Chapter Text
Most of the prefects on Professor McGonagall’s list didn’t surprise her. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Penelope Clearwater, Michael Corner, Ernie MacMillan, Hannah Abbott, Gemma Gribbett. It was customary for fifth-year students who had been designated prefects to keep the title for the remainder of their tenure at Hogwarts. Barring academic failure, medical incapacity, or what old Hogwarts rules described as “grave failure of character,” once a prefect, always a prefect was standard. The problem was Draco Malfoy.
After Lucius Malfoy was captured in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and subsequently escaped before he could be detained in Azkaban Prison, rumor had buzzed all summer about the entire Malfoy family. Dumbledore’s contacts had reported for months about an increase of known Death Eaters frequenting Malfoy Manor. Professor McGonagall knew how to temper her own inclination to distrust Slytherin students, especially those whose parents had Death Eater history. She understood quite well that rumors were only rumors and the seriousness of her responsibility to evaluate students on their own merits, rather than their parents’ choices. Even so, if there was any possibility that some of the murmurs McGonagall had heard were true, it could be a serious mistake to readmit the Malfoy heir as a student, let alone in a position of power over others. Snape, and even Dumbledore, it seemed, did not share her concerns.
As the circumstances stood, her only recourse was to meet with Malfoy in her office at the beginning of term, which was where she currently sat. He was late.
He swept in ten minutes late, in fact, and folded himself into the chair before she could invite him to sit.
“What on earth do you want?” he snapped.
“That tone will not be necessary,” McGonagall said. “Mister Malfoy, you have been named one of the Slytherin prefects--”
“I’m aware. Professor.”
“ Provisional status.”
Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What?”
“As such, you will still be expected to perform the necessary duties of a prefect, but certain privileges will be limited--”
“This is an outrage,” Malfoy said, baring his teeth.
“Kindly refrain from interrupting me, Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped with impatience. “You will be expected to report for all meetings and complete other normal prefect assignments as usual. You will still be permitted to use the prefects’ lounge and other reserved facilities. However, until your re-evaluation at the end of term, you will be excluded from prefect trips, including the holiday Hogsmeade visit, you will confine yourself to standard curfew hours unless accompanied by another prefect, and you will not have authority to deduct points from students or assign detentions without another prefect’s signature to confirm the decision. You will also perform regular hall patrol duties in the presence of another prefect at all times.”
Malfoy looked ready to leap out of his seat at this point. “You’ve lost your mind. You may as well not make me a prefect at all.”
“Believe me, Mister Malfoy, the thought has occurred to me. Your abuses of your authority last year were a clear failure to live up to the dignity associated with the honor of this role. It is thanks to the quality of your grades, and to certain members of the faculty who vouched for you, that you are awarded this position for a second year at all.” Snape, usually laconic as ever in faculty meetings about student matters, had insisted that Malfoy be offered a second chance.
“As an additional courtesy,” McGonagall continued, “your provisional status will not be announced formally to the student body. The other prefects will be briefed. I might recommend using your own discretion to perform your duties without arousing suspicion of your limitations. It is not my intention to humiliate you.”
“Save your suggestions,” he spat. “You’ve meddled more than enough already. Are we done?”
Professor McGonagall sighed. “Until the prefects’ meeting tomorrow evening, yes. You may go.”
*
Hermione Granger helped herself to a mug of tea when she arrived for the prefects’ start-of-term meeting. She expected she’d need it.
It had been a strange summer, and she was glad to be back at Hogwarts. Hermione had spent much of the summer at the Weasleys’ Burrow. She had missed her parents terribly, but it seemed wiser to stay within the wizarding community.
