You are cordially invited to attend
A ball
To be hosted by the Malfoy family
In celebration of the fall of the Dark Lord
On this Friday evening at seven o' clock
In the ballroom of the Malfoy Manor
Formal wear.
Hermoine had almost dropped her coffee when she read the invitation.
Why the hell would the Malfoys, of all people, hold a ball "in celebration of the fall of the Dark Lord"? Hadn't they been some of his biggest supporters?
And furthermore, why would they invite her?
She set her coffee down and began pacing the kitchen of her tiny flat. It was located just above Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore on Diagon Alley which she now owned. She would have to get down and open it soon, but for now she needed to pace a good bit to calm her nerves.
The thought of going back to Malfoy Manor made her shiver. The scars Bellatrix Lestrange had carved into her arm —Mudblood - -began to tingle, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. How could she possibly return to that place? For a ball, of all things? It was madness.
Hermoine looked up at the clock. It was time to go open the shop, she realized in relief. A good day's work would calm her nerves.
And who should be waiting outside the front door but Draco Malfoy.
She bit back a rude "What are you doing here?" and quickly unlocked the door. It was a bookshop, after all, and scaring away customers was not good for selling books.
"Miss Granger," he greeted her politely. "Good morning."
"And to you, Mr. Malfoy," she replied as he took her hand and kissed it. "I trust you are well."
He shrugged. "Not particularly."
"Oh," she said softly. He continued into the store. It smelled of her, or she smelled of it; paper, old and new, and polished wood. "Well, may I help you find something today?" she asked courteously with her best business smile.
"I'm just here to browse, actually," he responded, then added, rather reluctantly: "And to be certain you got your invitation."
"I did, thank you," she answered, suddenly sounding stiff.
"Narcissa would like to know if you plan on attending." Draco sensed her discomfort easily (a man both blind and deaf could likely have done so) but pressed on.
"I haven't decided yet," she said carefully, turning to a shelf of books that was already perfectly in order and pointedly pretending to busy herself with it.
"Might I ask for what reason you are indecisive?" he inquired.
"Mr. Malfoy, surely you remember the things that were done to me in your home." She turned to him and drew back the sleeve of her robe, revealing the word forever engraved in her arm. Mudblood.
"My aunt and the rest of my family, including myself, have wronged you deeply," he agreed, taking her arm and delicately covering the scars with the folds of her robe again. "Perhaps you will allow my mother and I to make it up to you?"
She drew her arm from his grasp gently but firmly. "As I said before, I have not yet decided. And another thing," she added, turning to face him and lifting her chin in a bold manner. Gone was the perfect businesswoman; here was Hermoine Granger.
He had to suppress a smile; the conversation before had been so tiresome. He'd been wondering where the girl he so remembered had disappeared to.
"Why would your family, of all people, be throwing a ball to celebrate the fall of the Dark Lord? We all know how you worshipped them, Malfoy." She dropped the mister and all but spat the name she had known him by for so many years.
"You are right to wonder, Granger," was his response. "My mother cannot live without the respect of her peers, and she feels that this would be the best way to re-enter Wizarding society. Everyone who's anyone is invited, the rest of the Golden Trio included."
"As if you can live without the respect of your peers, Malfoy," she sneered.
"Perhaps you're right," he murmured distractedly, twisting a curl of her hair around his finger.
"Don't touch me," she ordered, her hand coming up to smack his wrist away, but it was already gone.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Draco spoke again. "Bellatrix is gone, Granger," he reminded her. "And if anyone dared hurt you, the Wizarding community would be on them like Dementors on a Quidditch match." A reference to their third year, and while the memory was not a good one for her, he swore he saw the corner of her lips twitch. It was clear to him that she was remembering punching him and probably wishing she could do so again.
"Memories are very good at keeping people away from places," she said darkly, turning back to her bookshelf.
"Still," he replied, inching close to her. "I would be honored to have you attend the ball."
"You mean Narcissa would be," Hermoine muttered darkly.
"No, Granger," he insisted. He was very close to her now, his lips a hair's breadth away from brushing her ear when he spoke, his voice a low, almost husky whisper. "I would be."
And then, with a swish of black robes and a jingle of the bells hanging over the door to the shop, he was gone.