Chapter 11
Winter 1998, New York City
"My darling!" Alexander exclaimed when Hermione opened the door.
Upon seeing Alexander's lavishness, Hermione immediately felt underdressed. She realized that this was probably something most people suffered from in Alexander's presence.
"Alexander, oh my Godric!" Hermione gushed.
"Well, I don't know who Godric is, but I'm taking that as a compliment."
"I-I just mean, you look amazing," Hermione clarified, inviting him into the suite. "Besides, I don't think you've ever been insulted in your life, the way you carry on!"
"It is what I do for a living, one would hope I know what I'm doing."
Self-consciously, Hermione glanced down at her rather plain appearance. She had attempted to modify a simple black shirt she had brought into a dress, which looked fine, but it was nothing special. Viewing herself in the mirror, Hermione had determined it was sufficient for dinner. Plus, she had heard New Yorkers loved black, so she'd blend in.
"Erm, is this acceptable?" Hermione asked, gesturing to her outfit.
"Very acceptable," Alexander said kindly. As if sensing her uncertainty, he gently added, "Would you allow me to make one tiny alteration?"
"Oh, I mean," Hermione stalled, not wanting to make Alexander feel put out or on the spot. But then she resolved that it would probably be for the best—plus, she was curious to see what he would do. "If it wouldn't be an imposition."
"It's never an imposition to shine a jewel like you, darling."
Alexander took her to the center of the parlor, where "the light was best." With a quick Accio, the floor-length mirror from the bedroom carefully maneuvered toward them, and Alexander transfigured a pillow from the couch into a little pedestal for Hermione to step up on.
Alexander stalked around her on the pedestal, looking her up and down. Not in an unkind way, but in a very critical way. Almost a critical curiosity, the kind Hermione knew she had when surveying books or new information. She felt like no one had ever looked at her like this before, and no one ever would again.
"So, tell me two things you like about your appearance, and one thing you don't."
Hermione stalled for a moment, thinking about her appearance. Fourth year, she had been very self-conscious before the Yule Ball. So much so that she had gone through various remedies to tame her hair. Allowing Madam Pomfrey to fix her teeth from those beaver monstrosities had been a solid start to boosting her self-confidence. But tackling the rest had been a little daunting to do on her own, yet looking at her appearance after all the research and hassle made her feel amazing. But the feeling was complex, maybe too complex for Hermione to tease it out then as a fourth year, but something she had been trying to work on since. Why did changing her appearance make her feel better? Was is something within her, or some pressure from outside, from her peers, from society? Hermione had never been one to parade around, unlike Pansy Parkinson or Lavender Brown. And why did buying form-fitting jeans with Ginny make her feel better about herself?
Hermione thought of herself as a new book for Alexander, and she decided to open her cover.
"I like the way my hips flare into my thighs and the way my hair cascades around my face. I do not like how pointy my shoulders are." They were easy things to say, but she was still grateful that Draco was still in the shower. But for the first time, Hermione felt lighter about her appearance than she had since the Yule Ball. Just admitting those things aloud somehow made her feel bold and self-aware.
"That is very astute. Let's see what we can do."
Alexander prowled around, muttering things to himself. Hermione felt like she was watching a genius at work. She wondered how he could create such amazing art when the canvas always changed. Her anxiety surged when he momentarily stopped behind her, surveying her arse as if there was something wrong with it. Then he brought out his wand.
"Are you ready, my darling?"
Hermione nodded her head, staring in the mirror. Then the hem of her black dress began to lengthen to the floor. It shimmered and turned into a different fabric, gathering midway around her calves, accentuating into a flare towards her feet. Meanwhile, the fabric at her waist tightened—not in an uncomfortable way, but in a way that was specifically fitted to her—which it was. One of the shoulders of the dress vibrated slightly as the fabric changed from the t-shirt material to delicate lace, which swarmed across her chest to the other shoulder. All of Alexander's spell work resulted in a black, lace-topped, sleeveless mermaid dress with buttons down the back. Hermione was baffled by her reflection. She was stunning.
"Just a tiny alteration, then?"
Alexander laughed and said, "I simply rode my inspiration." Hermione beamed at him. "I've wanted to design a dress like this for a while now," Alexander said softly, finding Hermione's eyes in the mirror.
"Why haven't you done it before?"
"It would seem that your hips were the best for the job." Alexander smiled warmly at her.
The phrase "best for the job" rang in Hermione's ears as she remembered Kingsley's offer. She had not thought about it in a long time, having gotten caught up in the whirlwind between her and Draco. Snape's comment while she had been leaving McGonagall's office had somehow burrowed its way into her brain, making her doubt her abilities and her strength. Even after all this time and all the things she had learned about Snape, it still seemed like she was a tiny know-it-all first year who spoke out of turn. Somehow, the fact that she had not thought about it more since his original offer made her feel worse than Snape's comments.
