Amor Caecus Est.
Rating: T (approximately PG-13 for cursing and references to sex)
Main Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Main Friendship: Hermione & Ginny
Additional Cast: Pansy Parkinson, Padma Patil, Rolf Scamander, Gregory Goyle, Oliver Wood, Percy Weasley, Ron Weasley (mentioned only)
Hermione heard the voice of the Prophet's Editor-in-Chief Barnabas Cuffe behind the door, and it dawned on her that this was the beginning of the end. Her heart began to race at nearly twice the speed of her watch's steady tick. She wiped her clammy hands on the stiff fabric of her pantsuit, but it didn't seem to help a bit.
"Fuck you, Ginny," she whispered, hoping the sentiment would somehow find its way to her friend, even though the two had been separated nearly half an hour before.
This was the last thing Hermione had wanted out of the evening. Yet here she was, about to meet her dates. Yes, dates. Plural.
She thought she might die of mortification. Truly.
It had been Ginny's request that Hermione participate in this ridiculous event in the first place. And, unfortunately for Hermione, that girl could talk her into anything.
It had all started at the Leaky Cauldron last Saturday. They had been out for drinks, as was their Saturday evening tradition, when Ginny wrangled Hermione into it.
"One favour," she had begged. "Just one teensy favour, and then I'll let it go. Okay? After this, you can be happily single until you die a lonely death."
Hermione had been determined to deny Ginny's request, but then, she surprised even herself.
"Okay," Hermione said, "I'll do it."
She might as well have signed her own death certificate, COD: humiliation. But, truth be told, she had signed that long, long before.
This all really began the week after Hermione and Ron had broken up.
Hermione had been twenty-two years old and tired. She had been tired of living a life that wasn't what she had imagined it would be; tired of waking up every day next to a partner that wanted her to be someone that she wasn't; tired of working a dead-end Ministry job that she wished she had quit when she had had the chance.
As it had turned out, the feeling was reciprocated.
As much as the break-up was mutual, it had left Hermione in a rather pathetic state. Waking up in her empty flat that first morning without Ron had felt lonely. Incredibly lonely.
She hardly got out of bed for the first day and, if she were being entirely honest, didn't even properly brush her hair for at least three more. She ate greasy takeaways and neglected even basic human hygiene, opting instead to use a scouring charm on her bed sheets when things got grim enough.
She had, at the time, thanked the gods that the break-up had happened at the start of her week-long holiday, so she could spend the rest of it recovering before returning to work.
Hermione had been hiding out for nearly the whole week by the time Saturday rolled around. She had planned to spend the remainder of the day in bed, allowing herself one more day of being a self-pitying mess before she inevitably threw herself into some new project or another on Monday morning.
She had always found that a new project was the best way to distract oneself from unwanted emotions. But, the healer she saw every Monday had asked her to try to take the time to mourn the loss of her relationship. (She really hoped Healer Crenshaw was happy with how that particular suggestion had turned out!)
Unfortunately, her plans all changed mid-afternoon when Ginny found her in her dishevelled state.
Ginny claimed that it was quite a scene, that she had walked in on Hermione passed out in bed, in desperate need of a shower, clutching her battered old copy of Pride and Prejudice to her chest.
Hermione, of course, had no way to verify this, but she highly doubted it was far from the truth.
"You're not doing this," Ginny had announced as she flung Hermione's bedroom door open.
Hermione had jumped awake. She had nearly screamed, until she noticed it was just Ginny. Showing up in her apartment unannounced was, unfortunately, not surprising for Ginny, who was in possession of both a peculiar talent for breaking and entering and an utter lack of shame.
"You're getting up and showering right this instant," Ginny had said.
There was something frightening about how much Ginny could sound like her mum when she wanted to.
After a few minutes of bickering, Hermione had obliged. She soon found herself in the shower, brushing her teeth and untangling her matted hair. It was a miserable truth that there was no arguing with Ginny when she decided to break out the Molly Weasley Voice.
Even once she had cleaned up, Hermione assured Ginny that she would not, under any circumstances, be going out with her. She had sworn up, down, left and right—over her dead body, even—that she would not be leaving her flat that night. Leaving would interrupt her very important plans to eat a whole pint of Fortescue's pumpkin pasty ice cream and finish her book.
Besides, she had argued, it would break Crookshanks' heart, who had rather quickly become accustomed to Hermione's plan to stay in bed for the rest of her life. (She had just broken off her engagement—she was allowed a bit of hyperbole!)
But, of course, Ginny got her way. Within the hour, the two were settled in a booth at the Leaky Cauldron.
"I'm not the one that broke up with you," Ginny had said between bites of her favourite Simison Steaming Stout and Kidney Pie. She pointed her fork at Hermione accusatorially, as if her friend had suggested it in the first place.
Hermione had cringed at Ginny's assumption that Ron had broken up with her. But she wasn't naïve enough to think that anyone would believe the break-up was a mutual split. Less than a week after they called their engagement off, Ron had already moved on. Publicly. He had been seen out that Friday with a leggy blonde at the new French restaurant in Diagon Alley by half of London. The other half had learnt about his outing in the same way Hermione had: from the photo splashed across the front page of WKND, the Prophet's very own gossip rag. As far as the public was concerned, Hermione had been dumped.
"And I'm not losing you over my brother's idiocy," Ginny had continued, fork still being flung ominously in the direction of Hermione's face.
The cutlery emitted a tendril of smoky white steam that curled into the air above it menacingly. Sometimes Hermione wondered if she'd ever get used to some of the more whimsical idiosyncrasies of the wizarding world.
Hermione then took a long sip of her cider, hoping Ginny would finish this attempt at a morale-boosting speech sooner rather than later.
"Besides, he's obviously mad. I mean, look at you!" Ginny said, pointing the fork suddenly straight at Hermione's chest, "What man in his right mind would dump those tits?"
By the end of the night, it had been decided (and by decided, she meant that Ginny had decided) that the two girls would meet up for drinks every Saturday evening at the Cauldron.
Thus the weekly meet-up was born.
Only a few weeks passed before Ginny started spending these Saturday nights trying to get Hermione on a date. She swore it was the only way that Hermione would get over her brother. She used a variety of largely unsuccessful—and highly embarrassing—tactics to achieve her goal. Sometimes, she'd send random men drinks from their table. Other times, she'd introduce Hermione to attractive strangers with a cheeky "Have you met Hermione?". Once, she even sent Dean Thomas to meet Hermione in her stead, thinking the surprise blind date would make for a marvellous meet-cute.
After that particular incident, Hermione didn't show up to their weekly meet-up for over a month.
On the odd occasion that Hermione had the misfortune of being successfully set up, she used every excuse in the book to avoid seeing her date again. She claimed she wasn't ready yet; that a pub was the last place she would ever want to meet a partner; that *insert potential romantic partner here* was too smiley, too stoic, talked too much, spoke too little, didn't read enough, read too much (this being Ginny's first clue that these excuses were absolute bullshit), didn't care about his professional life enough, worked far too many hours per week...
But the truth was that Hermione just couldn't see a partner fitting into her life anymore. She had learned to love the quiet solitude of her flat and the peace of her hermitic life.
Not to mention that the more she tried to evade Ginny's increasingly wild attempts to get her a date, the more turned off by the prospects she was.
"I just want you to be happy," Ginny had said last year, "Like I am."
Hermione laughed violently at this statement.
Ginny was as miserable as she was happy. She had a new date nearly every week. Even the ones she swore she was arse-over-tit in love with hardly ever lasted more than a month. And when those relationships crashed and burned, like they always did, she was inconsolable.
It had become clear to Hermione that there was something about the cost–benefit analysis of modern dating that just didn't add up.
