At last, it was finally finished. She looked up from Moste Potente Potions and cast her eye critically over the gently bubbling potion to her left. It was an exact match to the illustration and description.
A giant wave of relief crashed over her, rendering her almost limp on the stool. She had managed to correctly brew Polyjuice, the potion that she had been sent here to make. Of course, she had to start it all over again beginning tonight so Sirius had a continuous supply, but she had managed the first batch.
Extremely carefully, she decanted the potion into batches of vials that Sirius could use as single dose applications and carry with him. She wasn't sure how he was taking it or precisely when, but this would give him flexibility to do as he pleased.
Time passed quickly as she finished that task and prepared her ingredients for the next round, and a Tempus made her yelp in dismay. She would be late to meet Clara if she didn't get ready for their outing now.
Quickly, she scampered up the two flights of stairs to her room and freshened up, putting on a casual dress of pale blues and whites and loosening her hair from its restricted braid. The loose weight felt so good that she let out a breath as her scalp relaxed.
She fairly tripped out the door, her heart light with excitement. To be fair, she was definitely nervous, too. She'd never really spent time with another girl like this before, let alone done something so wholly feminine as dress shopping. Before Hogwarts, it had really just been her, and then once she'd befriended Ron and Harry, it had been just them. Well, and Neville too, sometimes, but the point still stood. This was something new, and something different, and she didn't have any reference material to know how to act or what to say.
Yet still, as she strode into the Square and up to the fountain, she found that she was teetering on the brink of being more excited than anxious. Clara had never been anything but nice to her, and she felt a sense of kinship with the witch. Clara, too, was surrounded by and friends with almost exclusively boys. Surely they could at least connect over that.
"Mia!" Clara waved her down, and Hermione tried to stop herself from gaping in astonishment. The Quidditch player, who always looked so sporty, was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a thin-strapped, flowing dress with kitten heels. Her hair, which was normally braided at the sides before it fed into a fishtail, was loose and flowing in waves that glinted in the light.
She was, Hermione admitted, absolutely stunning. Biting her lip, she looked down at her own dress, which she had thought chic and appropriate, and felt the stirrings of inadequacy. "Hi Clara," she greeted quietly.
Clara rolled her eyes and pulled her in for a hug. "None of that missishness," she chided. "Save all that for work. Out here, we're just friends hanging out and shopping. And may I say, Mia—that dress you're wearing? Absolutely cutting edge. Why, I think I saw it in a magazine the other day."
She brightened at the compliment but returned modestly, "I suppose you could have. I tend to mail order a lot of my summer clothes from the catalogues my mum has."
"Well," Clara said breezily, "your mother must be a woman of fashion! This makes me even more excited to get your dress for the Ball. Anyhow, our appointment with Dmitri is soon, and he does not tolerate tardiness. Why, this one time…."
Clara chattered all the way to the storefront, regaling Hermione with stories that had her giggling at multiple points as they walked arm in arm.
"And so," Clara concluded, "I told him that if he ever tried to bring a chimpanzee on a date again, I would call the Department of Magical Creatures down on him! Suffice to say," she slid Hermione a sidelong look, "there was no second date with Yurik."
"I can certainly see why not," she giggled. "A chimpanzee on a date? One might say he was, er, monkey-ing around!"
Clara shot her a look of surprise and then chuckled, squeezing her arm. "Ah, Mia, I do like you. Monkeying around. Ha!"
At this point, they had stopped in front of an obviously high-end boutique, the script on the window reading Dmitri's. If it hadn't been for the gowns she could see in the store itself, she would have had no idea what this place was.
Clara opened the door and sailed in like she owned the place, caroling, "Dmitri darling! You are never going to guess what I have brought you today!"
Hermione, who had followed Clara in, heard a vague thud and then a somewhat waspish, "It's likely nothing good, coming from you!"
Clara huffed. "Like I said last time, my idea for a chiffon tea gown was only that one time. Why must you harp on things in the past? And besides, you are definitely going to forgive me now that I've brought you Mia." She said her name like it was something significant, something good and exciting.
She wasn't sure she'd ever heard herself referred to that way.
Warmth was blooming in her chest even as an inordinately tall, lean man with a mop of black curls emerged from the back, saying, "Whoever this Mia is—" His gaze landed on her and he stopped mid-sentence, his mouth pursing for a moment.
