War alters a person’s perception of what is right and what is wrong. One moment he’s in first year desperately attempting to solidify his position in the Hogwarts social ladder then the next he’s six and ten years, aiming his wand at his headmaster. Somewhere, woven inbetween stolen glances and forbidden thoughts, Draco Malfoy realized the merit of his parents' prejudice lacked logic. By then, however, it was too late. The Dark Lord returned and wreaked havoc on the wizarding world. His parents shamelessly stood on the wrong side and Draco was a scared child. He stood where he was told, parroted the bigotry the purebloods poured into his ear, and refused to examine the future repercussions of his actions. He was cowardly, a bloody follower. A loathsome cockroach.
His family lowered their wands at the Battle of Hogwarts. During the trials they had been commended for their surrender, it may have saved his mother from imprisonment and lessened Draco’s sentence in Azkaban. Did they know that his father’s view hadn’t changed? No, not in the slightest. The name of the game switched up. His family was full of opportunists, survivalist. They acted in their best interest alone. Lucius didn’t lower his wand due to the sudden realization that muggle born wizards were of value. This war was a game of chess and the pieces had shifted tremendously. Luckily for the Malfoy family, Lucius seemed to always be two plays ahead.
That is how Draco found himself loitering the corridor leading to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He hadn’t been shocked when, after his release from Azkaban, he was encouraged (forced) to participate in one of the new Ministry led initiatives. His mother kept him well informed on the wizarding world’s efforts to thwart the like minded thinking that got them into this position in the first place. What better place to stick a reformed, child death eater than on the front lines of a program centered around muggle born witches and wizards. It was rather impressive, the speed at which they attached his marionette strings. He would be the Ministry’s puppet for the foreseeable future. His first task was to find the witch heading the program and convince her allowing him to be a mentor was not ill advised. He was just unlucky enough that the witch in question happened to be the recipient of his parroted bigotry.
Draco didn’t inherently hate Hermione Granger. It was disinterest at best, dislike at worst. She was the kind of girl who made the rest of them look bad, and whenever she glanced his way, he couldn't help but feel guilty, even when he hadn't done anything wrong. She incessantly raised her hand to answer every question, even rhetorical ones. His father raved and ranted about her supposed inferiority because of her blood status but she one upped Draco at every turn. She marked the beginning of Draco’s gradual skepticism about blood superiority. If she was so inferior then how come she bested every single witch and wizard in their year? If muggles were unrefined and filthy, why did Granger smell distinctly of something floral and sweet.
It didn’t help her standing with Draco that she went and befriended his nemesis, Saint Potter. They traded their fair share of insults and quips over the years. He tormented her thoroughly for her blood status, her ridiculously frizzy hair, and horse teeth (though admittedly, she’s grown into them by sixth year). All of this, he thought, was forgivable...possibly. What worried him was the same thing that plagued his nightmares every so often. Granger sprawled out on his family’s drawing room floor, Aunt Bellatrix holding Granger down as she carved a slur into the pale skin of Granger’s forearm. Draco hated himself in that moment and every moment since. It was undeniable that he was a coward through and through. He wouldn’t blame her if the thought of being near him was unbearable. He knew what it was to be marked and perhaps it wasn’t entirely the same but he knew she reserved the right to hate him for it.
Draco’s thoughts were his only companion these day. He could hold an entire conversation within the confines of his own mind. It was a defense mechanism while locked away in Azkaban, to keep himself sane. One calendar year in that hell hole was enough to scare him straight. He’d get on his knees and beg Granger, if that’s what it took. The coldness that seeped into his bones during that unrelenting year still kept him up at night. He would smile and be a good sport, mentor underprivileged children. He would avoid going back no matter the cost. As the sole heir and Lord of Malfoy Manor, he would reform the Malfoy and Black name. For his mother and to snuff his father who would spend the rest of his life in the depths of Azkaban.
Draco’s motives were purely self serving. He didn’t care for the well being of muggleborn magic users. Not at all, actually. He wanted a lavish life. He wanted to walk down Digon Alley without being spat on and called Death Eater scum. He wanted to be important, sought after, most of all he wanted to matter in some capacity. The self-serving gene ran strong in the Malfoy’s. Sure, at one point in his miserable existence, he yearned to be different than his kin. To be kind and selfless. To be the kind of person that others would throw their life down for. Was it so wrong to want to be adored, cherished even? He learned all too quickly that carrying the Malfoy name tarnished him. Instead he would settle for power, influence. He planned to slowly climb back up the ranks of society. It started here. It started with this laughing stock of an initiative. Of course he thought this job was beneath him. He would be a glorified tutor. He loathed tutoring, he spent many nights drilling Theo Nott on potion ingredients and counter curses while Nott tried to get a rise out of him by making crude remarks.
A humming sound filled the corridor Draco was currently haunting. It let him know that the lift was approaching and hopefully Granger managed to be on it this time. He’d been waiting around for ages to corner the witch and convince her to hear him out. Replayed every possible scenario, most ending with him shamelessly begging Hermione Granger for a chance. It made him physically sick at first, not because of her blood status, but simply because Granger had an air of superiority that he wanted to knock down a few pegs. Granger pretended to be honest and innocent. But Draco was privy to the parts of her that were less than formidable. Being at the mercy of Granger was a prison of its own, make no mistake, but it was one he was willing to endure. And endure it he would.
“Malfoy?” Granger’s voice floated across the empty space between Draco and the lift.
Draco couldn’t help himself as his eyes roamed over her. His brow furrowed while she slowly stepped from the lift, acting like he was a feral animal seconds away from attacking. She looked…different? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She sported the same unruly mane of chestnut curls but pulled into a chignon. She wore absurdly looking muggle clothing; a long black skirt, white blouse, and a hideous pale green sweater. He found it odd. Very odd.
“Taking fashion advice from Professor Sibil?” The words tumbled from his lips unbidden. Not the strongest start to wooing the witch.
Granger wasted no time scorching him with her signature glare. It momentarily struck Draco stupid. A sense of nostalgia washed over him and he found himself missing their bickering in the Hogwarts halls. But it wasn’t bickering Granger remembered. No, he guesses she’s remembering their interactions very differently.
“How can I help you, Malfoy?”
Draco opens his mouth but the words cement in his throat. Pride is an ugly, hindering emotion. A smug, satisfied expression fits across Granger’s face. Draco’s fingers involuntarily curl into his palm. The little swot was getting off on the change in dynamics. Taking a deep breath, Draco squared his shoulders preparing to hate himself a little more after this interaction.