"Who is Kingsley?"
"Alexander!" Hermione said in a chastising tone.
"What?" Alexander said, putting his hands indignantly on his hips. "If you didn't want folks to be able to read your thoughts, then you should learn Occlumency." Hermione's look didn't falter, even though she knew he was right. "Besides, you were practically mumbling it out loud, you were thinking so hard about it."
"Kingsley is our Minister for Magic."
"Oooh," Alexander said. "Tell me, is he handsome?"
Hermione swatted at him as she turned around. "No, I mean, he isn't not handsome, but that's not why I was thinking about him."
"Wanna talk about it?" Alexander asked genuinely.
"He's asked me to do something that I'm not sure I want to do."
"The Minister for Magic is asking you for favors? Who are you that you know the Minister for Magic?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back towards the mirror. Quickly, she searched for the shortest answer that would satisfy him. "I'm an involved citizen."
Alexander chuckled at her. "It's all right, you don't need to tell me everything. I'm sure I would prefer not to know, actually." He looked at her seriously and put a hand on her shoulder in a caring way that made Hermione forget that they had just met earlier that day. "So why you?"
"He seems to think I'm the best witch for the job," Hermione said, hanging her head slightly.
"And you doubt him?"
"No." If anything, Kingsley was one of the most astute wizards Hermione knew. If he saw something, that was the way it was. It was what made him such a wonderful Minister.
"You doubt yourself?"
"Not exactly." There had been few times in her life that she'd doubted herself and her abilities. The most memorable had been when she'd been wearing the Horcrux. Sometimes she'd doubted herself while she cried alone on the beach at night in Bald Head. But this time, it was not that she doubted herself.
"You just don't want to do it?"
Hermione couldn't answer. She had been afraid that was the reason she was so reticent to answer Kingsley's call to action.
"You find it hard to say 'no' to people when they ask you to help them, don't you?"
Hermione turned her head away from his reflection and stayed silent. Alexander seemed to know from her silence that he was right.
"Is that why you're with Draco?"
Hermione whipped her head around. "What do you mean?"
"If he hasn't asked for your help outright; he's obviously in need of it. He reeks of a broken soul." Alexander examined Hermione's eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "But never mind that now; how about we adorn you?"
Hermione was grateful for the easy distraction from the serious turn their conversation had taken. "What did you have in mind?"
"Gold, of course!"
—xxx—
Draco emerged from the shower feeling refreshed and lighter than he could remember. It seemed like whatever was happening between him and Hermione was helping to overwrite the horrible mess that had been the last three years of his life. She was this unassuming beacon of hope. When Hermione had said those three words, "I want you," Draco's whole perspective had seemed to shift. It was hard to fathom that something Hermione Granger could say to him would have such an effect, but here he was feeling overwhelmed by her emotive expression.
Draco tried to figure out how this had happened. He tried to think through each step of their interactions—from Hermione coming into his train compartment, to her ogling him in the greenhouse, to him whispering suggestively in their History of Magic class, to her approaching him in the library. There was a piece missing from the puzzle that kept him from figuring out her progression and motivations. But when she had said, "I want you," it seemed like motivations didn't matter, because she wanted him. When Hermione had sauntered over to him with her very practical suggestion, he had never imagined anything like this could come out of their simple sexual arrangement.
The only person he had ever felt love from was his mother. She had always been kind and attentive, careful to strike a balance with how Draco's father treated him. His father had always been very hard on Draco—urging him to learn the fastest, do the most, be the best, think of himself as the highest in the room. Save for rooms that Lucius was also in—then Lucius was the highest in the room. There was zero room for error with Draco's father. His mother was kind and patient, but also domineering in her own way. She had always made space for Draco to try his own way, but when his mother told him to do something, there was no room for insolence. The Malfoys were not a very affectionate family, but occasionally, Narcissa would hug Draco, and in those moment everything was all right in the world.
There had been witches Draco had dated or fucked who had proclaimed feelings of love and adoration, but it had all been tainted by their selfishness—their need or want to have someone like Draco on their arm; not necessarily Draco himself. Pansy had grown out of that once they had decided to be friends, and he knew that in her own weird way, she loved him as a friend. Draco's inclination was to take Hermione's words as true and not as a double-edged sword. It wasn't in her nature to be disingenuous. But Draco's past experiences were attempting to poke holes in her words.
