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Hermione Granger always gave the same answer when asked why she still taught at Hogwarts; why she didn’t want to become the next Minister of Magic, even though she was assured by many people that she would have the votes. She told them it was for the betterment of wizarding society, grooming the next generation, and getting to do her own research and pet projects without justifying them to anyone. What she didn't mention were the little things. Like late-August Scottish afternoons. There was always a light breeze blowing across the lake, the sun was normally shining, and the air was starting to crisp up.
This was one of those afternoons. Hermione took a deep breath and leaned back against the rough trunk of her favorite tree. She always attempted to enjoy the grounds before the students stormed them like Normandy when they returned in September. Although she loved to read under the trees, being the Head of Gryffindor always made that too complicated for her liking during the school year. She couldn't ignore the hair pulling or snogging - she would never hear the end from Minerva if she did.
There were other little perks too. Like the food. Oh, the food. Not that she wasn't an okay cook, but the house elves were culinary geniuses. How they got the creme brulee so crisp yet so silky without burning it was a puzzle she would seemingly never solve. And she loved puzzles.
She loved puzzles so much that they became her life. There was a betting pool amongst the Weasleys and her other friends about which subject Hermione would choose for her mastery after their seventh year. Surprisingly to some, Arthur took home the pot with his prediction of Arithmancy. Hermione was enamored with the idea that numbers had different magical properties. There was so much potential, including numerology, and predicting the future; much better than divination in her mind. It allowed for control, pursuing knowledge, projects that spanned other subjects, and not having to teach the younger students. Hermione knew she was a nightmare first year, and the thought of teaching students like herself, or like Goyle, the beginnings of complex algorithms made her shudder. There was a particular type of student who sought out Arithmancy during their fourth years, and she loved them.
In addition to losing the bet, Ron Weasley lost interest. They quickly remembered (or realized, as it was for Ron) that they wanted different lives. Hermione wanted to learn more, wring the knowledge out of every library in existence, and to add to that wisdom. Ron wanted a family, and time to relax after what had been an overly eventful young life thus far. Six months after starting her apprenticeship, Ron was engaged to Luna Lovegood of all people. He now worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, helping to regulate and plan the Quidditch World Cups. He was living his dream life.
But despite what everyone thought, Hermione was content. Especially now, with her book in hand and thermos of steaming tea next to her. So as soon as the long shadow crossed her feet and continued to her book and face she was confused. Looking up from her Neil Gaiman novel, her face melted into a scowl.
“Of course you're sitting here reading Granger. Wasn't this your favorite haunt during our second year?” came an all too familiar voice. Draco Malfoy was inexplicably standing in front of her on the Hogwarts grounds blocking her reading light.
Admittedly, she had ignored much of the gossip surrounding him over the years - she didn’t even know what he had been doing for the last four years of his life. The last time she saw him was at a random Ministry function a couple years after graduation that Ginny and Luna had dragged her to. If she remembered correctly, they had had an unfortunate and uncomfortable exchange near the open bar... But she didn't completely recall the whole night, so she sincerely hoped that was the case. There was a reason she didn’t drink gin anymore. That may have been it.
“Hello to you too Malfoy. Is there a reason you're inhibiting me from continuing my fantastic adventure into another world this afternoon?” she replied briskly.
“I didn’t know that you exclusively had access to the grounds of Hogwarts,” he cooly replied.
“That’s not what I meant, you arse. Why are you even on the Hogwarts grounds?” she quickly questioned. Wasn’t her reason for confusion clear? Now that she thought about it, he was probably here to schmooze and throw some money around before the school year started.
“Granger, Granger, Granger...Didn’t you hear? I’m the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
A quick calculation in her head told her that there was in fact a 3.2% chance that this would have been the statement that came out of his mouth. And it was the last thing she had expected to hear.
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“Hermione, calm down.”
“Calm down, Minerva? You expect me to be calm? The biggest bully Hogwarts has seen in years is now teaching?” she yelled somewhat hysterically. “How could you not tell me about this?”