If she were ever to date again, she would need to find someone that stimulated her, challenged her, improved her in some way. And Hermione could hardly imagine finding someone like that in the truly small pool of available wizards in London. She understood that such a thought sounded ridiculous. Perhaps overly critical. Some might even call it judgmental.
"It's London, for Merlin's sake," Ginny had shouted at her once, "You can't write off every single man in the largest wizarding community in the world!"
But, she'd yet to meet a man that could change her opinion, as harsh as it was.
Maybe she had read too many fictions; she wondered about that sometimes. Her standards for men had probably been artificially inflated to the point of futility. How could any average man match up to her expectations when her expectations were born from literary perfection?
Or, maybe, the classic romances in which she had indulged had robbed her entirely of her ability to be attracted to regular, good-for-her-sanity men. She was convinced that the type of decent men she should want to be with wouldn't hold her interest for more than ten minutes anymore. She was spoilt by the thought of the brutal, all-consuming love that she had been promised by Austen and Brontë and Alcott. But that sort of love… it certainly wasn't good for anyone. Not in real life.
That's why she took Ginny up on this deal. All she had to do was spend one night at the launch party for WKND's new—and highly publicised—relationship column, Sex & the Single Witch, and then Ginny would lay off the set-ups and flirty introductions and snide comments about her spinsterhood for good.
There was only one catch: the party doubled as a blind dating event.
Ultimately, no matter how dull or awkward or painful it was, it couldn't be worse than spending every Saturday night of the rest of her adult life enduring cheesy pick-up lines and excruciatingly dull banter from drunken men who thought they stood a chance.
It was just one evening, after all.
And so, Hermione found herself waiting for Ginny on the day of the WKND soirée, plastering as much of a smile on her face as she could muster.
She had done her research on the event, even if the available details were vague. As far as she could tell, it was a society party hosted at a manor house called Hastings. She heard from one coworker that it was to be a blind masquerade-style mixer followed by a matchmaking game that would be hosted by the mysterious new columnist herself. Another had whispered that the identity of the columnist—who was promised to be an "already hot socialite pulled directly from the pages of the WKND"—would apparently be revealed during the evening's keynote address.
The one thing that stuck out to Hermione, though, was the invitation's assurance that the guests would become the topic of the column's first article, to be titled Love is Blind.
Everything about it sounded miserable.
When Ginny came to collect her from her flat, she raked her eyes up and down Hermione's body with a look of genuine disappointment.
"I'm not changing," Hermione said defensively, knowing exactly what her best friend was thinking, "You're lucky I'm going at all."
"Fine," Ginny grumbled. She hardly waited ten seconds before asking, "Not even some mascara?"
"I'm wearing mascara, Gin."
"Why do you do this to me?" Ginny laid her hands over her heart emphatically.
"Me!" Hermione punctuated her exclamation with a laugh. "Why do you do this"—she flapped her invitation in the air—"to me?"
"Because I have an overactive imagination and a pathological need to invent drama in my life," she said—a long-running inside joke stolen from her favourite of the muggle books Hermione had forced her to read—, "Now, let's GO before we're late."
They both grabbed handfuls of Floo powder and stepped into Hermione's fireplace; they were swept away with a burst of green flames to the hearth of Hastings House.
The entry hall was filled with nervous energy. Hermione could feel it buzzing around her as soon as her feet touched the floor. The hubbub had a jazzy liveliness to it that lulled her into a false sense of security. In a place this packed with people, she thought, she would surely go unnoticed.
When she opened her eyes, she felt horrifically underdressed. Everyone before her was in evening dresses and suits; she had just worn what she had to work that day. Suddenly she felt sure to stick out like a sore thumb.
Then, all of a sudden, her embarrassment was disrupted by what she saw around her.
The room into which she had stepped must've been inside a National Trust property. It was cavernous. The walls were painted a delicate peach and covered in golden-framed artwork. Chandeliers dripping with crystals were strung from the vaulted ceiling; bright burning candles floated about the bustling crowd, frozen in suspended animation. Above her head there was a large banner across which the words "AMOR CAECUS EST" sprawled—only to erase themselves and start again on loop—in large, elaborate lettering. She used her rudimentary Latin to quickly translate: Love is Blind.
A woman in black-and-white servant's garb approached to ask for her and Ginny's invitations. Hermione and Ginny both withdrew their hand-addressed envelopes.
Despite the invitation, Hermione had no idea this was to be such a formal affair. Apparently that detail had spread via word of mouth. Or, maybe, a quiet voice in the back of her mind proffered, it was one of those unspoken social cues she was doomed to miss out on. She quickly pushed the thought aside, settled on the idea that the dress code had merely escaped her notice.
When she expressed this disgruntled thought, Ginny scoffed.
"Would you've come if I'd told you?" she asked.
And, to be fair, Hermione probably wouldn't have. Between the black-tie dress code and the extravagant setting, her commitment to the evening suddenly seemed a lot larger than she had anticipated.
After procuring their invitations, both girls were handed masks. They were the sort that one might wear to a masquerade, meant to obscure one's identity. Except, rather than being bold and brightly coloured, they were a plain cream tone with naught but a raised border as decoration.
They were instructed to place the provided masks upon their faces before they entered the ballroom, where the keynote speech would be given. The greeter explained that the masks had a unique charm placed on them designed to help more thoroughly disguise any distinguishing features of their wearer. This would ensure that the event was truly blind, allowing participants to see the person before them without prejudice.
Hermione raised the mask towards her face with heavy scepticism. She had meant only to scrutinise it more closely, but, without forewarning, the mask adhered to her face with a strange swooping noise. All the sensation of it resting on her face melted away within seconds.
She looked towards Ginny, but found she couldn't pick her out. She was surrounded by a sea of unidentifiable persons. And everyone was swarming towards the ballroom.
Then a hand reached out and grabbed her own.
"Hermione?" The voice belonging to the hand asked with a giggle, "That is you, right?"
"Yes, Gin," Hermione responded drolly, "I haven't made off with the cloakroom attendant yet."
"Well, thank Merlin." She let out a dramatic sigh. "That would've been horribly awkward."
They kept their hands clasped so as not to lose one another and were swept up in the tide of people. As they were shoved closer to the ballroom, the women both had thick cardstock folders and auto-inking quills thrust into their free hands.
Hermione suddenly registered that the folder held a pile of parchment. She peeked inside and gasped.
It was a dating profile! Like the ones her aunt Lydia had sent to mail-order dating services after her husband died. Hermione had been seven or so at the time and found the concept unspeakably hilarious. Were she being honest, some part of her still did.
Hermione was surprised to see Ginny start in on her own application as soon as the crowd around them dispersed into the ballroom. She had been seeing a girl she had met at one of her quidditch matches for at least a month, and Hermione had imagined it serious by Ginny's standards.
"What?" Ginny shrugged, "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"
As silly as the thought was, Hermione was glad that Ginny's sole reason for being there wasn't finding her a date.
"If you say so," she responded.
But Ginny wasn't having any of her scepticism.
"Oh, come on! I need you to have fun so I can have fun," Ginny whinged, "Just think of it as a social experiment."
Hermione couldn't deny that Ginny knew exactly how to twist her arm.
"Alright, go on." Hermione took the bait.
"Consider it a study in prejudice. Like in that book of yours," she said, "It certainly did Eliza, or whatever her name was, some good to let go of her prejudice. That same magic might be happening around you tonight. Take the opportunity, and observe."
Then, in her own inimitable fashion, Ginny warped Austen's marvellous work of social commentary into something raunchy.
"This place might as well be Pembereley, anway." She winked lasciviously. "Who knows? Maybe you'll find a Darcy."
Ginny had obviously lost the plot.
Hermione reached for one of the coupes of champagne being passed about by waitstaff. She was going to need it.
Perhaps there was something to appreciate in this evening, she thought: the free-flowing champagne. (Although, she had to admit that she was also glad to see that the Prophet had employed human staff to offer the drinks, rather than recruiting house elves for the event.)