Having wrapped the towel around his waist, Draco wiped the steam from the mirror and shook his head. But Hermione had said, "I want you," not "I love you." Why was Draco confounding the two phrases?
Am I really that desperate for someone to love me? Draco thought. His eyes caught on the reflection of his forearm; the Dark Mark flashing venomously at him. Does this make me un-loveable?
Haughtily, Draco stood up taller and gave himself a stern look. "Don't be a prat," he said to his reflection.
He grabbed his wand out of habit, but caught himself before he could attempt illegal magic. He put his wand down, stared at his jaw in the mirror, and said, "Raisto."
It was a simple charm to get rid of stubble, but Draco's wandless magic was not strong enough for it. Apparently, he needed something like Hermione's lips on his neck to help him channel it more.
Draco tried to cast the spell a couple more times, even yelling it the final time to see if volume helped. But to no avail. Draco spotted the complimentary razor on the vanity. He was left with no choice. He lathered his jaw with fluffy white shaving cream and went to work. It had been years since he'd shaved without the aid of magic.
Just when he thought, I've got the hang of this, he nicked his neck.
"Son of Salazar," Draco cursed, sucking in his lip. He threw the razor down into the sink, frustrated that he was on probation and couldn't use magic and somehow in that moment it was all his father's fault. Draco looked at the razor in the porcelain sink. A smudge of blood had melded with some water and it was spreading like a halo around the razor head.
Draco knew he couldn't go out to dinner half-shaved, so he picked up the razor and resumed the activity. While he paid careful attention to each stroke, Draco wondered what it was that Hermione preferred—scruffy or clean-shaven. He'd have to remember to ask her. He'd never tried to grow a beard and had no idea what it would look like on him. He finally finished, and splashed his face with water.
For a moment, Draco considered leaving his wand on the counter in the bathroom so as not to be tempted to use it. But he knew that leaving it would certainly raise suspicions from Hermione. He'd just have to be more patient and allow Hermione to conduct all the magic they'd need tonight. He knew she would rather just do the magic the right way herself than wait for someone else to do it anyhow.
Entering the bedroom, he heard laughter from the other room. It had to be Hermione and Alexander waiting for him. He dressed quickly in his clothes from earlier, noticing Hermione had given them a good Scurgify and folded them. Draco looked down at his appearance, his mother had never let him wear khaki to dinner no matter how pressed the clothes were. Draco knew that even if he could remember the charm for changing the color of fabrics, he couldn't do it without his wand.
Figuring it was better to not keep Alexander and Hermione waiting too much longer, even though they seemed to be enjoying each other's company, Draco emerged from the bedroom into the parlor.
Alexander was standing in front of Hermione, saying something about how golden hues were going to be her best friend for the rest of her life. He was wearing what Draco thought was a cape and very wide legged trousers, or perhaps a robe even though robes were not fashionable in America, or was he wearing a dress? Draco wasn't sure from this angle.
Alexander turned his head at the sound of the bedroom door opening, smiling at Draco and giving him a short nod of his head. Then he stepped aside so Draco could see Hermione. She stood with her back to him in front of a large mirror. Draco's chest tightened slightly at the sight of her. Then she turned and smiled at him. Hermione's silhouette was elegant in a fitted black dress. There was lace across her chest, which gave a spark of sexy. Her hair was plaited in the same diadem as before, but now it was adorned with gold strands running through it. It looked almost crown-like.
"Alexander is a genius," Hermione said with a large smile on her face.
"It's easy when the canvas is nearly perfect," Alexander said, returning her smile.
"I bet you say that to all the girls," Hermione retorted.
"Well, you two are certainly making a statement," Draco said.
Hermione surveyed Draco's appearance, then asked, "Alexander, do we have time for you to make some alterations for Draco before dinner? We didn't necessarily come ready for a night out."
Alexander bowed saying, "Of course, my dear." He flourished his hand towards her to help her down from the pedestal. She walked towards Draco, her hips accentuated in the fitted dress. There was a new sway to her walk he hadn't seen before and it was sexy as Helga.
Was she wearing heels? he thought.
"I think I'm all right as I am; it's just dinner," Draco said. Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him a little towards Alexander and the mirror.
"Draco—have some fun!"
"Really, I'm all right."
"My dear man, it is a well-known fact that a gentleman must always complement his lady when going out." Alexander then gestured to Draco, "And this simply does not complement."
He has a point, thought Draco.
"Well, go on," Hermione said, pushing Draco's back to urge him to step up onto the pedestal.
It made Draco feel like he was in Madam Malkin's in Diagon Alley for the first time again. His mother had left him there for a short while as she popped into another shop. Draco had gone to other tailors his entire life, but only Madam Malkin made Hogwarts robes. Draco had been standing perfectly still, but the old bat had poked him in the ankle, and in had walked Potter.
