Kaleidoscope
She could do this.
Hermione stood before her fireplace, floo powder in hand, gathering her wits about her. She ran her free hand down her front, the feeling of her holstered wand strapped to her thigh under her gown bringing her a sense of strength though she knew that her wand would do little to protect her from the stares. Taking a deep breath, she threw the floo powder into the small fire, said her destination with as much confidence as she could muster, and was whisked away.
Despite the years of practice she'd had with taking the floo, she still had yet to master it – the speed at which she flew by fireplace after fireplace was nauseating and she invariably stumbled out, disoriented. Fortunately, when she arrived at her destination, the receiving room was mercifully empty. Hermione took a moment to once again gather her wits about her, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her periwinkle gown and robes, feeling her wand strapped tightly to her thigh, taking a deep breath – in and out, in and out.
Pushing her way through the receiving room's doors, she entered a sea of silver and swirling colours. The initial affect was quite like when she would peer into her little plastic kaleidoscope as a child, full of metallic tones, sparkles, and a vivid assortment of colours. Her war-trained eyes quickly adjusted and took in the room in its full effect. The Ministry's ballroom was full of people wearing their finest dress robes. The swirls of colour were in fact witches and wizards, paired up and twirling around the dancefloor to the music played by the string quartet tucked to the left side. On the right side of the ballroom, a series of cocktail tables were set up, with servers carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres meandering through the crowd.
Directly across from Hermione, on the other side of the dance floor, was the stage. Decorated in silver like much of the rest of ballroom, the stage seemed to possess an otherworldly aura, softly shimmering under the dim lighting. She knew, however, that the dim lighting would not last – soon enough, it would be time for her to take the stage, make her speech, and for that moment, the lights would be blinding.
She could do this.
Stepping properly into the room, Hermione made her way towards the bar, on the far side of the cocktail tables. She collected a glass of prosecco from the bar and turned to once again survey the room. Her eyes automatically settled on the group of redheads across the room, but she quickly glanced away. Tonight, she couldn't, wouldn't, let herself feel that pain. He was gone, and with him, the rest of those she had once considered her chosen family. She saw Harry standing with Neville not far from the group of Weasleys and made her way over to them. They kept their conversation light, all three seemingly aware of the butterflies churning in Hermione's stomach.
"It's time, Ms. Granger," Hermione heard.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a short woman had appeared behind Hermione, and began to usher her towards the stage's side door. Before Hermione knew it, the she was standing in the wings, watching the lights rise on the stage. Reaching into the well-concealed interior pocket of her robe, Hermione pulled out her note cards.
If she had thought the stage appeared other-worldly before, it was nothing compared to how it looked with the lights up. The entire stage glittered like so much snow and the blinding lights made the rest of the ballroom fall into apparent shadow.
She could do this.
Hermione squared her shoulders, then softened her stance. She lifted her chin and began to approach the podium at the center of the stage. As she walked, she felt her robes and gown gently flow out behind her – embodying the elegance she wanted to portray but had never felt. Placing her note cards on the podium Hermione took one final deep breath – in and out – and began to speak.
If you asked her afterwards, Hermione could tell you nothing more about what happened on that stage. She operated purely on autopilot, as her Muggle parents would have said. If you were to ask anyone else, they would have said that she was spectacular, full of poise, grace, and strength. Nonetheless, while her speech had been excellent, it seemed Hermione's luck was not to last. As she exited the stage door to rejoin the party, Hermione was met by a crowd of people – and at the head of the mass was none other than the one person she wanted to see the least.
"Blimey, Hermione," he said, his voice rising above the din of the party, "that was bloody brilliant!"
"Thank you, Ron," she replied quietly. She quickly began to look for an escape from this conversation, but she couldn't seem to find one. "I –" But whatever Hermione had been about to say – and truthfully she had no idea what to say – was cut off at the appearance of Harry and Neville pushing their way through the crowd, and all but dragging her away from Ron and back to the bar.
Another glass of prosecco in hand, they resumed their light-hearted conversation from before, without mention of Ron or the speech, just as they all knew Hermione preferred it. However, as the music changed and the faintest strands of the new song reverberated through the hall, Neville turned to her with his eyes full of regret before dragging Harry to the dancefloor. This was their song, but without them by her side she felt vulnerable, bared to the world. Unconsciously, she stepped back, towards the wall, and she banged into someone.
With a curse, Hermione turned to apologize profusely, but froze in her tracks at the silver eyes and platinum hair that she now faced.
"I – oh Merlin – sorry, Malfoy," she finally pushed out. Her eyes took in his well-tailored robes that showed off his tall (and surprisingly fit) frame, bringing a blush to her cheeks.
"It happens," he replied with a wave of his hand. Gone was the snide tone and smirk of his youth, replaced with a casual and effortless elegance. His eyes sparkled playfully as he looked down at her. "Tell you what, you can make it up to me with a dance."