While she sipped, her mind—that damned Judas—started turning.
Seeing people without prejudice… being seen without prejudice. She could hardly imagine the idea. When before had she interacted with others without them making assumptions about her based on her birth?
Everyone seemed to have an opinion on her upbringing in the muggle world. Either it was fabulous and fascinating, or a "right shame'', or an unimaginable struggle she must have needed to have been so strong to endure. How many had said she was the best adapted muggleborn they had ever met? Or remarked upon her brilliance or success with a look of delighted surprise?
At every corner, she was branded Hermione Granger, muggleborn. It was mentioned in every article that spoke of her—Hermione Granger, 24, muggleborn witch from Hampstead—; in every professional introduction that was made—"she's muggleborn, you know?"—; and even, once, on a job application.
She reckoned it would even be on this insipid dating profile.
Curiosity had finally got the best of her. She glanced down at the parchment in her hand and began to scan it looking for the obligatory blood status query. She scoured the list of questions for the ubiquitous boxes: the seemingly innocuous squares you were supposed to black out with ink to indicate your ethnicity, your sexuality or, her personal favourite, your blood status. The boxes were never mandatory—no, that would be highly illegal—, but they were, nonetheless, ever-present. They were the spectre that haunted her bureaucratic nightmares.
Reaching the bottom of the parchment, she flipped it over. Blank.
She had expected to find the boxes, and the associated question that trapped her within them.
But there were none.
It felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and she could breathe again.
Her eyes wandered back to the parchment once again with a less loaded curiosity. She had expected to find it filled with the sort of silly, trite questions men tended to ask as bar chat: "What do you do for work?"; "What do you like to do for fun?"; or "What is your sun sign?", which was inevitably followed by, "Let me guess: Leo?"
She was instead surprised to mostly find questions that were a bit more revealing, like: "What is your favourite childhood memory?"; "Describe your ideal day"; "Stuck in a pinch, would you be more likely to phone your mum or one of your mates?"
In fact, there were even a few that were downright insightful.
Hermione looked to her side and found that Ginny was still writing.
She wasn't sure what to do. She certainly wasn't going to fill out the profile—slightly less ridiculous questions than average or not—, but she couldn't very well speak to any of the faceless strangers around her, either. She shuddered at the thought of such off-the-cuff social interaction. So, she drained her glass of champagne and grabbed a second.
When she was only a few sips into her second glass, she started to feel the familiar fuzzy-headed feeling that came with magical sparkling wines. It provided the sort of warm tipsiness that gave everything around her a rosy glow. She glanced around the room and found herself suddenly wondering about the history behind the old house.
Maybe Ginny had been right on some level; maybe, like Pemberley or Netherfield Hall, it had been the setting of regency balls. Some wealthy newcomer might have moved into town and decided to inhabit this very manor, shocking all the local families with girls of marriageable age. She chuckled at the thought of regency families discovering this newcomer was a wizard. Hermione could feel the magic in the bones of the house; he would've had to have been.
But, there were some decidedly muggle aspects of the home, as well. While still in the entry hall, she had caught a glimpse of the gardens. Except, they didn't look like gardens. Well, that was to say, they wouldn't have to the untrained eye.
Hermione, on the other hand, could see a hint of falseness in the landscape. There was something peculiar about how the moonlight shone just so through the crevices of the trees and in how the stream took a sharp left turn to bisect a small grove of Lebanese cedars.
It was beautiful, harmonious. It was Nature in its every appearance, but Artifice at its core. She wondered whether it had been designed by Capability Brown or by one of his few students.
But, maybe, if she waited until everyone got drunk enough on the party's exceptionally available liquor, she could find the manor's library—it was sure to have one, right?— and dig up its histories. There she could find a clear answer. After all, there had to be something: diaries, ledgers… even a record of tenants would do. She could cross-reference with notable client lists tied to Brown and—
She sighed and wondered if there were any odds at all of that happening under Ginny's watchful eye. Probably not.
And then it hit her. She looked down at the application one more time. Maybe, like the gardens she had so admired, she too could play with Artifice.
Where it asked for her name, she wrote, "Hermione Granger." She relished the lack of postscript.
Tonight, she decided, she would be just Hermione. This didn't mean that she intended to turn in the profile, or anything of the sort. No, she would remain thoroughly on the outskirts of this evening's events. But, maybe, she would allow herself to exist on the fringe as a version of herself undefined by others preconceptions. She scribbled a few answers on the page, just to fill the time. In doing so, she found that exercising her newfound freedom as just Hermione felt phenomenally good.
Then the final question stared at her, forcing her back to reality with its straightforwardness: "Why are you still single?"
She decided to answer the final question simply.
'Because I want to be,' she scrawled. She punctuated her sentence ('Sentence fragment!', some not-so-small part of her brain screamed!) with a forceful full-stop.
Hermione sighed, glad to be done with the questions and ready for the whole event to be over and done with. Soon, she would be free of all romantic pressure in her life. It would just be her and Crookshanks and her small library's worth of books.
Ginny, whose attention had been caught by Hermione's final flourish, looked over at her friend in horror. She had seen what Hermione had just written.
"You can't be serious," Ginny baulked. She reached for Hermione's parchment so that she could correct her responses, but it was too little, too late. Ginny found that she was grasping at thin air, as Hermione's parchment had vanished with a resounding pop.
In fact, all the profiles in the crowd had vanished all at once.
Hermione gaped like a fish.
"No, no, no!" She was absolutely panicking. "Ginny, what did you do?"
"Relax, Hermione," Ginny started, "Everything is going to be fi—"
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the sort of voice Hermione could only imagine came from a rather portly middle-aged man boomed, "Please take your seats, our program will begin shortly."
"Oh," Hermione whispered, "Oh, no."
Already moving past Hermione's drama, Ginny had concerns of her own. "You don't think that he's the type of bloke we'll be matched to, do you?" she groaned.
"Ginny, don't be rude!" Hermione scolded. When Ginny rolled her eyes, she dropped her voice to a whisper and added: "But it would serve you right!"
All of a sudden, this whole scenario seemed deliriously funny. Both girls howled with laughter. The champagne must've been getting to them.
The lights dimmed to a gentle glow. A hush came over the audience as everyone filed into their pre-assigned seats. A spotlight appeared on a podium that was angled towards the seated crowd. It was all a bit dramatic for Hermione's personal preference, but she supposed the whole event wasn't exactly meant for someone with her humble tastes.
To be honest, the sheer lavishness of the event surprised her. It was nothing like what she pictured when she thought of blind dating events–or, gods forbid, reality dating shows–as they existed in the muggle world. Even when such events were held in grand or exotic locales, there was a sort of inherent tackiness that seemed to seep in through the cracks.
There was not a hint of such a thing here. The details somehow managed to match, if not amplify, the elegance of the setting. The hors d'œuvres were divine, all topped with the sorts of foams or gelées or impossibly rare creatures' eggs one might expect on a tasting menu; the sparkling wine was obviously faerie-made, a dry and floral type of pétillant naturel; even the chairs upon which they were now perched were lined with a velutinous fabric that was luxuriously soft.
A woman stepped up to the podium; her sharp robes bore a striking resemblance to a muggle pantsuit from the eighties. They were the colour of violets and brought out her cool, deep colouring. The woman's lips curled into a cat-like smile as she removed her mask. Her appearance was met with vibrant applause.
"Please welcome to the stage," rang the voice of the same middle-aged announcer, "The Prophet's newest columnist and the brain behind this evening's event, Miss Pansy Parkinson!"
Hearing Pansy's name had not come as a surprise to Hermione. To be honest, it had been her first instinct when she had heard about the mystery columnist, and one she had fervently hoped to be right.
