Chapter Text
At a young age, Hermione learnt that life wasn’t fair. She had been holding her mother’s hand tightly, trailing along on a shopping trip she had initially complained to be on. Nothing had interested Hermione about buying clothes and shoes, but when she’d seen a beautiful dollhouse in the window of a shop, she had immediately begun to pull at her mum’s hand and pointed excitedly towards the toy. She had chattered about how much she wanted it. Granted, her mum did wander closer, looking closely at the price. That was the first divide. If a family had to look at the price of items they purchased, they were not the wealthy elite. Of course, Hermione was only young and didn’t realise this, which was why she was so gutted when her mum tugged her away, telling her she couldn’t have the dollhouse. She had fussed and cried about it, but Hermione hadn’t known the price tag on the beautiful piece exceeded £100. That was the second divide; the inability to afford anything and everything.
These were facts that Hermione would be forced to settle with for many years to come. The elites would always have an advantage over everyone else and their authority wasn’t to be questioned. Whilst she had stubbornly put a foot down and convinced herself that money wasn’t everything, these two divides would always reappear throughout her life to haunt and remind her that her life would never be considered “elite”. She was always viewed as quite ordinary, regardless of her incredible intellect and fierce ability to stand up for herself. As far as the world was concerned, she was nobody unless she had a vast amount of wealth behind her name.
And that was why she was sat in class after hours, furiously tapping her foot against the ground and trying not to look anyone in the eye. She was frustrated and trying her best not to cry, not because she had been upset or anything, but because she was angry. Out of the twenty-five kids in their form, she had received fourteen of the votes. That was almost three-fifths of the class, with eight votes going to Draco and three to Harry. This vote had happened yesterday and she’d proudly rushed home to tell her parents she was going to be the Class Rep. Now her feelings had been upended, because “it would be better if an elite member of society was the Class Rep.”
She almost ground her teeth at that. Just because he’d eaten from a silver spoon his entire life, didn’t mean Draco had to be awarded Class Rep. It made no sense to her.
“Do you understand, Miss Granger?” their homeroom teacher laid his pen down. “Of course, you’ll make a wonderful Vice-Rep and that’s still an honorary title for the average person.”
“I understand.” She fucking didn’t.
“Very good,” Mr Slughorn looked pleased. “I’ve always trusted in your maturity, Hermione.”
It was now ‘Hermione’ once he was certain she wasn’t visibly angry.
Moreover, being mature had nothing to do with the fact that she had no authority.
“In that case, I shall tell the class tomorrow that you stepped down from Class Rep to become Vice-Rep for…” he lifted his pen and hesitated. “For personal reasons. How about that?”
It was a load of bullshit. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Very good, very good,” Mr Slughorn wrote this down. “I’m so glad we managed to have this all agreed on.”
‘Agreed on’ was very far from Hermione’s definition of what had just happened. Passive coercion seemed far more accurate, particularly as the Vice-Rep just-turned Class Rep was seated right beside her. She didn’t dare look in his direction, but she already knew his sharp, icy features were upturned into a smirk. She still had some shred of pride left, despite having turned up to face the music. She knew she would never forgive Mr Slughorn for this, despite achieving well in his classes and always being polite towards him. Hermione wanted to cry, but she had to hold all of this back until she was back home, or somewhere private.
“Seeing as this has all been settled so smoothly, you two are free to go home!” Slughorn leant back in his seat and laced his fingers together, looking pleased with himself. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Hermione was the first to scrape her chair back. Normally, she would offer a quick pleasantry before leaving, but her heart really wasn’t in it. She had to ignore the slight glimmer of sadness that flashed across her teacher’s eyes, but she couldn’t dwell on kindness when her heart felt like a total wreck. She scooped her bag up from the ground and slung it over her shoulder, feeling her cheeks redden with suppressed emotions. A part of her was now wishing she hadn’t told Ron and Harry to leave without her, but she had never expected it to be a meeting about an unfair reversal of democracy. She tried her best not to stamp her feet, to not let it show just how angry she was, but her loud steps on the shiny tile floors were difficult to conceal.
