window. She was counting on him and a nagging part of him told him that it was the right thing to do.
He'd find a way to work with Granger, even if it killed him- which, if he was honest with himself, it might.
So try his best, he did. He helped best he could with managing the prefects, pulled his fair share of hall monitoring, and split the tasks given to them as close to fifty-fifty as possible. Each prefects meeting, he listened carefully in case he was needed for anything, though Hermione always seemed to have everything well under control. But even after a few weeks' practice, he had yet to become fully comfortable doing his job. The problem was, he was uncommonly worried about what everyone thought of him.
Though he had yet to catch anyone actually doing so, he constantly felt like everyone was staring daggers at him behind his back. His father had been a death eater, who was now imprisoned in Azkaban. Most people probably wouldn't have a have a hard time lumping them together. The thought of being compared to his father made him incredibly uneasy and so was the reason why he kept mostly to himself- a pariah, though not entirely by choice. He worried for the rare event that someone should confront him, accuse him of the deeds of his tainted past. What proof would he have to fight them with? His robes concealed his own painful reminder of the choices he couldn't change: the dark mark.
Amongst the shadows, however, he had his ray of hope. One thing had gone right so far, and that thing was Daphne. She would sit with him at lunches when he otherwise would have sat awkwardly and alone off to the side. While he was content simply with her companionship, there was absolutely no denying that she was a peculiarly interesting individual. She was highly opinionated and very vocal about the things she was passionate about. Their most recent lunch "conversation" had consisted entirely of Daphne ranting about how messed up she thought the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s system was.
"You base your entire future on two sets of standardized tests! How does that seem right?"
Surprisingly, he found that he didn't much mind her bluntness. He had been around highly outspoken, obstinate people his entire life, but Daphne liked to speak almost exclusively about her most unpopular opinions. He found it quite fascinating, even if he didn't agree with everything she said.
Beyond his meager social life, he worked hard in his classes knowing full well that N.E.W.T.s were coming and that they would spring on him if he weren't prepared, though he found his heart wasn't in it quite like it had been in years gone by. Perhaps it was the absence of his father's constant pressure or even possibly the fading of his own desire to outperform all competition. Either way, it didn't matter; it was a losing battle. Even without the emotional baggage and social pressure he was currently managing, he had never beaten Hermione.
After six years, as much as he hated to admit it, she had the lock down on smartest student. But that wasn't going to stop him from focusing on his work and doing his best. He was still determined not to let a silly thing like emotion get in the way of earning top marks, cut below Granger or not.
One sunny afternoon, he had wandered down to the quidditch pitch to watch a Slytherin practice session. Surprisingly, he was finding that he missed it less than he would have expected. He certainly didn't envy the Slytherin's team captain as he sat watching her direct a whole new team of fliers around the field, trying, seemingly hopelessly, to minimalize collisions and maximize synchronicity. Though as he watched the players zoom about on their brooms, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia.
Along with his Hogwarts letter delivered earlier that summer, he had received notice that, as head of Slytherin house, Slughorn had appointed him as quidditch captain for the year. Even then he hadn't been very excited at the prospect and had written back promptly asking for new arrangements to be made. He certainly didn't regret that decision now. It would have been far too stressful for him to handle everything he had on his plate currently and organize quidditch practices and attend games. Inevitably though, he missed the thrill of flying.
With the crazy schedule of a typical seventh year student, he had found himself fortunate enough to stumble upon a rare spot of seclusion, beyond the confines of his room, that, as far as he was aware, was all his own. He had discovered the small clearing on a hill overlooking the lake while exploring the grounds idly, looking for an excuse to be alone. He had been charmed by its comfortable and peaceful atmosphere automatically. It was a flat grassy patch on a slight precipice some thirty feet above the lake. A dense collection of trees behind it camouflaged it just enough to be difficult to find. From it, he had a beautiful view of the mountainous backdrop behind the lake and, if he stayed long enough, he would often be rewarded with brilliant sunsets.
He sought it out on afternoons or during his free periods as a peaceful place to sit and clear his head. The fresh air did his overworked brain a world of good.
On a particularly crisp afternoon, he sat gazing out over the water and found himself thinking about his fellow head girl.
It was still very early in school year, but things were already loads better than he had originally thought they'd be. Hermione was a good fit for her job, McGonagall had not been wrong in that regard. All the prefects seemed to find her quite manageable. He was the one who wasn't supposed to like her. And yet, he found that his hatred of her was quite the opposite of how it used to be, now toned down, the reasons behind it turning ever more murky by the day. She wasn't the same girl from their early years. The girl he remembered had been dominating and boisterous. A teacher's pet who's only true intelligence stemmed from her ability to photographically memorize large swaths of textbook information.
The Hermione he saw now was none of those things. She was commanding without being bossy, polite to those around her, always taking into account what others had to say, and worked twice as hard as anybody else.
When he thought about it, he'd never hated her for anything she'd done purposely. She had never been rude to him in all their years at Hogwarts. In fact, the most insulting thing she'd done was hang out with the likes of Potter and his clingy keychain-of-a-sidekick Weaselbee. Jealousy of her had spurred him on more than anything. No matter what sorts of poisons he shot at her, he would see her laughing happily the next day with her friends. No matter how hard he tried, she was always a step ahead. He treated her the way he had because he'd been told to. "Because they're not like us," his father had hissed.
What real reason did Draco have to hate her anymore?
The truth was simple: none. The things Daphne said had really affected him. And yet, it was a realization he'd been struggling to come to terms with for quite some time. The obsession with blood; how it had different qualities, how someone else's blood could be dirty or tainted- it all sounded so ludicrous when it wasn't being shoved in his ears every breathing minute. By now he was convinced that if there ever was anyone with dirtied blood, it was him, having done so many terrible things. It hurt him, to know that he had been so certain; that he had put so much trust in an idea without stopping to actually think about it. It wasn't her he hated, but himself.
He knew words hurt, which is why he had employed them as his most skillful weapon, one that was physically imperceptible, yet inexpensive and easy to use. Emotional pain wasn't like other types of destruction. It couldn't be fixed with a bandage or a mending spell. It could be eased, but wouldn't disappear quickly. Unfortunately for him, he, the inflictor, had remained blissfully oblivious to how deeply he cut, leaving his scars far below the surface.
Draco balled his fist and punched the ground, his face distorting with frustration. He'd hurt her, in good conscience and regularly, for years. He had looked her in the eyes and deliberately tried to cause as much damage as possible. Thinking back to the night in Malfoy manner, her screams materialized in his mind instantly, causing him to wince. What a coward he had been.
He was ashamed of how his former self had behaved, but he was at a loss as to how he could communicate that to her. How was he supposed to make up for years of damage? Even he couldn't fully understand his change of character, how could he expect her to? How could he expect anyone to? And now that he was in a place where he felt like he could start taking his stubborn, parasitic feelings for her seriously, it was far too late. The damage had already been done. Once they were spoken, words couldn't be undone with other words; it just wasn't that simple.
Young, reckless Draco Malfoy had been careless and destructive and he was just now beginning to pay dearly for it.