It was the first time that Hermione had seen the girl since eighth year. The two girls hadn't interacted much since then, but a quiet mutual respect had developed between her and Pansy during that final year of education. After what they'd been through during the war, both had kept their heads down. Both found refuge in focusing on their goals: Hermione had dedicated herself to politics and creature advocacy, securing herself a job offer at the Ministry in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and Pansy had thrown herself into journalism. Hermione had judged the other girl's choice of profession at first. After all, how could she respect the next Rita Skeeter? But her opinion changed when she was assigned to workshop one of Pansy's pieces in a professional development seminar. (Yes, the newly restructured Ministry had poured resources into Hogwarts in an attempt to rectify the previous administration's horrific missteps at the school.) Her article had been about the sociology behind the rise of bold, luxe robe styles in post-war fashion trends. Hermione had found it surprisingly insightful. Their odd partnership that day in class launched a tentative friendship that endured the remainder of the year.
Hermoine was excited for Pansy; there was something about seeing her up at the podium that just made sense.
"Thank you all for being here today," Pansy began. She launched into a short and moving speech about the power of removing prejudice from the realm of relationships. She spoke briefly of a muggle myth about a nobleman and a farmer's daughter who fell in love only once circumstance stripped one of his pride and the other of her prejudice.
Hermione nearly snorted. Her hand darted to her mouth to disguise the noise. Pansy was talking about Jane Austen! And she certainly didn't have the details right. What was with her wizard friends trying—and failing—to grasp Austen tonight?
And, then, Pansy did the unthinkable: she invited her new husband up to the stage. Her new muggle husband.
Pansy went on to describe her difficult time being taken seriously as a writer due to cultural expectations that she be a wife, and nothing more. She thanked her husband, Peter, for introducing her to the ideas that changed her for the better, and that made her believe that she had the capability to be whomever it was she wanted. She thanked the Prophet for taking a chance on her. Most of all, she thanked everyone that donated—and would donate this evening—to the foundation of her new column, Sex & the Single Witch.
And, then, Pansy was done, and the middle-aged announcer returned to the podium. He launched into a long-winded explanation of the evening's events as they would proceed.
The premise of the actual dating portion of the evening was the following: a magically enhanced algorithm had evaluated the guests' profiles and selected seven 'suitors' based on their high levels of compatibility with multiple other guests. The crowd was assured of the accuracy of the algorithm and was offered a brief hologram slideshow of statistical calculations and peer-reviewed case studies.
Each of these seven suitors, he explained, would be soon paired with a set of other guests whom the algorithm had deemed their most compatible matches based on similar values, attitudes and interests.
Hermione thought briefly that her earlier likening of this event to a muggle dating show was perhaps not entirely incorrect. Considering the heavy news coverage, they might as well be on the telly.
The man continued to explain that each of the suitors would have the opportunity to pose a series of questions to their group of matches. Following each round of questions, they would eliminate one of their matches, until only two remained. The suitor would finally decide between the two in a secret challenge, to be revealed only in those final moments.
Those dismissed by their suitors, he said, would then be welcomed to join a cocktail party downstairs where they would hopefully kindle romances on their own terms, while the winning couples would be expected to share a candlelit dinner somewhere private within the manor.
While each suitor and their matches would be spread throughout the manor, he promised that Prophet reporters would be assigned to each location, allowing for each and every love story to have a chance at becoming the heart of the very first Sex and the Single Witch column.
Then the man summoned an envelope, opening it with a dramatic flourish of his wand. Out floated a short list of numbers.
"I hope you all remembered the numbers on your applications." He laughed awkwardly; his dry chuckle echoed through the otherwise silent auditorium. "Alright, then. I'm here to announce our highly eligible, if I do say so myself, suitors and suitresses."
He cleared his throat and then began reading off a string of numbers.
Hermione noticed Ginny's posture had shifted slightly. She was now leaning forward, anticipatory hands tightly gripping the seat of her chair.
Then Hermione heard something that made her stomach drop: her number.
"5309!" he called.
Hermione held her breath and hoped that somehow she'd melt into the floor.
"Where's 5309?" the man shouted again.
Hermione looked over at Ginny with wide, frantic eyes. Could Ginny even see her expression? She wasn't sure. If she could, she certainly didn't seem concerned.
Then, Ginny grabbed Hermione's arm and raised it into the air.
"Ah! There you are." The announcer beckoned for her to step forward. "Well, come along! Up on stage with the rest."
"Good luck!" Ginny whispered.
Hermione was stuck. She looked around her and realised there was absolutely no way out. Shit.
The crowd offered a smattering of applause as the group of nameless suitors were ushered forward and led off-stage by the middle-aged man. He led the group down a series of winding corridors behind the ballroom. As they walked, the man introduced himself as Barnabas.
Hermione recognised his name immediately. He was Barnabus Cuffe, the Editor-in-Chief of the Prophet. As he led them deeper into the manor, he prattled on about the column's coverage of the event and the necessity to smile and ask incisive questions.
"Ask anything that'll get your matches talking," he instructed, "Anything that'll get them to reveal who they really are."
Right, Hermione thought bitterly, he wasn't at all looking to stir drama for the papers.
"Who they are on the inside, of course!" he added with another dry laugh. "That's all that matters, all that matters…"
One by one the suitors and -esses were dropped at their locations. Some were left in rooms the size of lecture halls and others in luxury suites.
Hermione felt as if she had been briefed on very little by the time she was ushered into her private room. It was one of the smallest that she had seen so far, and she was rather grateful for that. It was no less grand, however, than the entry hall into which she had been initially received. But, whilst the room had a high-domed ceiling, the floor space was actually rather compact. She worried she might be breathing down the neck of anyone else that was squeezed inside.
"Don't worry, you'll be great, dear," Barnabas said as he turned to leave, dragging behind him the remaining two suitors.
Hermione took a few deep breaths. She tried to centre herself using a technique her mum had once taught her: reciting something she knew by heart. For her, it was the first page of Hogwarts: A History.
"Hogwarts has a rich history rife with—"
"What are you doing?"
Hermione recognised that voice. She had just heard it give an entire speech. She closed her eyes and begged the universe that this wasn't real. That Pansy Parkinson hadn't actually heard her—
"I—" Hermione was about to lie, but suddenly a thought overcame her. This was her chance to be just Hermione. No pretences. It wasn't as if anyone could tell who she was through the mask's charm, anyway.
"It's something I do when I'm anxious," she admitted.
Pansy snorted.
"That's the most Granger thing I've ever heard."
Hermione froze. Of course, she realised, Pansy would have to know who she was—how else could she cover the event?
"Calm down, no one else knows who you are. The event manager told me when I was assigned to cover your room. Apparently, they expect you to do well." She said with a wink, "And, don't worry. I won't tell anyone about your swotty little secret."
Pansy held a notebook and Quick Quotes Quill in her hands; a camera was slung around her neck. Hermione found herself wondering whether or not the camera could capture photos through the charmed masks. With her luck, it probably could.
Hermione offered Pansy a thank you and congratulated her on the new column.
Then, everything went to hell.
Hermione could hear voices outside the door. She recognized Barnabas' rusty tenor immediately. He must've been returning with her assigned matches.
So much for her plan to remain on the fringe of the event, she thought. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished more than anything that it were her best friend standing in her stead.
But, Hermione couldn't run off, beg to trade places or in any way get herself out of this sticky mess. Ginny had made her promise to make a proper attempt at participating, and Hermione knew sticking this out was the only way she could get the other girl to honour her half of the bargain.
"Fuck you, Ginny," she said under her breath, hoping the sentiment would somehow find its way to her friend, even though the two had been separated nearly half an hour before.
"You won't even notice me," Pansy said, pointing towards the corner of the room as she slunk away. "It'll be like I'm not even here."
Hermione doubted that.