"Hm."
"I know!" Clara said gleefully.
The wizard looked at her, and she resisted the urge to squirm under his assessing gaze. "Fine. I accept your apology," he threw at Clara, who squealed. "You, little girl. What's your name?"
"Hermione," she responded, "though almost everyone calls me Mia here."
He nodded slowly. "Tch. Only fools would anyone shorten such a formidable name." Clara, who had been the one to do so, made an expression of offense. Dmitri continued on, his Russian accent making his words clipped. "So. You need a gown for the ball. Anything else?"
She started to reply in the negative when Clara piped in, "Professional robes for the conference!"
Conference? "What conference?"
The Chaser rolled her eyes. "Do I have to do everything for that woman? I swear. You are going to some conference in Italy in a few days. Just for the day, but Kras told me to make sure you have something to wear."
Swallowing all her questions, Hermione gave Clara a wide-eyed look as Dmitri waved her onto a platform in the middle of the room.
She spared a brief look around the rest of the room to see if there were perhaps others, but it was just the one. In fact, they were the only people in the entire space. Besides the gowns adorning the few floating mannequins throughout the room, there was an entire wall of mirrors, a chest on the floor next to it, two chairs, and a small side table with a few refreshments.
All of it positively screamed selective and expensive, and Hermione was suddenly very glad Daddy had sent her that money earlier. The conversion had taken a chunk out of it, but it was still more than she could ever hope to spend.
"Well," Dmitri said brusquely, "If you're quite finished gawping, get on the platform so we may begin." She immediately did so, and he continued, "You have much potential. You are willowy, but have not yet reached maturity, so we will not play on that angle. Instead, we will highlight your strengths."
Casually, he flicked his wand at the chest by the mirrors and it flew open, bolts of fabric flying toward him. "I am thinking, because you have nice skin, we will highlight that. Your neck is long, and your hair…" he paused as he weighed some kind of sage green fabric against that of a softer, darker brown, "...your hair, once it is done properly, will shine against it all."
Almost dizzily, she contemplated his words. He thought she was willowy, and had nice skin, and a long neck. Her. Bookish Hermione Granger had all of that. But her hair?
Dubiously, she looked at the mass of curls, which were hanging in rebellious spirals down her back. They had been trained by the braid into some kind of obedience, and the dry heat had helped them relax from their normally bushy texture. "My hair? I don't really think it'll do what you want. It's always been disobedient at best and a terror at worst."
"Nonsense!" Clara responded at once. "My mother is one of the foremost beauticians in all of Wizarding Europe. If you think I don't know a charm to whip that into shape, you doubt me far too much."
Pausing, Hermione tried to put together the mental image of Clara, the world-renowned Quidditch Chaser, and her beautician mother. She failed.
Although...she looked appraisingly at the smartly put together woman, perhaps she had been judging the book by its cover far too much. Far be it from her to make blanket judgements about what people could and couldn't do based on a few facts alone.
"I would like the help," she replied. As Clara enthusiastically signaled her agreement, a bolt of midnight blue fabric suddenly leapt at Hermione, making her yelp in surprise.
"Hush." Dmitri fairly rolled his eyes at her as the bolt of fabric flew around her, the material unspooling as it went. "A diagonal drape, if you please?" Obligingly, the fabric changed course and wrapped around her from shoulder to opposite hip. Dmitri made a hissing noise and the poor fabric immediately recoiled, the tip drooping.
"Back around," he instructed. "Wrap from shoulders to hip in one piece. Good, now cut." The fabric, which had wrapped around her and slid underneath her arms, separated from the roll. "In below the bust." The fabric cinched in, and Dmitri circled her appraisingly. "Hm...very good. Yes. Now, the top." Stepping forward, he raised his wand and aimed it down at her chest.
Alarm surged through her, but a quick look at Clara revealed the witch calmly nursing her second glass of wine, this time a white, and watching with no small amount of glee.
When Hermione felt something moving across her chest, she tried to look down. Dmitri, who had continued to loom over her with a mild glower, barked, "Don't move!"
Immediately, she became as still as a statue, not moving even as something crawled up her shoulders and around her neck.
