Chapter 3: Hermione Attends a Party

Hermione could not stop herself from trying to perfect these goddamn decorations to the best of her ability. Now that she was actually doing it, she couldn't make herself half-arse the attempt. Which frustrated and exasperated her. After all, it is not as if there would be serious repercussions if she failed. She was finally mature enough to acknowledge that there was life beyond school, and demonstrating poor taste in the color of napkins and tablecloths would hardly bar her entry into an occupation.

She could just imagine the interview. 'You see Miss Granger, these NEWT scores are commendable, to be sure, but I see here that you thought green and yellow were somehow compatible when planning a soiree. I'm afraid we expect our incoming interns to demonstrate a certain degree of taste...'

She was amused until she realized that she was living in the 40s. Who knew what employer's expectations were for a woman entering the workforce. The possibilities ate at her nerves as she considered the reality of attempting to establish herself in a misogynistic society. Her panic grew, pushed by her ignorance and lack of planning, to the point where she could feel herself starting to breathe fast enough to make her head spin...

Stop, she told herself forcefully.

One step at a time. Decorations now. Potential panic attack due to the consequences of never returning home later.

Having previously attended a Slughorn party, she knew the setting to be an intimate affair (as far as parties go). She then knew that her first step would be attempting to emulate that exclusionary, sophisticated aspect of the event, but with none of the romanticism typically exuded in such an intimate setting.

The color would play an important role in determining that difference. She decided to go with purple and white. Understated but elegant, and a statement that she refused to play into House politics. Heavily influenced by her cousin's wedding, but who would know?

She draped the ceiling and walls in a gauzy white, which she transfigured from a set of rather unfortunate floral tartans. (No offense to Professor McGonagall and her… tastes. Although exposure to Umbridge's obsession with lace dollies and pink suede made carpeted tartan strangely palatable). She enchanted strings of light to extend from the middle of the room, which exuded a warm golden glow that offset the white of her makeshift tent and illuminated the concessions table as the brightest place in the hall. Said table was organized to accommodate various beverages (pumpkin juice and cider) and finger-foods (mostly desserts, in the form of various cookies, bars, and cakes), as well as a large flower arrangement.

Tables were positioned evenly on one side of the room, and the other side was organized similar to her living room. Several plush dark brown couches, chairs, loveseats, and side tables lined the wall, with plenty of room in the middle for conversation and dancing. All of the wood furniture and wood flooring was stained a dark espresso. The tablecloths and napkins were white, which appeared muted under the golden lights. The centerpiece at every table included a bouquet of flowers lined with fern, in combinations of whites, lilacs, and deeper purples.

The meaning of the flowers was intended to be a secret joke. Hermione's subtle attempts to insult her not-so-favorite Dark-lord Wannabe. White amaranth for immortality paired with lavender for failure. Black calla lilies and burgundy dahlias for a sense of elegance and mystery paired with white geraniums for stupidity and folly. Polar night rhododendrons for caution and danger. Deep purple anemones, meaning forsaken, paired with white roses for secrecy and silence. Double white begonia for beware, dark purple carnations for capriciousness, lavender heather for solitude, white marigolds for cruelty and jealousy, white oleanders for caution…

And then, of course, fern for magic.

She wondered if anyone would notice how many of the flowers she picked out were poisonous. The thought made her smile.

It took far too much time to actually get a hold of all of the varieties, (the Hogwarts greenhouse did not contain all of the assortments she wanted, so she had to contact someone in Hogsmeade), but what started as a whim for shits and giggles turned into equal parts hassle and fun. She was oh so curious if dear Tom would notice.

Professor Slughorn was clearly taken aback when he saw her decorations. Hermione could see his fumbling attempt to be diplomatic. "It's… nice."

Hermione was proud of her efforts, and couldn't help but feel deflated at the lackluster response. She shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, it is hardly as if she has spent a lot of time familiarizing herself with the appropriateness of decorations at various venues. She cursed herself for being so stupid even as she sent him a fake smile. "The party isn't until tomorrow. If this is not to your liking, you have all of tomorrow to find someone else to change it for you."