The quiet thud-thud of approaching footsteps seemed to vibrate the very foundation of the manor. Hermione's palms suddenly became damp and clammy. She thought she might die of mortification. Truly.
The door opened with a click and a short queue of people entered. They were hidden behind a shrouding charm that kept Hermione from discerning even their basic shape.
Pansy tapped her quill impatiently on her notebook. Hermione turned back to look at her in annoyance and found her to be gesturing at Hermione with wide eyes.
"Say something!" She mouthed silently.
Hermione exhaled shakily. It was a secret she would take to the grave that public speaking was not her forté, and this felt an awful lot like public speaking.
This was a social experiment, Hermione tried to convince herself. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But, if that were the case, why were her palms sweating? Why was her heart racing? Why could she not get herself under control?
Pansy cleared her throat impatiently.
"Welcome," Hermione said loudly, gracelessly. "I'm looking forward to… getting to know you all tonight." It was a lie. An obvious one.
Pansy exhaled exasperatedly and stood up, deciding then and there to take the lead.
"Thank you so much for being here today, ladies and gentlemen," Pansy said, which was met with a quiet snicker from behind the charm, "Please remember to be on your best form for your lovely suitress. We're going to dive right in with her first question."
There was something oddly pointed about her request for good behaviour that struck Hermione as odd. But, she didn't have time to mull it over.
Pansy turned towards Hermione and beckoned for her to speak.
Her plan to be just Hermione had failed; she was acting out of survival instinct alone. In the mere seconds she had to think about it, there was only one question she could come up with to ask.
"How often do you read?" Hermione asked.
Pansy, thankfully, stepped in once again, calling for Match One to step forward.
An alarmingly tall man stepped out from beyond the charm. He wore a tweed suit with patched elbows that was made of the sort of thick, wool tartan that was hard to find in the modern day.
The muscles behind Hermione's navel clenched, an odd sensation she had previously only associated with apparition.
He shuffled his feet oddly before he spoke. He, like the rest of the matches, had been given instructions to give no further introduction nor information. In an attempt to restrict bias of any sort, Hermione was to learn nothing of the matches beyond their responses to her questions.
"Every day," he began, his voice deep and husky, "It's my greatest joy. I grew up reading stories about magical creatures on the lap of my grandfather, and my mother ensured I read all of her favourite muggle novels, too. Nowadays I read plenty of nonfiction for work, but often go back to the classics in my spare time."
Red, warm heat spread up the back of Hermione's ears. She was taken aback by how attracted she felt to the first man.
Before the second was to step forward, she attempted to take inventory of how the first match had treated her. Neutrally, she decided.
But how could he not? At this point, she was nothing but a projection of his—of all of her matches'— hopes. He surely knew nothing about her, except for the very same details that she knew of him: clothing choice, linguistic tendencies, and the sparse content of their interaction.
That, she thought, was surely the same reason for her initial attraction. She could project whatever fantasy she wanted onto an avid reader in a professorial suit.
"Thank you," she responded, uncertain of what else to say. She had been delighted to hear another describe reading as their greatest joy, so she landed on responding primarily to that. "I'd consider it mine, as well."
"Match Two?" Pansy called.
A woman dressed in an elaborate a-line kurti stepped out of the haze. She held herself comfortably and confidently in a way Hermione usually admired.
But, upon seeing her, Hermione's eyes widened instinctively.
"Not as often as I'd like to," the woman said, her voice soft and melodic, "I read approximately a book a week now, but it used to be two or three."
The woman seemed lovely, but—well, she was a woman. While Hermione had thought about it once or twice, she was fairly certain she was not, in fact, attracted to women.
Setting that problem aside, Hermione let herself respond naturally.
"To be young, again," Hermione said fondly, "And have all the time in the world to read."
Hermione did often think back to the summers she'd spent with her parents during her first few years of school, unfettered by the stress of her later years of education. She spent her time in the sun, reading anything she could get her hands on.
The woman laughed graciously in response.
"Match Three?" Pansy called.
The woman stepped back behind the charm and allowed for the next to step forward.
"I just finished the minister's autobiography last week," Match Three's voice bragged, "It isn't supposed to be released until next month, but I got a special early copy."
Hermione sighed. She would bet a hundred galleons on that voice belonging to Percy Weasley; she had seen him reading the manuscript at the Burrow last weekend.
Still, this interaction proved the charmed masks seemed to be capable of more than she had given them credit for. She would recognize Percy's voice anywhere, and, yet, it wasn't his voice she had heard. In many ways, it was the same: it had a sharp, bell-like tone like his did, and a similar cadence and slight nasal quality… but it was not recognisable as his.
No, it was his distinctive personality that was unmistakable.
"How… delightful," she said.
"Match Four?" Pansy signalled the next one forward.
A tall, lithe form stepped through the charm and asked with a hearty chuckle: "Does the Prophet count?"
Hermione cringed. She moved on from him quickly.
The fifth match was nearly the size of a bear. He spoke in a slow, ambling voice that rumbled from the depths of his chest.
"I didn't read as a kid. But, turns out, I quite like nonfiction. I just read a pamphlet about planting other things nearby umbellifers to strengthen their magical properties."
Hermione didn't quite know what to make of Match Five.
"Asparagus, by the way. That's what you should plant," he added.
Then, as suddenly as he stepped forward and began to speak, he stepped back to let the sixth match forward.
Match Six wore a stark black suit that was all crisp lines and clean pleats. He walked forward with a confident stride and a dry laugh.
"Of course you'd ask about books. You're so bloody predictable." His voice was interrupted by a pointed cough from the back of the room. He angled his body slightly in the direction of Pansy, and nodded his head. "Right. I don't have much leisure time; reading for enjoyment is a luxury I'm rather short on at the moment."
Hermione's stomach dropped.
He knew who she was?
That should've been nearly impossible unless it was someone with whom she was intimately familiar. Pansy had assured her no one else would know.
For Merlin's sake, she had spent nearly every weekend of her adult life with Percy Weasley, and she wasn't even one hundred percent certain that her instinct about Match Three was correct.
And there was nothing about the rude, snobbish condescension of Match Six that struck a chord of familiarity for her. Certainly not the sort of familiarity that would be necessary to recognise someone through this charm.
"You know me?" she whispered.
"I believe it's only one question per round," he tsked. Then he invited an intimate quietness to his voice, ensuring only she could hear him, "Granger."
Hermione swallowed thickly. Her eyes darted to Pansy as the final match slipped once again behind the fog. The other girl spoke hushedly to her pen that scribbled away on her behalf, an amused smile gracing her face.
Then Pansy looked up and said, "Alright, choose one to go."
It was without hesitation that Hermione said, "Three."
Her impulsive decision had surprised her, but there was truly no way she could allow Percy to get any ideas. Once, Bill had made an off-hand joke that Percy and Hermione were so similar that their getting together was inevitable. Percy had spent the rest of the week watching Hermione as if he were evaluating her, which was quite an uncomfortable and difficult thing to avoid, considering their shared workplace. She shuddered at the thought.
"Match Three," Pansy shouted, "Step forward and remove your mask."
Luckily, Hermione thought, she got to retain her own privacy during the reveal. Match Three would not yet learn of her identity. All discarded matches were only to learn of their suitor's—or, in this case, suitress'— identity once they entered the cocktail party. This was primarily to ensure there would be no chance of compromising the integrity of the blind dating experiment. This was a kindness for which she was exceptionally grateful. It would spare her all sorts of awkwardness.
A shock of red hair came into focus as the third match removed his mask. Sure enough, it was Percy Weasley.
Percy bowed his head forward, uttered a brief and embarrassed "thank you," and then scuttered in the direction of the cocktail party.