Draco hadn't known it was Potter at the time. Draco remembered trying to impress the boy, figuring accurately he was to be a new classmate, flexing the skills his father had taught him in the art of dominating conversation. But Potter had been reticent. Draco had had the fleeting thought that emulating his father had caused Potter to be unfriendly.
Like any other magical child in England (and perhaps the world), Draco had grown up hearing all about the Boy Who Lived. Draco would catch glimpses of headlines in the Daily Prophet gossip column like, "The Boy Who Lived spotted in Cambridge attending Muggle university at age 11" or "Young girl says Harry Potter came out of hiding to tell her he loves her." Lucius would often speculate about the Boy's whereabouts with fellow former Death Eaters.
"No one can figure it out," Nott senior had once said to Lucius. "Where did he go?"
"No one knows," Lucius had said.
"Shouldn't we be looking for him?"
"Looking for Lord Voldemort?"
"The Boy," Nott had clarified.
"And what would we do to the Boy if we found him?" Lucius had asked Nott.
"Kill him so that the Dark Lord could return."
Draco had observed Lucius ruminate carefully on how to respond to his fellow Death Eater, a man who he had grown up with and come to lead under the Dark Lord.
"I am dubious that killing the Boy would allow the return of Lord Voldemort."
"But Lord Voldemort will rise again," Nott had said dutifully. "He always said—"
"I am not so sure, Nott. I would think that if a mere boy could defeat the Dark Lord then he was not the master of the dark arts we all believed him to be. Perhaps the Boy himself is the Lord we have been looking for."
It was conversations like this which had made disappointing Potter at Madam Malkin's all that much more tragic to Young Draco. While preparing to leave for his first year at Hogwarts, Draco hastened to put a plan together on how to approach Potter at Hogwarts and perhaps remedy his first impression. On the train, Draco had tried to cajole Potter into joining his gang, to show how loyal the Malfoys could be in service of the dark arts and Pure Blood supremacy efforts. But Potter's rejection only stirred up a volatile emotional response in Draco, which fueled their animosity from then on. And only further flamed by Lucius' quick turn away from holding out hope for The Boy Who Lived after his obvious alliance to Dumbledore.
Hermione patted Draco's shoulder, bringing him out of the past and back to surveying his appearance in the mirror. Compared to Hermione and Alexander, he felt shabby. Which was not something he had felt before, as his mother had always impressed upon him the importance of appearance.
If only I could have remembered the charm to change fabric colors¸ Draco thought.
"It's Phoinios," Alexander said gently. A dark black began to creep up his trousers from his ankles, rising towards his knees, until it flushed across his hips and up to his waist. Alexander made a gesture with his hands, and the legs tightened a little and seemed to shift from a khaki to a suit fabric. His shirt crisped and then a suit jacket was blossoming across his back and down his arms.
"Alexander," Hermione exclaimed, "you're amazing!"
Alexander bowed his head in thanks. He met Draco's gaze in the mirror. "So, my dear, how do you feel about accoutrements?"
Unsure of what he meant, Draco could only say, "Whatever you think is best."
"Thattaboy!" Alexander said jovially in a rather odd accent. It was completely different to the highly refined way in which Alexander had been speaking to them. Draco wondered briefly about Alexander's past. Had he always lived in New York City or had he grown up somewhere else?
Alexander held out his hands, where a pair of intricate gold cufflinks appeared. Alexander murmured, and they levitated towards Draco, inserting themselves into the cuffs of his shirt. Next, Alexander drew a bow with his finger in the air next to Draco, and a jet-black bowtie materialized.
Draco caught a glimpse of Hermione in the mirror and saw that her brow was furrowed, no doubt in an attempt to understand what spells Alexander was using. Draco was sure she was taking notes on things to look up later. He smiled at the thought of seeing Hermione hunched over a spread of open books, digging into them, quill furiously taking notes next to her as she read aloud.
Hermione caught Draco's eyes and looked at him with delight and curiosity.
"OK, my dear," Alexander said. He had come behind Draco and had draped the bowtie around his neck. "Khipu," he whispered. The bowtie deftly tied itself around Draco's neck as Alexander's hands came up to lower the collar of Draco's shirt.
Khipu? Draco thought. What about Nodo?
"Khipu is Incan," Alexander explained, smiling gently at Draco.
"Eccentric," Draco murmured.
Hermione came forward to ogle Alexander's handiwork. "Divine," she muttered when inspecting the bowtie, which, after it had been tied, had sparked gold stars that twinkled sporadically.