He shook his head minutely, and then peered around as if attempting to pinpoint exactly where the display went wrong. "If this had been springtime, it would have been perfect. It is autumn, however. I was expecting to see a little more... orange."

Why couldn't he have told her about some of his expectations when he gave her this assignment?

Hermione was tired. "Professor Slughorn. I did not request to aid you on this endeavor. I was volunteered for it quite against my will. In addition, I know very little about decorating, especially as it pertains to emulating the appropriateness of various social events. I tried my best. I apologize if that does not meet your expectations."

There was a pause. And then, "Why did you not tell me this beforehand?" Professor Slughorn blinked at her.

Why didn't she? Because she didn't know how to tell him? Because she was afraid of being thought incapable? Or maybe because she didn't want to lose. Not to him. Not that she voiced her suspicions.

Professor Slughorn seemed to pick up on them all the same, and gave her a side look that she couldn't read. Hermione was struck for the first time that the man was actually rather intelligent. It was difficult for her to acknowledge before, simply because she was so attuned to the obvious intelligence of her former Potions professor, who used his brilliance starkly and unapologetically (her mental musings provided the image of a whip- an intellect that was quick, loud, and catered to maim).

Hermione audibly sighed. She was too stubborn to admit defeat after such a statement. "Well how about this?" She took out her wand and colored the flowers more to his liking. White amaranth became a deep red, and the lilies became orange lined with pink. The white roses became a burnt orange, and the marigolds variations of orange and red. The oleander became a blood red color, geraniums red streaked with yellow, the begonia a light orange. She then darkened the lavender and conjured various dark green leaves, brown branches and crimson red berries to branch around the display.

This arrangement was much more dramatic. The deep purples and bright oranges stood in a sharp contrast, but was nicely offset by the dark red. To finish, she flicked the curtains gold, changed the glow from the ropes of light from a white gold into more of a soft orange, and then conjured small arrangements of colored candles besides the flowers. Lighting them, the tables emitted their own soft, orange glow.

Personally, this combination appealed to her less (she preferred understated decorations), but Professor Slughorn clapped his hands in an exuberant manner. "Delightful, my dear! And you said you were incapable… such modesty."

Hermione's smile felt pinched as she attempted to mentally calculate whether the meaning of her flowers would change. The orange roses, she realized after a moment, which now entailed enthusiasm and passion. Which she could, unfortunately, still actualize to their esteemed head boy. And together… forsaken passion fit quite well, now that she thought about it. Huh.

Suddenly she felt much better about the whole thing.

"Well then, Miss Granger! I look forward to seeing you here tomorrow evening!"

Hermione tried not to frown. Now to transfigure a dress… and she had no idea what would be acceptable. Which would entail another trip to investigate fashion in the library.

Fuck her life.

If Hermione never again had to think about decorating, it would be too soon. And she was absolutely serious. If this stupid venture had taught her anything, it was that fashion was ridiculous.

Case in point.

"Horace, where did get these decorations! So bold! Orange and purple together can so easily turn garish, but bravo, my good man. Somehow elegant and audacious… this looks like a statement!"

"My dear professor, I can't help but notice that half these flowers are poisonous! A subtle nod to your craft, no doubt. Absolutely clever."

"Horace, where did you get the idea to drape the ceiling and walls! Like being inside of a tent, indoors. Such a fun idea. Reminds me of the last time we attended the World Cup. Do you know I bumped into Veronica just last week? Remember her? Or maybe her… attributes?"

It was at this point that Hermione wandered away from her Professor, not at all wanting to hear anything about Veronica's attributes. She headed blindly for the concession table, and unwittingly confronted Tom Riddle and his enthusiastic date. She bit back a growl, already fed up with the evening, and gave the pair a strained smile that bordered a sneer as she inched towards the cider.

As she moved, she admitted to feeling somewhat surprised to recognize her dear housemate as his date. Lilac White. She just seemed so lackluster compared to Tom. A gossip, to be sure, but hardly cruel. Or creative. Or intelligent. Although wealthy…

Hermione forcibly stopped her line of thinking. She didn't care. Tom could fuck or date whomever he wanted. She really didn't give a shit. She finally managed to grab a cup of cider, and was more than ready to make her retreat.

