Ron had not replied to Hermione's letter. It was short, curt and to the point. She'd written to him saying she understood, promised that he would always have her as a friend and that they could be as they were... but every word she wrote rang false. The end of their relationship also felt, at least for now, like the final break in their rocky seven years of friendship.
Still, it was Ron, her Ronald… his presence in her life had been continuous and unapologetic. He had saved her, and loved her as he could, as she knew he did, but it hadn't been enough. His last letter, when she re-read it, evoked the rage she'd felt when she'd seen him kissing Lavender, the anger when he'd ruined her evening the night of the Yule Ball; and then there were all the little things, little stings that she hadn't even remembered, all boiling to the surface, barbs thrown at her about being a know-it-all, the time he stopped speaking to her because he was convinced Crookshanks had killed his pet. And all of that could only mean that while she'd forgiven him for it all, clearly she hadn't forgotten… only merely suppressed it, filing it away as one disappointment after another…
Hermione, in all her bitterness and hurt, had been 'this' close to agreeing to the Slytherin's bargain.
"Draco?" she'd whispered. "As in… Draco Malfoy?"
Zabini and Nott had exchanged smirks. "Know any other Draco?" they laughed.
"Why him?" she blurted. "Pick someone else, anyone else."
Nott frowned. "A deal's a deal, Granger. Now you can back out, no biggie, but… Draco's not that half bad you know."
"Fine dancer," mumbled Zabini into his now refilled glass.
Hermione pressed her eyes closed knowing she'd well and truly been hoodwinked. "You've picked the one wizard in the entire school who hates me," she told them matter-of-factly.
Zabini made that dismissive hand-wave gesture again, and Hermione noticed then it was something he did when he didn't want to answer.
"Draco doesn't hate you," said Theo emphatically. "Besides, if I choose someone else, it would be far too easy. I'm not looking to lose the wager, Granger." He paused, laughing to himself. "Wager – Granger."
"She can do it," said Zabini as though Hermione weren't there again, "I have the utmost confidence in her."
"Confidence in me is beside the point, Blaise — I won't do it," she spat. "Please, anyone but him."
Their faces had changed; crestfallen. Like children who've learnt that Christmas isn't coming.
Theo swallowed, his eyes downcast. "Well I suppose it's only fair, you have the right to forfeit, I was just so hoping to see—"
"I know," groaned Zabini. "Can you imagine Weasley's torment?"
Hermione had drawn back from them toward the fireplace, her arms folding in a way that meant she couldn't be swayed, but instead something else had happened, something unexpected.
"I'll think about it," she'd said. "Give me three days."
Why she'd said it, she didn't know. Whether it was to momentarily placate them, or because in the recent hours she had lost her mind to the sweet temptation that was revenge, she didn't know. She did know several other things though. Firstly, the two Slytherin's were right. Ronald would go ballistic. Secondly, she didn't believe she could coax Malfoy to kiss her, let alone take her to the Christmas Ball. Thirdly, she knew she didn't want to.
Malfoy was, she had to admit, handsome. An ethereal sort of handsome that seemed almost inhuman. But she couldn't think of him and not think of Malfoy Manor, of enemy lines, of Ron screaming from the dungeons. Loyalty in her life went far beyond frivolous girlish whims. There was camaraderie. She'd fought beside Ron, beside Harry, against him, against them. They'd given her their lives to defend her. They'd chosen sides. They'd chosen each other…
And then she'd gone to Hogsmeade, not knowing what she was really doing till she was there sitting opposite him. She'd felt it immediately as she sat down that it had been wrong of her to come, to only have a chessboard between them, to be civil, to be comfortable.
Because he made her feel uncomfortable, especially so when he was breaking out of his casting, acting un-Malfoy like. In fact, it was more than discomfort, it was the palpable fear that settled in her when he was in view. And it wasn't fear of being cursed or insulted, it was the strange desperate longing he seemed to regard her with that frightened her most.
"He's staring at you again," said Luna quietly.
The surroundings of the library sharpened as Luna's words cut through her daydream. Without looking up from her book — the one she'd been pretending to read — she mumbled. "I know."