Ever since Harry had told her and Ron about Voldemort’s return, it was clear to her that Muggle-borns would be the first target of any hateful activity, whether by Death Eaters themselves or even other frightened witches and wizards looking for ways to lash out. Hermione would have liked nothing better than to wrap herself in her mother’s embrace, go bicycling with her father, and curl up in her old bedroom with a stack of books and new music from her favorite non-magical bands, but she was afraid to draw too much attention to her parents. Most people in the magical community wouldn’t know much about how Muggles stored identification records, and her surname, while not as ubiquitous as Smith or Johnson, was common enough. Avoiding Knight Bus trips or other magical transportation to her hometown could help keep her parents hidden from prying eyes, or so she hoped.
She’d also hoped, for much of the summer, that Ron would have turned out to be a better source of comfort than he’d ended up being. They’d always had a hint of something more than best friendship between them, or so Hermione had thought. Ron seemed content to toss her into the bustle of the Weasley household to fend for herself. Various family members burst into the bedroom when Hermione wanted a quiet hour to read. Ginny didn’t see any problem with using the toilet while Hermione showered because “they’re both girls.” Mr. Weasley used dinnertime as an occasion to pummel her with questions on how Muggle postal services, elementary education, banking, and driver’s ed classes worked. She tried to respond politely, but privately found it exhausting to always be “on.” If Ron had feelings for her, wouldn’t he have noticed her emotional wear, and done something to support her? His oblivious lack of concern had certainly put a damper on her own romantic thoughts.
She shook her head. “Focus, Hermione,” she muttered under her breath. Prefects’ meeting, then unpacking into her own room in Gryffindor Tower, and tomorrow classes would start. Keep her mind occupied, that was the way to keep herself together.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” Malfoy jostled her aside, spilling tea over the edge of her cup onto the saucer, soaking the thin chocolate biscuit she’d placed beside the teacup. He was a head taller than her, just the right height to glare down his nose at her, his white-blond hair parted with razor precision. His gaze dropped to her hand.
“Clumsy little Mudblood,” he sneered. “Getting your filthy paws on food meant for your betters, too. Sit and wait your turn next time.”
“Or you could be patient for five seconds instead of knocking around like an oaf,” Hermione retorted. She waved her hand at the table with a flourish. “Be my guest, then. It’s all yours.”
“Hardly seems worth it, now you’ve touched everything.” He made a show of wiping the handle of the teapot down with a napkin before pouring himself a cup. He raised his eyebrows at the tray of biscuits and took a green apple from a bowl instead, leaning in close enough to her when he bit it that Hermione could smell its sharp scent.
Ron ambled in then, frowning. “What’s his problem?”
“The usual,” Hermione muttered. “Ignore him.”
“Pompous git.”
“Language, Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said, striding in behind him. “Forgive my tardiness. After so many years, I shouldn’t be surprised by the amount of attention first-year students require, but they seem to look younger each year. I am pleased to welcome each of you back as prefects, and I and the other faculty will rely on you this year to help ensure that your fellow students have a fruitful and enjoyable year, particularly those who are just beginning their education at Hogwarts.”
Hermione settled into a comfortable chair between Penelope Clearwater and Hannah Abbott as McGonagall launched into the prefects’ briefing. She knew it well. Besides serving as a prefect in her fifth year, Hermione had more or less memorized the prefects’ handbook. Prefects, ideally, were supposed to be official mentors for the student body at large, and students in their House in particular. They led House orientation activities and icebreakers to help first-years find their classes and begin making friends. They had disciplinary authority, but they also had some basic conflict mediation training so they could counsel fights between dorm mates and recognize signs that garden-variety homesickness was slipping into more serious mental health territory. If requested by a student, prefects could sit in on faculty-student meetings to offer moral support. Some prefects--Hermione cast an eye at the Slytherin couch--tended toward bullying or favoritism, but she enjoyed the sense that she ought to play almost a big-sister role.
You spent a lot of time together, on hall monitoring duty. Close friendships were an unspoken perk of the job. Some prefects ended up marrying each other. Hermione didn’t always make friends easily, so the chance to get to know a few people in a structured way appealed to her. Having both Ron and Malfoy on the roster detracted from this goal, of course. Ron she knew well already, and Malfoy...well, there were plenty of obvious reasons for him to fall on the “Cons” side of her mental list.