Hermione let out a shaky breath. She wasn't particularly fond of disappointing others. Even if the thought of her and Percy dating was not only vaguely incestuous but also entirely reprehensible, she still felt ill at ease over being the cause of his discomfort. She felt a peculiar urge to stop him from running off and offer him a cup of tea.
"Next question?" Pansy prompted.
"Right." Hermione bided her time as best she could, picking at the hem of her jacket for a moment, then casting her eyes about the rococo art splashed across the ceiling. She decided then that the house must have been recently redone. It had too many styles of art and design across its different rooms, from too many differing time periods. Whomever had its interior commissioned had a marvellous grasp of muggle artistic movements; this home was a love letter to history.
She thought of the man that knew her, and the chill that ran up her spine when he whispered her name. She did have a question she wanted to ask, but only to him. If he knew her, why was he here? He had to know that she was not worth pursuing, not when she had made it clear to everyone that would listen in her daily life that she was not interested.
Pansy tapped her foot with an insistent beat that seemed to echo louder and louder in the spacious room.
Hermione heard the shuffling of feet from behind the obscuring charm. She felt suddenly out of time.
She couldn't ask that question. She couldn't. She wasn't even certain she wanted to know.
And so, out came one of the more trite questions she had ever posed.
"If you could have dinner with one person, dead or alive, whom would it be?"
This was one of the rare moments in which she felt grateful for her position straddling two worlds: this simple, overused question from the muggle world likely seemed unique and thoughtful here.
She had known her answer since she was a teen: Mary Wollstonecraft. It was a little-known fact that she was a muggleborn witch who attended Beauxbatons. Her work didn't make nearly as much of a splash in the wizarding world as it did in the muggle realm, so the writer faded into obscurity here. But, it was some of the wizarding world's matriarchal history she learnt about in school that inspired her to write such early works of feminist theory. Hermione would've killed to discuss with her, for just an hour or two, both some of the particulars of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman and her decision to live primarily in the muggle world.
The first match stepped forward again.
"My grandfather," he said, "He passed a few years ago, and I'd do anything for more time with him."
Hermione thought her heart might melt. There was something so genuine about Match One. But, to be honest, it frightened her. Why was he willing to put his heart on the line like this? Even beyond the general anonymity provided by the event, It was quite a bit of honesty to offer a stranger.
"Perenelle Flamel," Match two said, "She's been my inspiration since school. I think she's the reason why I went into potioneering. I would love to pick her mind."
Hermione smiled. Maybe, at the very least, she could end up with a friend out of this exchange. Perenelle Flamel was the wizarding world's Marie Curie. Hermione could respect anyone that felt as enthusiastic about her early and formative work in the field of alchemy and medicinal potions as this girl obviously did.
"Professor Sprout," Match Four said when he came into focus, "I didn't take her seriously at school, and I pro'ly should've."
Hermione smiled. Four seemed sweet. And gentle. And—she sighed to herself—boring.
"Viktor Krum, what a legend," Five said.
Ouch, Hermione winced.
Hermione hadn't seen Viktor since they briefly—emphasis on briefly—rekindled their school romance last year. It happened only once, after Ginny had sent him to her flat with a bouquet of roses.
She initially had been flattered by what she thought was a genuine gesture, and, well… one thing led to another.
It was only after they had finished that things went sour. As it turned out, he had been recently out of work due to a small, suddenly-made-public drink problem. He broke down in tears on her shoulder while he was still on top of her. He admitted that he had held a flame for her for nearly nine years and that he was absolutely convinced their getting back together would set his life back on track.
She had never in her life so quickly and viscerally experienced the ick.
Luckily for her, he had been offered a place on a rival team within the week, fast news cycles working well in his favour. His initial negative reaction to her denial of his further advances seemed quickly forgotten as he returned to his life of well-loved superstardom.
Match Five, she thought, would quite literally drive her to insanity over the course of a dinner.
Match Six slinked forward once again, all confidence and bravado, and once again she was reminded of why exactly it was that she had sworn off men.
"Myself," he snarked, "I'd give anything for some fucking alone time."
Hermione felt disgusted at the man's hubris. He was crass and self-obsessed, and Hermione could think of nothing worse.
She thought of eliminating him and of how nice it would feel to kick him out, discover his identity and move on with her life, never needing to know why he was pestering her so.
She wondered what having that sort of self-respect and self-control would feel like.
As it was, he obviously knew her well enough to see through her mask's haze, and for that reason alone she wanted—no, needed— to keep him around. She had to figure out his MO. For her sanity's sake.
And, so, it was decided. She would eliminate Match Five.
He stepped forward and removed his mask, revealing a sun-worn face and sandy brown hair. She recognised him immediately: Oliver Wood. Was London really so small?
"Your loss," he offered with a wink and a cluck.
Hermione couldn't have been more relieved by his exit. She took a deep breath and tried to evaluate the situation objectively.
She—or, rather, just Hermione, some version of herself that existed separately from the egregore created from public opinion on Hermione Granger, muggleborn— had asked two questions that a variety of people had willingly answered. Aside from the one who obviously knew her identity, she had been treated with kindness and grace. She smiled to herself, pleased.
Suddenly once again plagued by the daunting task of picking a question, Hermione took the easy route.
"What house were you in at Hogwarts?" She asked, then adding, "Or, if otherwise schooled, where?"
This question would feed her data collection, she thought, at the very least.
The first match stepped forward.
"I was in Hufflepuff." A light laugh escaped his lips. "Though that feels like forever ago."
Hermione briefly wondered if he was significantly older than her.
"A proud Ravenclaw," the Second said, "If that weren't obvious."
"Slytherin." The fourth spoke with a definite bashfulness. He might very well have been blushing behind his mask.
Hermione could admit most of her age group would now be embarrassed by the affiliation. This did seem an unfortunate thing, as many were unfairly judged based on their house—another lesson she had learnt in her eighth year, mostly from Pansy. There was little that could be done about the indoctrination so many Slytherins had suffered in childhood; and, while those who had made an attempt to right their wrongs in adulthood had been largely reintegrated into society, there were some who still held a dangerous prejudice against them.
She thought that she might be a part of that group had she been less intelligent.
She was sorry to say that Ron was one of the wizards that still held a bias against their classmates that had been members of Slytherin house. He believed them all to be evil, not understanding why the International Confederation of Wizards had pardoned and released statements condemning the prosecution of minors that committed war crimes in the context of conflict. It was an issue of theories of justice, not personal preference, in Hermione's opinion.
Having been on the receiving end of baseless discrimination her entire life, she hoped to help eradicate it towards the minors that were hoping to re-educate themselves and re-integrate post-war.
Her argument with Ron over the fact had been brutal. He claimed she was playing tricks with his perception of reality; she claimed he was ignoring science. There were, after all, studies that proved that minors had an inability to conceptualise wartime activities and that even those who partook in them were statistically more likely to be victims than perpetrators of war crimes.
She had never been in any rush to develop close, intimate relationships with the lot, but she preferred to not perpetuate harmful societal attitudes—especially those that had so personally affected her.
She sighed, wondering where that left her study. Match Five, statistically, would be the one most likely to change his behaviour if she were to reveal her blood status. Did that give her impetus to do so, for accurate comparison? Or was that endangering herself for the sake of making something interesting out of this horrid event? Perhaps, she was taking this too far.
Match Five mumbled something that almost sounded like an apology as he stepped back behind the fog of the obfuscation charm.
The sixth match sauntered forward once more, and Hermione could feel the energy of the room change immediately. It was charged, electric.
"Slytherin, if that weren't obvious," the Match Six said, mimicking the response of the girl two to his right.
Hermione couldn't decide if he was that far up his own arse or if he just hated himself. The git had the attitude of Malfoy or one of his goons, she thought, not that any of them would be caught dead at a do-gooders event benefiting the Prophet—let alone one quite as sappy as a blind dating event.