Without looking at her, Luna pondered out loud, "Wonder why that is."
Hermione shrugged. "Dunno. To give me the creeps?"
She was silent for a long time, playing with the feathers of her quill. "I think he likes you," she said finally; deafeningly.
There was something sick churning in Hermione's gut. Her mind avidly protested, and yet, it felt true, or at least impossibly true. Her tongue felt heavy and numb as she asked Luna, "What would you say if I told you I was going with Malfoy to the Christmas Ball?"
Luna's blonde hair fell over her face a little as she titled her head to regard Hermione gravely. Anyone else, and they'd have laughed. But Luna was different. You could speak to her about anything, without judgement, without worrying if she'd tell another. Luna was, in a way, the perfect friend.
"Are you going with Malfoy to the Christmas Ball?" she rebutted.
"No. But what if I were?"
"Then I wouldn't say anything at all."
Hermione frowned. "You mean, you wouldn't have anything to say or that you'd not say it out loud?"
"No," said Luna with a small smile. "I mean that it's your business, who you want to go with."
"But it's Malfoy," gulped Hermione, hoping very quietly for Luna to protest to it. "It's Malfoy. Think of all he's done. To me, to Harry, to you — imagine how you would feel seeing us dancing, kissing—"
"I don't think he wants to wait till the Christmas Ball to kiss you, Hermione."
She flinched. That sick feeling making her pause, making her stomach twist again. Unconsciously she turned now to look at him. Perhaps if their eyes met just once, she could determine if what Luna was saying was true... impossibly true.
But Malfoy was gone; the table where he'd been sitting occupied now by someone else.
"Well it was all hypothetical," said Hermione quickly turning back, her tone filled with conviction that it was. It was hypothetical. "No way I'm kissing Malfoy let alone going with him to the Christmas Ball."
"But he's quite handsome, isn't he? Even when he's sad."
"Sad?" scoffed Hermione. "Hardly. I spoke to Susan Bones today during lunch. Pansy's father is on trial for her aunt's murder."
"Amelia Bones?"
Nodding, she continued, "Lucius Malfoy is testifying against him in exchange for a sentence reduction. Bastard gets ten years as opposed to life — life being what he deserves. Bet Malfoy is thrilled, not sad."
"Still," mused Luna. "I feel bad for him."
"They had you locked up in their dungeon for months."
"And every day I was there, he brought me a sugar quill."
"I don't think confection makes up for imprisonment, Luna."
Luna sighed sadly. "It wasn't about the sugar quills themselves... it was the fact that he knew they were my favourite and tried, in the only small way that he could, to say he was sorry."
"He could've helped you escape," argued Hermione. "He could have — I don't know, done something."
Luna fell into silence once again, her eyes clouded over in a daze.
Hermione couldn't read. She could only watch Luna, waiting for the girl to speak.
"Well?" she urged, wishing to hear that she was right, that yes, Malfoy could have done something — anything. He was a terrible, terrible person.
Instead, Luna merely shrugged. "Not everyone knows how to be brave even when they want to be."
Hermione deflated. It wasn't what she needed to hear, despite there being some truth behind the claim.
The office had changed since he'd sat there last. The mere absence of Professor Dumbledore made it seem entirely unreal somehow. He'd half expected to walk in and find him sitting in his seat, a knowing glint in his eyes.
The emptied circular room almost made him dizzy. All those odd noises that had once occupied the room were now gone. The quiet made Draco uneasy and he wished McGonagall would stop fussing with parchment and speak to him instead. He stared at her, begging for eye contact. He could not bear look anywhere else, for to the left was Dumbledore's portrait, and to the right, was Severus'.
And then he could not hold out any longer, his eyes slid first to Dumbledore's, just for a moment, and then to Severus', unable to deny himself just a glimpse.
"Mister Malfoy?" Draco panicked. His gaze almost ricocheting back to the Headmistresses assessing eyes, as if he were caught doing something he weren't allowed. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Yes," he lied.
"I was asked to provide a — erm — a review of sorts… a progress report, if you will."
Draco interlaced his fingers. "I see."
"How are you faring this year?"