Her ears pricked at his name just then.
“Mr. Malfoy is here on provisional prefect status,” McGonagall was saying. “As such, he will need authorization from another one of you to deliver certain merits or punishments. I trust that all of you will keep his status confidential so as not to provoke disrespect from other students, and that you will all endeavor to be fair in any student dealings, as befits this role.”
For once, Ron got it first.
“Malfoy’s a lame duck?” he said, chortling. “He can’t do anything without our say-so?” He leaned forward and grinned at Malfoy. “I was going to ask McGonagall how to get out of hall duty with a tosser like you, but now I’m ready to pay her for the privilege.”
“Pay her in what, moldy jumpers?” Malfoy pulled two Galleon coins out of a pocket in his robes and clicked them together. “Has anyone in your family ever heard that sound before? Put it in your Pensieve so you can share it at home.”
Ron reddened.
“That will be quite enough,” McGonagall said. “I will post the hall monitoring roster in the Prefects’ Lounge tomorrow. For tonight, we will have Mr. Weasley and Mr. Corner, Miss Clearwater and Miss Abbott, and Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy.”
Both Hermione and Malfoy jumped forward in their seats as if stung. McGonagall held up a hand.
“The roster will rotate to allow a fair distribution of assignments.” She looked over her glasses at the students sitting before her. “I’m sure I can trust all of you to behave with the utmost maturity.”
*
“Bushy-haired rodent.”
“Rich, coming from an albino ferret!”
“You dare--”
“You better believe it.”
It was near the end of hour two of a standard, three-hour hall monitoring shift. Hermione and Malfoy had managed gritted-teeth civility for the first twenty minutes, while the initial swarms of students floundered around, trying to navigate the shifting staircases to their Houses. Malfoy had started it, swearing at her under his breath when she’d accidentally stepped on the hem of his robe on the stairs. For the next forty minutes, they’d griped at each other in quick bursts between three searches for lost cats and toads, two nurse visits, and endless repetitions of the House passwords.
For the last hour, since standard curfew began, it had been a free-for-all.
“It’s insulting that you’d even be considered to have power over other students.”
Hermione laughed sharply. “I bet it is. Especially since I’ve managed to keep my full rights, and you’re limping along. Bet that stings your pride.”
“Brash bitch,” he snarled. “You should be on your knees every night giving thanks you’re tolerated in this place at all.”
“‘Tolerated’ well enough to be first in our class every term, it would seem.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” Malfoy sneered. “Miss Granger, Queen of the library, highest marks in her year. Do you want my congratulations?”
“I don’t want, or expect, anything from you, Malfoy,” she said, trying to sound cool and aloof. “Although I think the fact that even you can’t help acknowledging my talents is telling enough.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Spare me. You’ve let your pathetic friends and a few teachers go to your head, Granger. The true wizards in this place know what you really are.”
“Oh yes? And what would that be?”
“You’re the stuffy little Mudblood who’s never belonged here. Your mind works well enough, I’ll grant; you’d be amusing for party tricks, perhaps, as a curiosity. Like a talking gopher. You’re a grating, screeching, busybody slattern with a broomstick up your ass. You’re the research flunky of the Golden Trio, the brainy priss Potter uses when he’s too lazy to try to understand, which is often. You’d better hope you never outlive your usefulness to them, because you’ll find there isn’t anything in this world for you outside the library.”
“You think other students are impressed by you?” Hermione shot back, raising her voice to drown out the bite of his words. “Harry knew after meeting you once that you weren’t worth his time. You bought your way onto your Quidditch team, I’ve beaten you in every class we’ve shared, every year, and the only ‘friends’ I’ve ever seen you with are such brainless dolts that I could animate a mop with a blond wig on it and they wouldn’t know the difference. You may have some money and influence because of your father, and good thing for you, because I have yet to see you do something worthwhile on your own. I hope you’re reminded every day of your useless life that everyone you look down on now will beat you, if they haven’t already.”
