Office Hours

Hermione was thankful that she was able to get through the next week with little to no interactions with Malfoy. She was looking forward to the students arriving and actually getting to teach them. The sorting ceremony went relatively well, and soon Hermione found herself getting ready for her first day.

She had spent weeks preparing for this day. Her lessons were perfect, planned down to the minute. They were highly thought out and engaging. She had no doubt that the students would have an awesome first day in her class. She pictured her students hanging on her every word, as she had when she was in school. Needless to say, her expectations were high.

Her first day did not go as expected at all. It was utter chaos.

Her first period of the day was sixth year class made up of Gryffindors and Slytherins. Hermione thought starting out with an older group that already knew the ropes of Hogwarts would make it easier. Oh, was she wrong.

She arrived ten minutes early to class, fresh robes on, her desk organized to perfection. This was the start of her new chapter. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment.

Then the students arrived, spilling noisily into the classroom. Half of them were still munching on their breakfast, discussing who was going to make the House Teams this year. Hermione tried not to think about the crumbs that were being tracked into her clean classroom. 

She stood up at the front of the room to begin class. 

“Alright, settle down,” she said calmly. 

No one settled down.

She tried again, this time doing her best impression of Professor McGonagall.

“I said, take your seats.” She fixed the class with what she hoped was a stern expression.

The class took their seats, but they did not settle down.

Ten minutes into the lecture, a Slytherin girl, who reminded her of Pansy Parkinson, sarcastically asked if her lecture came with a written exam.

Twenty minutes into the lecture as she was breaking for the students to get caught up on their notes, she overheard two students arguing about whose class was more boring: Professor Binns’ or Professor Granger’s?

After explaining the directions for the activity, it was not thirty seconds before a Gryffindor boy had set his quill on fire.

By the time the lesson was over, her patience had worn thin and she had given out three detentions. She made her way to the Great Hall for lunch, all but defeated.

She slammed her bag onto the staff table and dropped into her seat, exhaling deeply.

McGonagall gave her an amused, knowing look over her goblet of pumpkin juice.

“How did your first lesson go?” McGonagall asked.

Hermione took a long sip of her tea before answering.

“Do students normally set things on fire?” 

Professor Sprout patted Hermione’s arm sympathetically. “Only on Mondays, dear.”

Hermione exhaled deeply once more. What had she gotten herself into?

Malfoy, who had been silently enjoying her suffering, leaned forward, smirking.

“Tough day, Granger? I thought you’d have them all under control by now.”

Hermione stared daggers at him. 

“One of them called me ‘Professor Know-It-All’ to my face,” she admitted, mortified.

Malfoy snorted. “Ah, I see you’re making quite the impression.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

—

Hermione was nothing if not determined to turn her day around. She could only hope that her new nickname had not spread. She needed to revise her approach in order to regain her control. 

For her afternoon class of fourth years, she reduced the lecture time and incorporated more hands-on activities. She even allowed for an open classroom discussion on switching spells. Surely this would result in a more engaging and disciplined classroom environment. 

It did not.

Instead, she spent half of the lesson trying to get them to stop talking over her as she was giving important instructions. It seemed like every time she got them to quieten down, they would just start speaking again the second she opened her mouth.

Hermione was trying her best not to let the frustration get to her. It did not help that at one point, Peeves swooped into the classroom, knocked over an entire stack of books, and cackled something about ‘the new swotty professor’.

By the end of her afternoon classes, Hermione was exhausted, exasperated, and once again questioning her life choices.

After dinner, she made her way to the staff room and collapsed into an armchair, rubbing her temples. The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the room. Most of the staff had retired for the evening.

Malfoy, looking far too relaxed, sipped at his drink and raised an eyebrow.

“So, still convinced you were born for this?”

Hermione glared at him. 

“Oh absolutely. I live to be mocked by sixteen-year-olds and extinguish small fires between lectures.” Hermione said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Malfoy, clearly enjoying this, inclined his head. 

“So, that’s a yes, then?”

“It’s a ‘go away before I start firing hexes at you’, Malfoy.”

Malfoy chuckled. “You wound me, Granger. Here I am, simply checking on your well being—”

“You’re here to gloat,” she said flatly.

Draco placed his hand over his chest in mock offense.

“Me? I would never.”

Hermione fixed him with a surprisingly McGonagall-like look.

“Alright, fine. Maybe a little,” he admitted.

Hermione let out an exacerbated breath.

“Why did I ever think I would be good at this?” She hated the flicker of doubt building in her chest.

There was a pause. A brief moment where she expected another taunt, another smirk, another infuriatingly smug remark. But instead, Malfoy just studied her for a second, then shrugged.

“Because you are,” he said with surprising casualness. 

His expression was unreadable. His voice was so steady–so certain. Like it was a fact.

Hermione paused, thrown off. Was Draco Malfoy giving her a compliment?

She swallowed, forcing a tired laugh. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely,” he said softly, but surely.

Hermione was speechless. How was she supposed to respond to that?

A flicker of warmth twisted somewhere in her chest, completely uninvited. She quickly dropped her gaze from Malfoy to the arm of the chair she was sitting in. Hoping that if she stared at the frayed upholstery long enough, it might erase the sincerity in his voice.

Draco stood, stretching lazily. His usual mask of ease and arrogance firmly back in place, but the weight of his words still lingering between them.

As he made his way to the door, he paused and uttered, “Try not to set anything on fire tomorrow, Granger.”

And then he was gone.