As she opened her locker, hands curling and uncurling, she began an ungraceful and forceful exchange between which books she needed. It was satisfying to slam heavy textbooks in the metal box, listening to wobble and shake underneath the force. Why throwing her books around made her feel better, Hermione couldn’t explain, but her ebbing mood didn’t last long when quiet footsteps approached, and Draco Malfoy peered over her door. He was stood on tiptoes and Hermione was more than tempted to clip his chin with the door as she closed it, but that was too petty, even for her. With a heavy sigh, she let him move away before she closed the door.
“That was quite the exit, Granger,” he looked as smug as she’d imagined he would. “Reminded me very much of a tantrum.”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” she jammed her key in the lock and turned it with a rough clinking and clicking. “I can’t deal with your bullshit today.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear,” he remarked. “Special day.”
She inhaled sharply through her nose, closing her eyes as she repeatedly told herself not to go on the offensive. Hermione wanted to remain as civil as possible, no matter how difficult he was making that. She had undergone years and years of this petty nit-picking she and Draco shared. Jabs that ranged from unfriendly to meagre comments, something she had learnt to brush off for many years now. Today didn’t have to be any different.
“I don’t need this right now,” she sent him an even stare. “I can entertain your trivial need for sharp remarks tomorrow, but not today.”
He inspected his fingernails. “Not only do I win the battle, I also win this argument, then?”
Normally, she would have to hold Ron back, which often calmed her own mood. This time, however, it was only her and Draco standing in the hallway. She felt the colour of rage rising to her neck and cheeks again, her ears burning with a sudden and uncontrollable urge to raise her defences and ward off his siege.
“You didn’t win anything, Malfoy,” she spat out before she could stop herself. “You were given a trophy, just another to add to the collection of things you’ve been fed from your silver platter.”
The slightest colour of pink rose to his cheeks. “That’s not fair-”
“You can’t talk about what is and what isn’t fair,” it was hard to fight away tears of frustration, but Hermione kept blinking them back. “I worked so hard on my speech, on my grades, and Class President was something that I really wanted- needed - for my personal statement. All you did was waltz in there, receive votes from your friends, and then threw a hissy fit because you didn’t get first place. What isn’t fair is that you took the place I deserved, and I can guarantee that most of the class would agree with me.”
His jaw had gone tense throughout her speech, but he hadn’t interrupted her. Draco wouldn’t even look at her, appearing sullen under the white lights.
“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” she raised her chin high, even though he stood a full head above her. “Because this is definitely the cheapest you’ve gone to get a victory.”
“Maybe you should know your place, Peasant.”
Peasant. It was a derogatory name for Ordinaries, the people who made up the majority of the population. Wealth amongst the Ordinaries ranged drastically, from an upper middle-class to those suffering in extreme poverty. The last time Draco had called her a Peasant, she had crushed his nose with her fist, but Hermione steeled herself. Her heart was hammering in her chest and it was becoming nearly impossible not to cry. Not only had she lost a position that would greatly help her get into university (because who really cared about the Vice President?) and now she was being insulted. Hermione breathed in deeply, clutching the straps of her rucksack that she now had balanced on her shoulders, heavy with textbooks. She did the only rational thing that wouldn’t have her sat in the headmaster’s office with her parents begging the Malfoy parents to forgive their family.
Hermione walked away.
Her movements felt stiff and forced. As much as she wanted to stay and continue arguing with Draco, she knew it was going to get her nowhere. It would just dissolve into a screaming match of insults and attacking Draco would only give her the horrible “Savage” nickname that had plagued her throughout the end of primary school.
“Walk away, then,” he called after her. “Real mature.”
Fortunately, he made no attempt to follow her. Hermione was exhausted and not in the mood for a fight, even if it was just a verbal one. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so open about insulting Draco, but she had already said it. All she could do was hope that he wouldn’t report her or speak to his parents. She didn’t want to put her parents through the trauma of having the Malfoy family threaten them if she harmed their son again. An Elite would always have the upper hand over an Ordinary. That was a fact of life.
And it really wasn’t fair.