Then a cough from behind the charm interrupted her musings, one which sounded quite an awful bit like, "Shocker." It rang from the direction of Match One.
"What was that?" Six asked as he turned towards the other matches.
"I meant: Shocker," match one responded, "That a right arse like you was a Slytherin."
"Hey," the sinal voice of Match Four rang, "Let him be."
"Someone like him hardly deserves defending," Match One said with a scoff.
She, then faced with the awkwardness of quarrelling matches, was grateful for Pansy's interjection.
Pansy quieted the commotion, but not before taking advantage of the bickering to covertly speak to Hermione. She offered Hermione an easy out on the next round, simultaneously alleviating her of the burden of eliminating a match this round and feeding her a question.
Hermione could see through the ruse as soon as the girl whispered the question to her; it would certainly cause a ruckus, and that would make for a good news piece.
What the hell, Hermione thought. It wasn't as if she were there to find a date, as she had repeatedly reminded herself. She might as well throw Pansy a bone.
"What is your biggest regret?" Hermione asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pansy clench her fist in victory.
Match One had hardly stepped forward by the time he spat, "Not getting rid of more of Six's kind while I could."
The allusion to the war did not escape Hermione; neither did his assumption of Six's role in it.
It seemed merely knowing one another's houses was enough to instigate horrible bias. She wondered what these matches would do with such information as her blood status. It would be, for lack of a better word, bloody.
"I said, let him be," Match Four rumbled.
"Easy killer," Match One bit back, voice full of spite.
With that, a boundary had most definitely been crossed.
"I will not stand for this," Hermione shouted over the din of the two men verbally sparring.
Pansy, still tucked away in the corner of the room with her pen that scribbled at top speed, smiled to herself with a self-satisfied grin.
Seeing that, Hermione didn't act on her first instinct to throw Match One out. Instead, she decided to drag out the experiment, and perhaps give Pansy more fodder for her story.
"One," she said sternly, "You're on thin ice."
"Two." Hermione smiled and forced as much kindness as she could into her voice. "Please continue. I'm so sorry for the rude interruption."
Two stepped forward then, more timidly this time.
"I passed on a job last year," Match Two said hesitantly, "In Paris."
"Oh." Hermione sympathised with the girl. Hindsight really was 20/20; she knew that herself well. "Why, might I ask?"
"For a girlfriend of all things." She let out a good-humoured giggle. "She dumped me a month later."
"Merlin," Hermione said.
She debated whether to offer any of herself to the girl. Her sympathetic heart got the best of her.
"I did the same myself once," She continued.
And, suddenly, Hermione was twenty-one, and Ron was begging her not to go. He was asking her, on his knees, to marry him rather than take the job she had been offered in the Hague. It was a position at the Wizarding International Court of Justice as a judicial intern in the Creature Rights Department. It would be a demotion, but one that would have given her near endless opportunity for professional growth and the opportunity to affect real change. Accepting the offer would've been the first step towards accomplishing her dreams.
Instead, she had accepted the ring.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said. And she meant it—both for the girl and her younger self.
It was along these sombre lines the conversation continued. When Match Four stepped forward, Hermione could've sworn she heard sniffling.
"I lost my best friend in the war," he said simply, "I could've stopped it, I think."
Hermione's eyebrows shot into her hairline.
"I don't know what happened," she responded, repeating something healer Crenshaw had said in their first Monday morning meeting, "But it wasn't your fault."
He shuffled his feet.
"I think it was," he said.
She stepped forward and extended her arms to him. She asked if she could hold his hands. He nodded yes.
"We all lost people we loved," she said softly, now gripping his hands in her own, "I lost my parents. I did everything I could, and that was what cost me them, in the end."
Hermione suddenly felt incredibly grateful for her healer; she felt somehow equipped to respond now that she could speak about these things without the same emotional reaction she used to have. Time would never heal her wounds—that she knew—, but it certainly had helped her learn to forgive herself. It also helped to know that Monica and Wendell Wilkins still existed out there somewhere, even if Jean and Davy Granger did not.
Match Four offered his sympathy and condolences. Then, he told her that his father had passed during the war, too, but he wasn't particularly bothered about it.
His stark honesty almost made Hermione laugh. Then, it struck Hermione that this was perhaps the most in-depth conversation she had ever had with a Slytherin. There was nothing about him that had seemed cruel. Would that really change because of her birth parents?
"They were muggles," she found herself saying, suddenly disconnected from her words, "They're still alive, they just don't remember me."
And, then, she laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of her situation, of what she was doing right now, of what she had just told this utter stranger. She laughed a deep, belly-aching laugh. She laughed until tears came to her eyes.
And, then, Four joined in, too.
"Merlin. That's—that's Terrible!" he interjected between chuckles.
Then, Match Six stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Getting roped into this mess," he deadpanned, answering the initial question. Then he turned once again towards the corner of the room, "Can I have a drink now, Pansy?"
And, somehow, that made Hermione laugh more.
"Circe's tit," Hermione swore at Six—silently damning Ginny for her terrible influence on her language—, "Do you have any pride?"
"I lost that long ago," he quipped.
Hermione felt his eyes on her; it felt as if her skin warmed where his gaze touched.
Pansy rolled her eyes in response to Six's request, but seemed to assent. She clapped her hands and called for a smartly dressed elf that politely offered its services. He listened to Pansy intently and then disappeared with a crack. He rematerialised moments later with a drink that tinkled with the sound of a triangle.
"Thank you, Gudgeon," Match Six said as the elf handed him the drink.
The laughter finally having left her, Hermione watched Six sip at his tumbler with a curious expression. She admired the elf, who was obviously freed and educated. She had dozens of questions to ask him, but knew now was not the time.
"Actually, Pansy," Hermione said, "I'll have one, too."
Moments later, there was another glass of champagne in her hand. And, then, Pansy asked Hermione to pose the penultimate question.
Hermione swallowed thickly, and said, "Actually, can I speak to Match Two?"
The girl stepped forward. She removed her mask when Hermione prompted her to do so. Long black hair spiralled around her face, which was flushed with a deep russet blush.
"I'm Padma," she said.
"We've met, actually," Hermione said. A genuine smile spread across her face. She thought, perhaps, that the algorithm could predict multiple types of love. "I think I'd like it if you'd get drinks with me and my friend next Saturday."
At this moment, Hermione regretted the anonymity still granted to her.
"As friends, I assume?" Padma clarified.
"Sorry," Hermione admitted, "But you won't regret it. I'll owl you. I promise."
Hermione had thought the girl had shared far too much of herself to let her remain any longer, even if she weren't required to eliminate this round. Now, knowing her identity, she was glad she had made this decision.
She hoped getting Match Two—Padma, she mentally corrected— to the other party sooner might give her a better chance at finding someone new. She deserved that. Hermione merely hoped she managed to avoid Ginny. Knowing her best friend, she had a real chance at charming Padma out of her knickers, and that would make drinks next weekend rather awkward.
Pansy told Hermione that she now had only one question left. It was time to narrow the group down to two.
She pondered what it was that could possibly reveal to her the most about the three men before her. But, without revealing her own identity, she was at an impasse in her own study.
So, what was it she really wanted to know?
Her mind once again was drawn back to the puzzle of Match Six.
He knew her, and she wanted to know how.
"Why are you here?" she asked, hoping to finally alleviate the burning itch of curiosity that had been growing in the back of her mind.
Match One stepped forward less confidently this time. His hand was raised behind his neck, as if he were self-soothing.
"Call me hopeless," he said, "But I think I believe in fairytale endings. This seemed as good a place as any to find mine."
She tried to keep her focus on his words, but she couldn't. Her mind was only on one thing: what Six would say.
"I—well, I'm a bit shy," Four said when he stepped forward, "I thought not actually seeing the bird… err, sorry, the lady, might help."