Minutes later, he stepped back, made her spin, and then began tweaking the fabric with his wand, muttering as he did so. When another bolt of the same inky blue fabric flew towards them a minute later, hovering in the air next to Dmitri, she didn't startle.
"So," Clara drawled, "while you're being made into a goddess right before my very own eyes—Dmitri, amazing work as always—I would very much like to know...How are things with Vitya?"
Blankly, she looked at her friend. (And she was a friend, wasn't she?) "I'm afraid I don't know a Vitya," she replied after considering all her possible responses.
Clara clucked and crossed her legs. "Vitya. No? Viktor?"
Oh, Viktor. Her Viktor—their Viktor, she amended. "What about him? Is he okay? Last I saw, he was fine…" Her brows drew together.
The auburn haired witch let out a giant sigh and leaned back against the chaise more fully. "He's fine, obviously. You wouldn't let him be anything but. But what I meant," she said, as if it was obvious when it had certainly not been, "was how are things between the two of you?"
"Between the two of us?" she parroted back, her confusion mounting. "Things are...fine? I mean, I know they're fine."
After all, he had let her stay at his house only two weeks ago, and they had continued their new-found tradition of lunch time studying and conversation. This week, they had even ventured out to the spot by the river where they had had their first disastrous encounter and eaten there, both of them comfortably sharing a picnic blanket Viktor had transfigured from his quidditch robes.
"So….there's nothing there? Are you just friends?"
She frowned. "What else would we be?" They'd already been enemies, and Clara wouldn't be looking so expectant if she had meant that. So if not enemies…
She felt herself flush from the roots of her hair to the tips of her fingers. "You mean—you mean romantically?" She squeaked.
Clara nodded vigorously. "Yes, Mia! What else did you think?" She laughed, then frowned abruptly. "Actually, your reaction tells me all I need to know. Damn. So you both aren't dating or courting?"
"No!" She instantly responded, vehement. "Whatever gave you the idea? We're just friends!" Viktor and her? Not likely.
But was it unlikely? A faint voice in the back of her mind asked. He was kind, and he was very, very smart and mature. And he was very handsome, she admitted to herself, scrupulously honest.
But them, together? She couldn't fathom it. There were so many secrets she was holding onto, and then Viktor was so burdened by everything. If she had feelings for him—which she didn't!—it seemed unfair to confess them to him during such a high stress period of his life, especially when she couldn't be totally honest and forthcoming with him.
"No, she said at last. "We definitely aren't."
"Enough talk of men," Dmitri interrupted Clara as the woman leaned forward, an unholy light in her eye that spelled trouble, "We must discuss the gown. Turn and look."
Relieved at the reprieve, she did as he asked, gasping at the sight that greeted her. "Oh, Dmitri," she said somewhat dreamily, "it's beautiful. I can't believe it. Is this me?"
Smugly, the wizard said, "Of course it's you. It's just you in a gown that I have made most specifically for you. Now, take it off and we will begin on your professional robes. I am thinking caramel."
"Whatever you say," she agreed, still caught up in the image in the mirror. Even with the times she had dressed up for formal events at her mother's command, she had never looked like this. Never felt like this.
Could she truly be...pretty? She wondered at the thought as Dmitri much more quickly put together a stunning set of robes and a dress for her. Could she still be herself, even if she looked like that?
Lost in her thoughts, Clara had paid for her gown before she knew it, waving away Hermione's protestations and shepherding her out into the bright light of the afternoon sun.
A bit dazed at it all, Hermione blinked.
"It's almost always like that," Clara said sympathetically. "You look almost exactly like I did the first time I left Dmitri."
"I was...pretty."
The light knock of Clara's shoulder against her own startled her. When she looked up at the older woman, she was giving Hermione a disappointed look. "You're already beautiful Mia, inside and out. A dress doesn't make you moresol: it just spotlights what's already there."
She pondered that statement the whole way home after they finished a late lunch and split up. When she got home, she even indulged in a fit of vanity and looked in the mirror, trying to see the girl she had seen in Dmitri's shop.
All she saw was herself. Normal, bookish Hermione Granger, with the creased brows, the too large teeth, and stupid hair.
"Well," she told her reflection, which looked resigned, "I suppose that settled, then."