The moment she stepped outside, the wind seemed to slap her across the face, a startling sensation that seemed to remind her brain that her body was very much alive. Emotional pain spread through her chest and the lump in her throat was too big to swallow. She rubbed at her eyes, sniffling and smearing away as many tears as she possibly could. She was glad that it was a little later, four-thirty, which meant people leaving at normal time were gone but sports and other after school clubs had yet to finish. No one was there to see Hermione Granger cry, which was just how she preferred it. The school saw her as infallible, the Head Girl who always wore a smile and offered helpful advice to those who asked. The wind seemed to dry any tears from her face as she crunched past fallen red, brown, orange, and gold leaves, crumpled on the pathway now that the trees had begun discarding them for the winter. It was a crisp afternoon, daytime still dominating the days and a blue sky overhead with a few wispy clouds and the sun beginning to grow lower above the horizon. A perfectly beautiful day, and yet she was leaving school, a place she liked, feeling like garbage.
Hermione stopped dead when she saw a car lingering in the carpark. The black Chevy Corvette was parked near the pathway, paintjob shining, and wheels pumped to perfection. Normally, she would feel a wave of relief wash over her as this very same car picked her up on Friday, when she was needed in school earlier for Head Boy, Head Girl and Prefect meetings, but today she felt only dread as she tried to hide her tears. It was too late, though. Harry was already getting out of the car, mouth twisted into a concerned frown as he pushed back his mop of unruly dark hair out of his face despite the wind.
She tried one last attempt to mop up the mess that her face had become, but she knew Harry had already seen the tear tracks glistening down her cheeks. Hermione tried not to make it a habit to cry in front of her friends, but Harry was the one she could trust to stand by her and offer proper comfort on the rare occasions she was to do so. Ron, on the other hand, had a habit of shuffling from foot to foot, awkwardly offering jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“What happened?” Harry gathered her in his arms, and it was only then that Hermione let herself properly cry. “Let’s go get tea.”
She didn’t bother arguing with him. Once Harry knew either of his friends was upset, there was no way of telling him to do otherwise. Hermione let him bundle her towards the car, sitting in the passenger seat with the warmer turned up and happy tunes on the radio.
“Why are you still here?” she sniffed.
“What, when you and Malfoy were asked to stay late?” Harry quirked a smile. “That could only have ended in disaster.”
A breathless laugh escaped her mouth and she leant back in the seat, pulling the seatbelt around her. “You know me too well.”
“Wanna tell me what happened now, or during tea?” he asked.
“Tea,” she croaked, using the visor mirror to dab away at her tears.
There was a small high street near their school, which was where Harry drove to. Normally, Elites wouldn’t be seen dead in an area such as this, but Harry was very different. He had been raised as an Ordinary, mistreated by the aunt and uncle who were supposed to keep him safe after the untimely deaths of his parents in a car accident. There had been a scandal in the newspaper that his uncle had been trying to find a way to secure Harry’s fortune whilst acting as his legal guardian, but that a family friend, Rubeus Hagrid, also the groundskeeper of Hogwarts Academy, had discovered this and intercepted before things were too late. Despite only being eleven, Harry was an Elite, which meant he had full control over his own fortune and the house left behind. Within a single moment, he had gone from being completely Ordinary, to one of the richest Elites known and he was able to enrol at Hogwarts. His modesty and selflessness never surprised Hermione, although she had been astonished to learn he was the Elite Harry Potter when they had first met. She considered him to be one of her closest friends, and he was often the first to notice when something wasn’t right with her.
That was why he brought her to Costa.
“You always remember,” she shook her head.
“Starbucks for coffee, Costa for tea,” he said it like a chant. “I only want the best for you.”
He ruffled her hair like an affectionate brother. Hermione’s hair was already bushy as it was and the wind had tangled it to an ungodly mess that she would have to deal with later, so she let him off the hook this time. The two students entered the café and chose a seat that was tucked away in the corner. The smell of coffee flooded Hermione’s senses, but she much preferred Costa’s tea over their coffee, whence Harry’s saying. It was warm in here, too. She shed her coat and scarf, and although she insisted that she could handle her own expenses, Harry promptly decided that it was only right that someone tearful shouldn’t pay for tea. She couldn’t argue with that, mostly out of embarrassment. When Harry returned, he plopped their serving number on the table, waiting for a pot of tea for two.
“Tell me what happened,” he leant back in the cushioned seat and folded his arms.