Minerva sighed, and sat back in her green, velvet, wingback chair behind the giant oak desk. Hermione internally prepared herself for a lecture. At this point, Albus would have handed her a lemon drop; instead Minerva was going to drop some wisdom on her.
“This, my dear. This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. This reaction. Have you even talked to him besides dressing him down on the grounds today? Do I need to remind you that he finished third in your class behind yourself and Mr. Boot? Young Mr. Malfoy has done a lot of personal growing in the last few years.” Minerva looked exasperated. But then, here came the wry, cheshire smile; she was about to shut the door on this conversation, “He did his Mastery with the most renowned Dark Arts Master in France. If I remember correctly, that same Master wouldn’t even accept you for a summer study.”
“What? That can’t be.” It really couldn’t, there was only a .02% chance Malfoy did his apprenticeship with Master Pierre-Dubois.
“My dear, you are not always the smartest person in the room. Normally, yes. But sometimes other people can surprise you. I’d also like to remind you that you’re not Deputy Headmistress. You will most likely be at some point, but not yet. So I don’t have to double check every decision with you,” she finished with her authoritative voice. Hermione knew she needed to stop soon, Minerva was on her last thread.
“Fine. If he can work with Pierre-Dubois, he’ll likely be a good fit,” Hermione conceded. “Not to mention he mended the vanishing cabinet as a sixth year. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think his past will help.”
McGonagall's eyes twinkled. In Hermione’s experience, that was never a good sign. “I knew you’d come around. And yes, hopefully a reformed, albeit forced, former Death Eater will finally break this blasted curse on the position. I really thought Potter would finally set the standard last year.”
Ha. Hermione could have told her, and did, without doing any arithmancy that it wouldn’t happen. Harry didn’t have a mastery, he was still head over heels for Ginny who refused to live in the castle all year, was ready to start a family, and there was just too much damn history in the castle for him. He barely made it through the whole term.
“Let’s hope so Minerva, we’re running out of people. Clearly,” Hermione knew that was a little below the belt, but added it anyway.
Minerva looked down her nose, “Behave young lady. I expect you two to get along. I don’t need you fighting like you did in third year.” At Hermione’s shocked look Minerva actually laughed, “My dear, you know now how fast rumors travel though Hogwarts, even with Professors. Filius used to call it ‘the slap heard round-the-wizarding world.’”
Hermione jokingly crossed her chest in the Catholic tradition like the good school girl she was. “I promise. Well, at least I’ll do my best.” That really was the best Hermione could do right now. Who knew what the ferret might do, if she was provoked it was likely ( a 67.4% chance) she would respond in kind.
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“Seriously Neville, I don’t know how they do it. I spent about 2 weeks this summer trying to crack this, and I still don’t know. I am about two more failed attempts away from just asking,” Hermione confessed with a laugh. She and Neville Longbottom, Herbology expert extraordinaire, were basking in post-feast creme brulee glory.
Sorting was always one of her favorite moments of the school year. Since becoming Head of House, it became even better. Knowing that everything was changing in the student’s lives, and that it was such a pivotal moment was intriguing. Of course, she could predict a lot of the placements, but still. Luckily there was more semblance of inter-house unity these days, unlike when she had been in school. Slytherins and Gryffindors had prank wars, not real ones where they attempted to poison each other. Getting a certain house didn’t damn you to a certain fate.
“You couldn’t figure it out? Hermione, I had so much faith in you making my weekends that much better. They only serve it like once a month. Didn’t you predict it would only take 5 days for you to crack?” Neville said trying not to laugh, but increasingly failing at that task.
“I was sure I could figure it out. The numbers told me so. I’m defying all of numerology right now. Or, more accurately, the house elves are.”