That fruitless endeavor finished, she grabbed several books and her notetaking supplies, wandering outside to sit under the shade of the tree in the garden. Time passed as she devoured chapter after chapter until she was forced to move inside due to heat and hunger.
It was only the sound of the front door opening that caused Hermione to look up some time later, and she watched as Sirius carefully wiped his shoes on the mat before he stepped in. He had been absent on and off more and more frequently since that night he asked her to leave the house, always returning looking strangely exhausted but bright eyed.
Every time she had asked about what he had been doing, he'd either been extremely vague or outright brushed her off, so she'd eventually given up. But this time...this time something was different about him. Something...strange.
"Welcome back," she carefully greeted him, trying to gauge his mood.
He took off his robes and threw it at a magical coat rack, which reached out and neatly caught it. "Thanks, kitten," he replied. "How was your day?"
She shrugged noncommittally. "Pretty typical, really, although Zograf got hit in the face by a Bludger."
Sirius winced. "That would hurt."
"From the way he carried on, you'd have thought he'd gotten cursed by something rather terrible," she confirmed. "I never would have thought it, but he carries on almost worse than any of them, even though he's angry the entire time."
He laughed, but the emotion didn't reach his eyes, which worried her. It seemed more often these days that he would act one way but feel another, or say one thing but mean something different. Sirius was changing, slowly but surely.
Given that she'd met him when he was a traumatized convict on the run, she really didn't have a good baseline to measure his behaviour against, so she wasn't sure if the changes were a return to the behaviour he'd once had or if he was becoming someone different. Were the changes indicative of healing, or were they an indication of something darker?
Not for the first time, she wished she had someone to talk about this with who could help her. She felt terribly out of her league and alone.
Taking a deep breath, she plunged in headfirst. "Have a good evening?"
"It was fine," he responded distractedly, rummaging around in the kitchen cabinet for a glass. Finding one he liked, he poured a tall glass of whatever drink he liked and stared into the amber liquid for a long moment, as if he was looking for answers to questions he had. He tipped the glass up and drank it in one long pull, setting the glass down and pouring another in almost one simultaneous movement.
Cautiously, she said, "You don't seem particularly fine."
In the midst of bringing the glass to his lips, Sirius paused and turned his head to face her. She was struck still by the queer look in his eyes, the glittering, almost feverish intensity within making her mouth dry.
"I said," he repeated deliberately, head tilting to the side, "I'm fine."
Absently, she smoothed the page of the book sitting in her lap, the action soothing her even as her anxiety ratcheted up. "I'm a little worried about you, I must admit," she forged on, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. "Ever since that night you kicked me out of the house, things have been strange with you. You've been in and out more often, and when you come back, you sometimes seem...off. Unlike yourself. What's happening when you leave? Where are you going? What are you doing?"
Carefully, Sirius set the tumbler down on the countertop and prowled towards her, that strange light still in his eyes. When he was a mere breath away, he stopped, looming over her. This far close to him she could feel some strange...silken, addictive feeling lingering in the air. It made her want to get closer, to do whatever had caused it so she could wrap herself in it. Yet her brain was warning her rather stringently that that feeling was wrong, and that she should be getting as far away as possible.
"Hermione," Sirius told her, hair spilling over his shoulders and partially shrouding his face, "The things that I have done, you don't want to know."
She swallowed, feeling somewhat muddled as that aura continued to surround and envelope her. What did he mean? What had he been doing? Stubbornly, she replied, "I think I rather do."
A lazy smirk curled his lips, and he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. The action, rather than being comforting, sent shivers down her spine.
"Those who fly too high too fast tend to get burned," he murmured, trailing the finger across her cheek. She recoiled away instinctively, her hand coming up between them, and he chuckled softly. "Don't be an Icarus, kitten. Stop asking questions you don't want to know the answers to."
With that, he strode back to the kitchen and his glass of alcohol, leaving her paralyzed in place. That strange aura she'd been feeling dissipated, making her think it was Sirius' own aura that had been so...seductive, yet alarming.
Biting her lip, she backed down, unwilling to broach the subject again after that rather...disquieting interaction, and closed her book. She wasn't going to get any more reading done downstairs, if at all, so she packed up her note taking supplies and headed upstairs for the evening.
Neither she nor he offered their typical evening goodnights, and for the first time that entire summer, she locked her door.