With a deep sigh, Hermione bent her head down, resting her chin in her hands, and woefully recounted the sordid affair to Harry. The more she spoke, the more anger she saw flash in his emerald eyes, thick brows drawing together and the firmness with which he would place his cup down. Harry already had a tense rivalry with Draco, which Seamus Finnigan had only worsened by starting a trend that the two were “dating” back in Year Ten. The rumour had never truly vanished; Hermione believed its only purpose in the present day was to fuel any hatred between Harry and Draco.
“That’s all bullshit,” Harry shook his head. “I’ll talk to Slughorn and Dumbledore. Malfoy’s parading around with your title.”
“Please, don’t,” Hermione sighed into her tea. “I don’t think I could handle the stress and hassle. My parents have already had enough run-ins with the Malfoys.”
“I don’t like that they’re walking all over you like this,” he didn’t look impressed.
“Me neither, but what can I do?” Hermione worried at her lip.
“Let me handle it,” his eyes were full of sincerity- he would give up a lot to help her.
“I can’t do that,” she flinched when she saw the plain confusion in his eyes. “I know you don’t think they’ll have repercussions, but the Malfoys could ruin my parents. They could probably have me expelled from Hogwarts.”
“Dumbledore wouldn’t allow that,” Harry pointed out.
“Dumbledore doesn’t control the Board of Governors, Harry,” Hermione gave him a pointed stare. “And Lucius Malfoy is a Governor of this school and has lots of money, alongside Dolores Umbridge, who hates Ordinaries, and Cornelius Fudge, who can be bullied into agreeing to anything so long as the Elites are appeased.”
“Fine, but only because you don’t want me to.”
Hermione could see disappointment and perhaps a little hurt flicker across his features, so she reached across the table and took his hand.
“I appreciate your offer, though,” she reassured him. “Vice President is still a really good position to have and it’ll be worth putting it on my personal statement and CV.”
“What if I threatened Malfoy?” Harry checked one last time.
Hermione chuckled. “While I find that to be very charming, I can’t help but think he’ll run home and appeal to his parents.”
“Fine, I won’t say anything,” the smile lessened as he schooled his features. “Our main concern is Ronald.”
“Yeah,” she breathed out a sigh. “Crap.”
“I would suggest we not tell him, but it’ll be quite obvious when Malfoy parades around tomorrow as Class President,” Harry pondered. “I think it’s safe to say Ron won’t be happy at all.”
“Of course, he won’t,” Hermione wove her fingers through her hair. “I’ll tell him tomorrow morning. He arrives late, anyway.”
“He arrives with me.”
“You both arrive late.”
He sat in his car for a lot longer than he needed to. He had parked near the front door, something his father told him not to do, but he hadn’t mustered the willpower to get out and let himself in. Draco couldn’t face his parents after what had happened today. He had been shouted at and insulted by a Peasant who just so happened to be that awful Granger. His jaw kept tightening as he recalled the words she had slung towards him, behaving as if her place in society was far higher than it truly was. He would slam his silver platter in her face if people wouldn’t judge him for hitting a girl, but Granger was hardly a girl. ‘Creature’ or ‘thing’ described her better. He kept thinking about her face upturned towards him, eyes rimmed slightly red and, if he didn’t know better- and perhaps he didn’t-, then he was nearly sure she was tearful.
Draco didn’t like to think so, but it had bothered him. She’d clearly cared deeply about the position, more so than he did. Although it hadn’t been his decision, he had forcefully taken the position from her under the instruction of his parents. That was the main reason why he was now so reluctant to face them. He knew his father would be able to detect a hint of guilt or melancholy from him when he ought to be celebrating, and Draco would get in trouble for that. They were supposed to be a proud Elite family, unhindered and unsympathetic towards all of those beneath them in status. Not everyone was worthy of their attention and Draco had spent far too much of his school life competing academically with Granger, a set-back that had put her already in his father’s bad books.