Hermione chuckled. She hadn't a clue who Four was, but she thought, in another world, they might have been friends. He reminded her, somehow, of both Ron and Neville.
Then, Six stepped forward.
She watched him with anticipation as he once again let his gaze drift over to Pansy before talking.
Pansy nodded almost imperceptibly.
"It's my house, love," he said, "It'd be a bit strange if I weren't."
Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
"Is that how you know me?" She asked, "Did the event planner tell you like she did Pansy?"
He laughed and took a slow sip of his drink.
"No," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "You really don't know?"
"I wouldn't be asking if I knew!"
He looked her up and down slowly. It felt as if he had lit her on fire.
"Only you would wear the same suit you do every Friday to a Friday evening event and expect no one to recognise you."
Hermione blanched. She looked down at her suit; it was a respectable navy pantsuit that—while, yes, she wore every Friday—was hardly different from any of her others.
"Alright. Separate, you two!" Pansy said from the corner, pointing between Hermione and Match Six, "It's time for her to eliminate."
Hermione grimaced as she called for Match Four to step forward. Along the same lines as Two, she wanted him to be happy. Maybe, in a room full of others that actually hoped to find love, he might strike gold.
When he removed his mask, she gasped. She recognised him.
"I'm Greg," he said, "It was really nice to meet you."
"Thank you, Greg," she said, "Really. I'm sorry to see you go."
"No," he stopped her, "Thank you for what you said about my friend… about Crabbe."
When he left, as soon as she was certain he had made it down the corridor and well away from the door, Hermione asked for a moment alone, outside the room.
Her breath had started to come quickly again; her fingertips tingled. She felt how the champagne had sped her heart rate—or maybe it was something else.
Seeing Gregory Goyle had rattled her.
He was just about the last person she had expected to see.
She—Well, she had thought just earlier that someone like him could never be here. She tried to calm herself outside the room, but found her breathing to be shaky.
Had it been her all along? She thought, startled by her own parti pris, her own bias against Goyle, who had turned out to be—someone she could consider a friend.
Was she the one with the bloody prejudice? Merlin, was she a hypocrite?
She slunk against the wall, thoughts spiralling, hands lacing into her hair with an iron grip. She breathed in and out, her chest rattling with every breath.
"Hermione!" A familiar voice shouted, "Hermione, stop it!"
Hermione had perhaps never been more relieved in her life to see Ginny Weasley.
"I leave you for a fucking hour, and this is what happens?" her friend joked, "Remind me to move in next week."
"Why are you here?" Hermione asked numbly.
"I've been wandering the corridors waiting for you to finish, you moron! Tell me everything!"
And so Hermione did. She unloaded as quickly as she could.
"Hermione, calm down," Ginny said when her friend had nearly finished, her diatribe rapidly devolving into a self-effacing conclusion, "Deep breaths. You're a good person. You know that."
"Oh gods," Hermione breathed, "How did I let this rile me up like this?"
"Oh no!" Ginny mocked, "You're experiencing emotions! What a horrible and entirely unexpected outcome!"
Hermione let her head fall backwards against the wall.
"I blame you," she said, "You did this on purpose."
"Of course I bloody did," Ginny said, thwacking Hermione lightly on the head, "And look how it turned out. He sounds perfect for you!"
Hermione was disarmed by her friend's comment. Her face crinkled into a look of disgust. "Fairytales?" she asked incredulously, referring to the nickname Ginny had assigned Match One when she had recapped the evening for her.
"You're kidding, right?" Ginny laughed for a moment, but then her face fell when she saw Hermione wasn't laughing along. "You're way out of that creep's league. I meant Six!"
"Six?" Hermione asked.
"Of course!" Ginny blinked in confusion, "He sounds like a challenge. A Pemberley-owning challenge, which is exactly what you need."
"Oh, come off it, Gin. You sound ridiculous."
"Fine." She raised her hands in defeat. "Go back in there and pick Mister Rage-and-Fairytales and see how that works out for you. But, you promised me full participation, so I'm getting full participation. If you choose to suffer through a dinner with that arse, that's on you."
When Hermione finally went back inside, she found Pansy waiting for her in the middle of the room. She held in her hands two envelopes.
"You don't have to ask any questions this time," Pansy said. Instead, she asked Hermione to take a minute to read the parchment tucked inside each envelope. "Aloud," she specified.
Hermione opened one, and then hesitated.
It was a piece of the profile one of her matches had filled out earlier in the evening; it could belong to either.
'Describe your perfect day,' it read at the top.
Reading this… seemed intimate.
"Go on," Pansy pushed.
"I'd be in Iquitos, again," Hermione read, "I'd wake in the morning and travel to the Pacaya Samiria National Reserve by car, from which point I'd disembark and hike into the Amazon. I'd have lunch by the river once I made it that far, and then I'd spend the afternoon hunting for the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
"That sounds—" Hermione struggled for a word, "lovely."
She heard a snicker from behind the charm, but she could hardly blame the other man. She wasn't even convinced by her own poor attempt at a kind response.
It was obvious to which match this letter belonged.
But, it perhaps took Match One's faith in fairytales too far. She felt the urge to tell him that there were some things that would simply never leave the pages of fiction. Or, in this case, the pages of the Quibbler.
Hermione sighed audibly. Maybe she could set Match One up with Luna. He seemed more her speed.
Then, Hermione unsealed the second envelope.
"St. Remy," The second letter began.
Where Van Gogh had been institutionalised? Hermione thought immediately back to her childhood visit to the town. It wasn't far from where her parents had bought a small summer home in Avignon, so they had taken a drive to see the cell from which Van Gogh had painted Starry Night. It was a sombre morning, but then they had visited the rest of the town. She had fallen in love with the place immediately. The Roman ruins, the village market, the views of the Rhône…
She cleared her throat and then continued, "At the vineyard my grandparents planted—"
"For Merlin's sake," Six groaned as he stepped beyond the veil and pulled off his mask. "Fuck you, Pansy."
White blond hair and a pointed face suddenly came into focus. Steel grey eyes. A familiar look of general distaste.
Then, Draco Malfoy's electrifying gaze met her own.
"I did not write that." He put a hand to his forehead in distress.
Pansy burst into peals of laughter.
Hermione's eyes bounced back and forth between the two as she tried to sort out what exactly was transpiring.
"That's because I wrote it for you, you cynical prick," Pansy taunted. "Because I know you better than you know yourself."
"I'm not doing this." He walked out the door, but the sound of his footsteps disappeared as soon as the door shut.
"Malfoy?" Hermione's mouth went dry. "I picked Malfoy?"
"Oh, don't be so bloody closed-minded," Pansy broke from her laughter to say, "He's been obsessed with you since third year."
Hermione didn't know what to say.
It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't—
"So, not me, then?" Match One stepped forward.
Before Hermione could say anything, Pansy swatted her hand at him as if she were shooing away a fly.
"How else do you think he knew who you were? Or what you wear on which days of the week?" Pansy asked, once again laser focused on the task at hand. "Besotted prat," she muttered under her breath.
Hermione thought for a moment. She hadn't interacted with Malfoy in—Merlin, in years… but he did take meetings in the office down the hall from her department at least twice a week.
And, suddenly, it all seemed plausible.
"And, if I know him," Pansy continued, "He's waiting just outside that door for you to make up your mind."
A/N: Thank you so, so much for reading my fluffy little novelette! This is the very first writing project I have completed, multiple drafts and all. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that, but it is a pretty big deal to me. So, thank you for being a part of this little bit of my personal history. I hope you enjoyed it :)
One small thing: I made five allusions to pop culture in this. If you track down all five and comment them, I'll write a dramione flash fic for you—topic of your choosing. If you get the one additional one made in reference to my other story, The Hollow, I'll be grateful forever.
xxxxxx Shea