“Granger, I didn’t know you knew your way around the kitchen. If I did, I would have been talking to you more,” drawled none other than Blaise Zabini. Somehow, he had been hired as the flying instructor last year. Apparently, as Hermione did not keep track of these things, Blaise was a stellar professional quidditch player with the Ballycastle Bats. But a desperate, jilted ex-lover slammed a door on his hand, and that was the end of his professional career. His hand was fine now, but some small fracture couldn't be healed properly, and the team was sick of the bad press. Now he slithered around castle, trying to encourage confidence in flying lessons, and revolutionizing the Quidditch program. He frequently got on Hermione’s nerves, unsurprisingly. Now, the dynamic Slytherin duo were on the faculty. Together. Hermione had to actively flex her face muscles to hold in her eye roll.
“Zabini, I know you think I live in the library. And I know this may come as a shock since I am a witch between the age of eighteen and forty, but I just don't want to invite you to my chambers. Also, you are never here on the weekends without Quidditch somehow,” she tried to say evenly.
“It's fine Granger, I know you're just scared that I’d be the best thing that ever happened to you. And I am counting getting top marks and saving the wizarding world in that statement. Don't get your, assuredly plain, panties in a twist,” sneered Zabini.
Neville vallantly jumped in, “Now Zabini, that doesn’t seem to be the proper way to speak to a colleague, not to mention a female colleague.”
“Nobody asked you Longbottom,” said Malfoy, calmly, “She is clearly a strong woman. She clearly believes that she can handle herself. Some may even say she’s arrogant.” He finished that statement rising from the table to head towards his chambers.
Hermione would like to say her first opportunity to talk back to her childhood bully was a shining success. However, if she were to analyze this moment, even five minutes afterwards, she could not get remotely close to calling this a success. She was still sputtering in her seat, spoon having fallen into the remaining custard of her brulee; she may have never snapped out of it if Neville had not touched her shoulder.
Jolting out of her shock, Hermione finally got up from the table and began stomping down the center aisle and out the hall with the dignity that she thought was deserving of a Head of House. To the outside observer however, she looked like a salty sixth year Gryffindor chasing after a pompous Slytherin. If she had been paying attention to anything other than the white blonde head making its way to the stairs, she would have heard Flitwick dying of laughter into his plate. She also might have noticed Neville and Blaise whispering to each other, then Blaise smirking and shaking Neville’s hand.
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“Now wait a second Malfoy…” called Hermione firmly, making her way up the staircase.
Turning slowly in her direction, Malfoy glanced over his shoulder. “Yes Professor Granger? How may I be of assistance?” questioned Malfoy in his best aristocratic voice. He sounded eerily like his father.
“Malfoy,” she said offering him her hand, “I want to make sure that we’re going to be okay this year,” stated Hermione diplomatically.
Draco minutely looked to the ceiling, looking down at her once she stopped on the step in front of him, refusing to take her hand. Making eye contact with him was odd. It struck her that she hadn’t really made eye contact with him really at all. And she knew this because as awful as it sounded (come on Hermione, Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t have this problem, neither does Princess Leia), she was lost in his gaze. How were his eyes this silver? Unfortunately, his lips were also moving…
“...Headmistress loves you. We’re adults, I expect that we won’t have a problem. Our chambers are in different sections of the castle, our classes are at the same time, and the dinner table literally demands polite conversation. And don’t get me wrong, we probably have a lot in common, and I suspect our brains would make excellent collaborators, but there’s something about it that makes me hesitate…” he trailed off.
Hermione was puzzled. Did he just admit that they would probably get along? The digits began whirring in her head, and for the first time in a while, there was no clear number. There were a few vague percentages, but they didn’t make sense: 4.8%, 39.1%, 98.7% and 300%. That was all over the place. The last time she had this big of a spread was predicting when Ginny was going to get pregnant. Her confusion and frustration must have shown on her face.
“You know what Granger? I stand by my statement at the table, have you even been listening to me? I can practically see the numbers going in your head for whatever pet project you’re working on. Arrogance doesn’t suit you Granger.”
Now the number was clear. The number was 50. There was a 1 in 2 chance that something good was going to happen, and the same odds that something bad was going to happen. Hermione wasn’t sure which side of the coin she would get.