"I know I am," Draco whispered to her.
She swatted his arm. "Prat," she said.
"You two are a sight for sore eyes," Alexander said.
—xxx—
"And then it started raining thimbles!" Alexander said. He flourished his hand over the white linen-covered table and a bucket of thimbles rained down in front of them, bouncing off the table and onto the floor. Hermione gave a delighted "oh!" and Draco laughed. In an instant, the thimbles disappeared, and Alexander took a long sip of his fancy cocktail.
"The life of a magical dressmaker," Hermione said.
"It is rather glamourous," Alexander said, "and grueling, and grand! And I am the greatest at it!"
"So humble you are," Draco said with a smile. The three of them laughed heartily.
"Well, my sweet—" Hermione was sure he meant a collective "sweet," and wondered how Draco minded all the adoring names Alexander dropped into nearly every sentence. Alexander continued, "One must sometimes pat one's own back."
The three of them sat in a small corner booth at a very fancy restaurant Alexander had insisted they go to for "the most magical meal" of their lives. Everything with Alexander was a superlative—the most, the best. His energy was deliciously sweet, nearly too much so, but somehow you couldn't pull away.
It was evident Hermione and Draco were not the only ones who felt Alexander's pull. As if he were magnetic, people in the restaurant were drawn to their table—coming over to say hello or compliment Alexander's ensemble, which was rather flamboyant. He wore wide-leg trousers of a shimmery material with a tight shirt tucked in, all topped with a capelet that subtly changed colors to complement or stand out from Alexander's surroundings. He had also accessorized with a pair of outrageously large earrings of charmed origami cranes, which occasionally fluttered and craned their necks to see who was admiring the ensemble.
Hermione was enchanted by the confidence Alexander exuded. It surely wasn't just his dress or his stature that attracted people to him, but also his confidence. Hermione wondered how one acquired such confidence throughout their lives. She remembered Draco's confidence in their earlier years at Hogwarts—always a pompous arse quick with some haughty detail about his Pure Blood family. It must have been all the conditioning from his father—who was perhaps so confident that he could give Alexander a run for his money.
Draco's parents, Hermione thought suddenly. How had she not thought of them before? How was this relationship every going to have any legs if she wasn't the kind of witch Draco could take home to his parents? She was sure that even though the Malfoys had seen Voldemort vanquished, they were certainly still Pure Blood supremacists. Hermione's heart sank quickly. Besides, both of them had watched as Bellatrix had tortured her in Malfoy Manor…
But what about Draco? Hermione thought. He had watched too and had done nothing. Did he even remember that? Hermione had gotten the impression that Draco was full of remorse for his actions over the last couple of years, but how specific was that remorse to actions taken against her? But Draco had not revealed Harry even when his father had impressed upon how good it would be for the Malfoys if they were the ones to turn Harry over to Voldemort. Could Hermione ever truly trust Draco Malfoy? Trust could only come with forgiveness, and Hermione wobbled on if she could ever forgive Draco. She could feel the pull of his proximity urging her to forgive and fall into him. But if she were able to forgive Draco of his severely bad choices, how could she not forgive Ron for snogging some random witch? And did forgiveness mean forgetting? Or would forgiveness lead to a future together?
Draco's hand found her knee under the table. Slightly startled, Hermione caught his questioning gaze. She fumbled a little and then nodded reassuringly at him. He turned his attention back to Alexander, and Hermione fell back into her thoughts. Trying to forget about his parents—for now—she attempted to find her previous train of thought.
Confidence, she thought. She wondered how one gained it. Certainly, it couldn't all be parental conditioning. Hermione's parents had been nothing but supportive and loving her entire life, proud of every exemplary mark, every trophy, even the naff macaroni necklaces she had made in preschool. So, what was the missing ingredient?
You'd think that after helping defeat the darkest wizard of our time, I'd have some bloody confidence, Hermione thought incredulously.
She watched Draco and Alexander chat across the table but didn't chime into the conversation. Their lips moved, and when Alexander made Draco laugh, his eyes twinkled as if he had won a prize. Hermione could see that Alexander seemed to enjoy getting reactions from people. Occasionally, both of them would glance over at Hermione, and she would smile and nod. Neither of them pressured her to join the conversation in those moments, but she felt welcomed back into the rhythm anytime. Draco's hand returned to her knee and rested there gently. It was nice to feel close to him, to be touched by him, and not worry about who was looking. It opened up this space in Hermione that she'd known had been walled off since that first night in the Room of Requirement. She hadn't realized how oppressive the task of keeping those walls up had been until it wasn't a task anymore. America really was the land of the free.