"Actually, I'm glad you called me in. I'd like to discuss my Muggle Studies class."
Her eyebrows furrowed unhappily. "What about them?"
"They're inadequate."
"Mister Malfoy," she clipped sternly. "Need I remind you that anything less than an Acceptable in Muggle Studies will be a violation of your probation. I hope you're not angling to—"
"On the contrary," interrupted Draco sharply. "I hope to get an Outstanding. Which is why I need your help."
The creases on her forehead became more prominent. "I'm sure that whatever questions you have can be directed toward Professor Trombour."
"The problem, Headmistress, is that the more I learn about Muggles, the more I realise that there is so much to learn; such vast history… culture, science, politics. Muggle studies alone will not satiate my curiosity. Truth be told, I believe I'd benefit from having a tutor."
"Oh." The lines in McGonagall's face relaxed a little as if she wanted to breathe a sigh of relief.
"I've already found one," Draco said politely. "Hermione Granger has agreed to help me."
The lines were back, her entire face tightening in incomprehension. "Miss Granger, you say…"
"Yes," he said after a beat. "In fact, she lent me The Great Gatsby just last week. It's written by a Muggle American author. She thinks there's a lot I can learn from literature. It was… enlightening. Probably one of the best novels I've read so far."
"I see," she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
He gave her a small smile. "You seem surprised."
"Not at all," said McGonagall in a flat voice. "Why don't you tell me about it."
Draco pursed his lips, contemplating on how to answer a question so clearly meant to interrogate the truth behind his words. "Well you see," he began, "it's mainly about this American man, Jay Gatsby. He meets this girl, Daisy, and falls madly in love with her. Problem is, he's poor and she's rich, living worlds apart and she goes off and marries someone else.
"But that doesn't stop him. He dedicates his life to amassing this great fortune to win her over. He practically creates this entire persona, transforming his deepest desires into reality. He's quite admirable really..."
"And does he win her over?" asked McGonagall, testing him. Seeing if he'd really read the book.
"No," deadpanned Draco. "His determination to win her over blinds him to the reality of who she really is. In creating this persona for himself, he builds an idealised version of her as well."
"And how does the book end?"
"Gatsby dies."
There was a glint in the Professor's eyes as she regarded him.
"Forgive me, Mister Malfoy, for doubting you. I daresay I'm relieved to learn that you're re-evaluating your prejudices and taking your last year of academia here at Hogwarts seriously. The Great Gatsby is a very good book, I've read it myself. It's a perfect portrayal of the American dream."
"Is it?" he sighed. "I missed that. Suppose literature, like art, is all about interpretation."
She leant forward a little in her chair, her square glasses falling infinitesimally down her nose. "And how did you interpret the novel, Mister Malfoy?"
Draco stared back at the new Headmistress of Hogwarts and debated on answering truthfully or giving her an answer that would look good in her report of him. He chose the former. "Classic story of unrequited love."
"Perhaps on the surface—"
"Except I saw Gatsby's misfortune wasn't in chasing a dream. His misfortune lies in chasing the wrong woman."
"Surprising… I didn't peg you for a romantic Mister Malfoy."
"I have my moments." Draco's lips stretched into a taut smile. "So about Granger tutoring me."
"Yes," she replied after a beat. "I'm happy to hear you're fostering inter-house friendships, it's good to venture outside your usual circle of peers. I'll speak to the professors to make certain you two have time to continue the lessons Hermione has planned for you."
"Brilliant," he said standing up, hoping beyond hope that they were done and he wouldn't be asked to sit back down. He wasn't and so he bent down, picked his bag and took quick strides toward the stone staircase.
"Despite what you may think," said McGonagall suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. "I want all my students to excel. I know the last few years have been trying. I'm not ignorant of the animosity that surrounds you and how difficult your father's incarceration has been on your family. This office is always open to you, Mister Malfoy."
The extension of her kindness despite him feeling undeserving of it made Draco want to say many things; so many more things than what he ended up saying.
"Thank you, professor."
A/N: Happy New Year from sunny Sri Lanka. Wishing everyone happiness and success in the months to come!