Or course Tom wasn't about to let her go without insulting her first.

"Well, look who it is. The woman of the hour. I have been hearing nothing but praise for your decorations. I am sure you are relieved to hear that your primary assets as a woman have been affirmed. Now you aren't completely undesirable."

Hermione was unbelievably offended, which was no doubt his intention. So she responded with sarcasm. She wondered, offhand, whether or not she could be subtle enough to go over little Lilac's head. "Oh, you have no idea. I was absolutely terrified at the prospect of never finding a husband. Where would I get my life's fulfillment if not through marriage and child-rearing? Merlin forbid I be forced to find my purpose through willful employment."

She struck gold. Lilac gasped dramatically. "You mean work? How perfectly dreadful."

Hermione made an over-exaggerated expression of commiseration. "Oh, absolutely. All of that unnecessary effort, and to what end? I am hardly equipped to contribute in such a setting, let alone make my own decisions."

Lilac smiled at her as if she had finally found something to like, and Hermione had to fight the urge to grimace in distaste. "That is so true. After all, it is the role of a woman to support her man so that he may accomplish all of his endeavors. And they are kind enough to guide us in return."

Hermione almost broke. She could feel it in her face, which twitched like she was glitching. It was just so absurd. Her tone was a tad sharper as a result. "How kind of them to… liberate us from the burden of independence and progression."

Lilac, the poor fool, remained completely oblivious, and nodded enthusiastically. "We are simply better suited to different things. After all, we could hardly expect a man to cook dinner or manage the household." She tittered a boisterous laugh, clearly finding the idea hilarious.

Already tired and fed up, Hermione found the noise obnoxious, and she couldn't stop herself from turning to Tom in disbelief. She raised a brow, thinking 'How can you stand this?' Tom just looked very amused.

And then he was smirking. "Isn't Lilac great? Such a firm understanding of where she belongs. You would do well to emulate such an example. Attractive behavior could make up for your… lack of other attributes."

There was that stupid fucking word again. The objectification was clear, and Hermione inwardly bristled. She was a person, for fuck's sake, not a hole to be filled or a doll to be admired. "More's the pity. I suppose I will never marry. After all, well-behaved women seldom make history, and I don't intend to accept obscurity."

Tom laughed that familiar chuckle of chauvinistic disbelief. "You intend to make history?"

"Scared, Riddle? That I might become more noteworthy than you?"

"Impossible," was his immediate dismissal, and Hermione had to stop herself from scowling in return. However, the negative feelings persevered.

It was at this point in the evening that Hermione couldn't stop herself from imagining his death again. Regardless of the fact that she had promised herself not to. Should such an exercise be so cathartic? Probably not, but that didn't stop her from indulging. She mentally pictured discreetly poisoning his drink with many of the poisonous flower varieties available at the table. Him drinking it, and then going into anaphylactic shock… eyes bulging, body convulsing, clawing uselessly at his swollen neck as a foamy saliva dribbled down his cheeks... She felt better, calmer. Tom stared at her intensely, obviously interested in her fantasies, and familiar heat began to build between them.

They were interrupted, and Hermione was somewhat surprised to hear Lilac defend her. "Tom! It is hardly becoming behavior to mention such truths in present company."

Lilac took in her appearance, looking her up and down with a critical eye. Hermione had been aiming for elegant- a dusty rose dress with lace capped sleeves and back, a sweetheart neckline forming a satin bustier, and then floor-length gauze pleated, spilling… her hair was pulled back from her face in a simple bun, and she wore dangly earrings. It was understated. Especially compared to the many outfits Hermione had witnessed that night. A subtle nod at the size of her breasts and waist, while still preserving her modesty, it drew attention to her slender neck and wrists.

Apparently her efforts were too subtle and too simple for Lilac White. Who clearly thought that making history meant marrying someone important. "You may be a bit plain to catch the eye of somewhat noteworthy. But that shouldn't stop you from attempting to marry. Perhaps you shouldn't be so ambitious?"