They’d been circling the shifting staircases, making their way down floor by floor, the halls beginning to waft the cool, mineral smell of stone underground, along with the sharp tang of guano from the modest bat colony that sheltered within Hogwarts. When they reached the steps down to the dungeons, Malfoy threw out a hand to block her, almost making her trip.
“I’ll handle these myself. This is Pureblood territory.”
“There’s no such thing,” Hermione said. “Besides, you’re not allowed unsupervised hall duty.” She stepped forward, but Malfoy blocked her again, throwing his forearm up against her collarbone. His grey eyes were flat with hatred.
“Your putrid kind may have infiltrated the classes in this place,” he hissed. “But there are a few corridors left untainted by your stench, and I won’t have you contaminating them.”
“Hogwarts chooses students by ability, not blood status,” Hermione said coldly. “McGonagall chose me as a prefect and I will not--” She stopped, mouth still open in indignation and alarm. Malfoy’s hawthorn wand was in his hand, the tip trained at her heart.
“Take one more step,” he said quietly. “And I’ll say you tripped down the stairs. All these other students saw you fall.”
“There’s no one else here.”
“That’s not what they’ll say,” he said, lips curling in a vicious smile. “This is the Slytherin’s home, our last Pureblood refuge against the waves of filth they admit to this crumbling excuse for a school. You may have charmed a few doddering old professors into your disgusting hand, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re wanted here.” He prodded the wand an inch closer toward her. “I won’t say it again. Get back.”
Hermione almost launched herself at him then. Bookish as she might be most days, she’d Sorted into Gryffindor for a reason. In a one-on-one duel, she had no doubt she could teach Malfoy some long-overdue humility. If the other Slytherins did come to protect their precious, Pureblood dungeon, though, she was less sure she could disarm twenty students without getting hurt, and she could hardly explain to McGonagall why such a brawl could have been necessary. She took a step backward.
Malfoy smirked. He watched her retreat, clearly relishing every step she took. “That’s a good little Gryffindor. You sit right there and wait for me.”
And she did. Shaking with rage, counting the seconds until he’d finished a cursory round through the dungeons. When he swaggered back, victorious smile still playing on his lips, she had her wand ready.
“Your turn,” she said, keeping her voice as low and steady as possible. “Sit.”
He folded his arms, creasing his forehead in mock sympathy. “Bravery isn’t impressive so long after the fact, Granger.”
“Expelliarmus!” His wand flew out of his pocket, into her waiting hand. “I will Petrify you if I have to, Malfoy. Sit. Down.”
“Give it back.”
“Now.”
“You repulsive Mudblood, don’t you dare lay another finger on it.”
Hermione held his wand up to her mouth. “I will lick it if you don’t sit down this instant.” She parted her lips, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the horrified expression on Malfoy’s face, even if privately the thought of touching her tongue to his wand made her want to gag, too.
Malfoy sat.
“That’s better,” Hermione said. “Now you listen to me: Don’t ever threaten me again. Ever. You despicable, egotistical bastard, you so much as point your wand in my direction and I’ll report you. You could already be suspended. Touch me, and I’ll get you under the Code of Wand Use, and the RRUS, and I’ll squeeze every Galleon I can out of you and your entire family in Hexing Ban fines. You want your father to hear how this Mudblood threw your sorry ass out of Hogwarts?”
Malfoy’s gaze wavered, just for a second. He disguised it by cleaning a fleck of dirt from under one fingernail. “Why not go ahead and report me now, then?”
“Because I,” Hermione growled, “am a better person than you’ll ever dream of being.” She dropped Malfoy’s wand next to him with a clatter and stalked away, before he could look up from her fist still clenched around her own wand. There was a knot in her throat threatening to choke her, and the worst thing she could possibly do was let him see.