Whilst Draco himself didn’t particularly like Granger, she was right. What had happened wasn’t fair and it certainly hadn’t been the kind of victory he wanted. Draco had always envisioned that his rivalry with Granger would remain clean, but his father had stuck his foot in and ruined it. Draco liked having an academic rival, but with his father cheating on his behalf, he worried Granger would lose interest in competing with someone who could just reverse the results. Governess Umbridge had immediately passed the notion that he ought to be Class President instead of Granger. She hated Peasants just as much as his father did and was more than happy to try and erase Granger from as much of Hogwarts’ history as she could manage. She had even tried to interject Granger becoming Head Girl, but the old coot Dumbledore had sternly put his foot down, insisting that both Head students were selected by the faculty within Hogwarts. Governor Fudge was gutless. He followed power and influence, both of which Draco’s father had. He was essentially as Yes Man, which had made it very easy to convince a overruling of Granger as Class President. As for the position of Head Boy, Draco had been reprimanded for losing, but Theo was also an Elite and had as much right to be Head Boy as anyone else.
That loss sat less sorely on Draco’s tongue than this victory did, because at least Draco could say he had deserved losing against Theo. He had not deserved winning against Granger, since she had beaten him by three points, her eleven against his eight, and Potter had scrabbled for the last four votes. Whatever way he looked at it, Draco would have Potter’s votes if they had to choose between her and Draco. Without cheating, he had lost from all angles and yet his father’s influence had ensured he’d won. How was he supposed to face his father with a straight face when he was feeling this wave of emotions swirling around his chest? He pushed open the door because there was no point on dwelling it for much longer. It was time to face the music, slamming the car door shut behind him and locking it over his shoulder. He had a house key, too, which he used after climbing the stairs. Still, he paused to take a long, much-needed breath before he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
“Home,” he called out.
“Good evening, Draco,” their butler, Yaxley, approached and lifted his school blazer from his shoulders. “How was your day?”
“Standard,” Draco rolled his shoulders back irritably. “Where are Father and Mother?”
“Enjoying tea in the west-wing sitting room,” Yaxley replied. “The tea is fresh. Mr Malfoy did tell me he wished to speak with you.”
Draco knew this was going to be a fiasco. “Very well, then.”
He stalked away from the butler, his feet carrying to the west side of the house. Days would be getting shorter within a month, and darker, but for now the orange beam of the setting five o’clock sun streaking across the walls, even turning Draco’s bleached hair orange and gold. It was almost blinding, but it was where the natural daylight sat and that was what his parents liked. They would enjoy tea until six, where red wine was opened and enjoyed. When he was outside of the sitting room he took another deep breath before entering, plastering a pleasant smile on his face.
“Draco,” his mother held a hand out towards him, so he took it and leant down to let her kiss his cheek. “Sit with us.”
Draco sat beside his mother. He never sat next to his father, who was currently resting a glacier grey stare on him.
“How was your day, Draco?” his mother rested a gentle hand on his head, always treating him like the little boy he once was.
“Adequate,” he raised a cup which she poured for him.
“And?” his father prompted, leaning forwards. “What of the Peasant girl?”
“I’m Class President from now on,” Draco leant back into the sofa.
“Excellent,” his father relaxed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t be required to step in for you once more. I like to believe you’re at least competent enough to deal with your own affairs now.”
“Yes, Father,” Draco sipped his tea.
“I refuse to have any Malfoy stand at a lower position than a Peasant such as that,” his father’s nose wrinkled in sheer disgust. “It was already disappointing enough that you failed to become Head Boy, but to leave Hogwarts with no achievements would be a mortification to our family name.”
“I understand, Father.”
“Indeed, I worried you wouldn’t have much to show for yourself, Draco, but at least now you have something,” his father sent him a long stare. “The first Malfoy who is not elected Class President or Head Boy. It’s hard to say I’m proud of you, even now, when I’ve had to pull yet more strings for you.”
“Yes, Father,” Draco stiffened his jaw.
“Every time I have to step in on your behalf, I can’t help but feel how disgraced our family ought to feel in front of the other Governors,” his father continued. “Thicknesse and Fudge are easy to sway and Bartemius Crouch will always follow the popular vote, but Bones and Prickle are far more resistant to anything I suggest. And every time I have to lay myself down for you, the conniving sneer of Umbridge is always hovering in the corner, even though I know she’ll always pick an Elite over an Ordinary.”
“And thank you , Father,” Draco put down his cup, barely touched. “I do appreciate it. Unfortunately, I have work I need to get done. I will see you both for dinner.”
He didn’t wait for a reply that time. Draco rose from his seat and stalked out of the room.