Tom nodded in agreement, although Hermione suspected it was a nod to his own internal musings rather than Lilac's statement. "It does seem a rather odd trait for a Gryffindor."

Lilac spun towards Tom as if he had just reaffirmed her own genius. "Doesn't it? I thought so too. Always studying in the library… I think Ravenclaw would be far more appropriate."

Tom gave Lilac an assessing gaze. "Not Slytherin?"

Lilac gave him what she clearly thought was a clever smile, and then moved towards the flower arrangement on the table. She met Hermione's eye. "If she was more suited to Slytherin, she would have looked up the meanings of these flowers before creating the bouquets. Do you know three of these varieties mean caution and beware? Of course the marigolds stand for grief, or cruelty and jealousy… And the pairings are so inappropriate. Elegance and mystery," she fingered the dahlia, "with stupidity and folly. Immortality and either failure or caution, which doesn't make any sense."

Tom's eyes darkened.

Lilac continued. "The forsaken passion is the only one that I can reasonably picture, but I'm sure it was an accident." The girl gave Hermione a smile full of pity.

Maybe Hermione had misjudged the girl. Clearly she had some bite. Her mind conjured the image of a kitten, growling and clawing, trying to make herself more ferocious than she actually was. How adorable.

Tom's eyes swung towards her, vicious and abrupt and full of caution. "Was it a mistake, Granger?"

There was that cue again. To smile insipidly, to play dumb, to do anything but disagree with that assessment. And Hermione couldn't stop herself from stirring the pot. She wondered belatedly if she might be the masochist. Her smile dropped. "Of course not. But obviously too subtle for the recipient to figure out on his own. My expectations were too high. How disappointing."

Hermione downed her drink, and gave the two people in front of her a short wave as she planned a tactical retreat. Tom's gaze was penetrating and foreboding, and dark with potential consequences. Lilac was confused. Hermione didn't have the patience. "À la prochaine."

Breathe.

Hermione attempted to mentally rally herself as she walked away. Don't think about Tom, or what he might do to you now that he thinks you might be onto him. Think about building a future for yourself in the event that this stupid castle won't let you go home. And to that aim, Hermione turned towards networking, naturally attracted to the idea of catching the attention of intellectuals and budding politicians. Apparently, all she had was her intellect. Better start with that.

Hermione turned, and then attempted to track down that potions master she had spoken to earlier in the evening. His assertions were interesting, of course, but he clearly hadn't considered magical contamination when using Muggle varieties. It wouldn't hurt to inform him.

She would be noticed.

Later that night Hermione enacted her small revenge plot. Moaning Myrtle was on board as soon as she heard the identity of the recipient ("What, that stupid tosser? Of course I'll help. He once tried to push me down a flight of stairs, you know." Hermione had nodded. "What a prat."). In fact, the ghost was almost uncomfortably eager to spend time in her company ("No one ever bothers to visit anymore. I think I make them uncomfortable. Because they knew me, you know? I remind them of how easy it is to die.").

It was fairly simple (Hermione had learned through experience that the more complicated the plan, the easier it was for something to go wrong). She would conjure a snake, and Moaning Myrtle would lead the thing through the pipes and into the bathroom connected to the seventh year boys dormitory. The ghost would give a signal (force toilet water to launch in a projectile, which Hermione stayed far away from), and then Hermione would trigger another spell that caused the snakes to duplicate endlessly, until the original snake was disposed of.

Myrtle then was to act as her eyes, in order to ascertain that her plan was going off without any problems.

It seemed that it worked.

The ghost came back laughing, pitched to sound almost maniacal. "Morgana's saggy tits, Avery screamed like a girl. And he just… kept screaming. Scrambled up on his bed and bat the snakes away with pillows. Stupid arse forgot he was a wizard."

"How long did the snakes last?"

Myrtle grinned. "They're still there. I think the original hid under the bed. Eventually the boys ran out of the room and hid behind the door."

Hermione's eyes widened, even as her lips peeled back in an unholy grin. She tried to imagine how many snakes could fit inside the room in the few hours before the conjuration disappeared. "Oh my."

Now all she had to do was wait to hear about the fallout. She couldn't wait.

Hermione went to bed a happy witch.