"She had dressed with unusual care and prepared in the highest spirits."
Hermione sipped her tea and stared at Lucretia in amazement. "So you actually sat for Andy Warhol and he painted you, but you altered his memory so he wouldn't recall?"
"The painting is in my dressing room if you'd like to see. It was unfortunate that I had to charm his memories; I did so enjoy his outlook and he was a most interesting gossip." Lucretia sighed. "But there was an accidental magic incident that simply couldn't be explained away. I was in a dreadful spot of trouble with that ministry of yours for a bit," she said, waving her hand in the air vaguely. Hermione laughed.
Tête-à-tête with Madame Black in a small jewel-like apartment tucked in one of the corners of the manse for afternoon tea, Hermione was on her second scone with clotted cream and thoroughly captivated by her hostess's fascinating past.
"Are your preparations for the ball complete?" she asked, putting a delicate porcelain cup to her lips.
"Nearly so, and most of the invitation responses have come back acceptances. I expect over two hundred."
Hermione's eyes widened. The party was shaping up to be a grand event. Pen had told her the local gossip was that no one in the area could remember the last time a ball had been held at the chateau, so those lucky enough to receive invitations had accepted with alacrity.
"I keep meaning to ask you what you are planning to wear, my dear," Lucretia said with a bright look.
Hermione felt a pained expression cross her face. The truth was she had no idea, and the problem had been nagging at her for days. She loved clothing, but her style was on the casual side. She had a few tailored gowns and a set of neat dress robes she trotted out for ministry events, but none of that seemed appropriate for a grand ball at a French manor. She had a vague plan to go shopping in Aix, but didn't have much hope that she'd find the perfect thing.
"I have no idea," she blurted, spilling her tale of sartorial woe.
Lucretia's eyes narrowed. "Stand up dear." Hermione was puzzled, but she stood while Lucretia eyes ran over her frame. "Hmm, yes. You're near the same size I was when I was your age. Perhaps a bit taller, but that's not a problem..." Lucretia stood abruptly. "Come with me. Let's show you the Warhol." She swept from the room and Hermione had little choice but to trot after her.
They went down several hallways and then came to a grand boudoir comprised of several rooms. Passing through a few of these, they made their way to an inner sanctum holding racks and storage shelves with countless garments, shoes, hats and accessories neatly organized. And in pride of place on one wall, a colorful Icon painting of a much younger Lucretia. Hermione felt like she'd stumbled into a storage room at the Victoria & Albert.
"My collection," said Lucretia. "It represents the best of a lifetime of couture."
Hermione took in the display with amazement, compulsively starting forward to examine the clothes. To even a casual student of fashion such as herself, this was a rare treat. In just a quick skim of the racks she saw what looked to be decadent turn of the century ball gowns, the tweed of a 1920s Chanel suit, the nipped waist of a Dior new look frock, batty looking mod dresses. And was that a YSL Le Smoking? She sighed as she brushed the sleeve of the iconic suit.
Lucretia looked gratified at Hermione's reaction. "Let's see if we can find you something to wear on Saturday," she said. "I think a bias cut from the 1930s or a slim line from the '40s would suit you best."
"You can't mean to lend something to me," Hermione gasped, whipping her head around to look at Lucretia.
"Of course I do. And don't be tiresome and try to refuse."
Hermione shook her head quickly. She would not be refusing.
"Good. Much better to take these things out and give them an airing rather than have them secreted away in here. I tell my niece Astoria the same thing when she comes to visit. She looks marvelous in my avante-garde things from the early '60s. Gamine, you know."
Hermione was reminded of Pansy Parkinson saying the same thing in the library at Nott House what seemed like eons ago and wondered if she'd ever meet Astoria in person. It also occurred to her that Pansy would probably give her left arm to be in Hermione's place right now. As usual when her thoughts turned in that direction, her mind naturally progressed to Draco—and her heart gave a little flutter of melancholy. She wondered where he was and what he was doing.
However, her woolgathering abruptly ceased the moment Lucretia pulled out an elegant dress in sumptuous green silk with intricate beading at the hem.
"Schiaparelli," she sighed. "I wore it to a dance on a boat. A very large boat. The hem is heavy, but it pulls down to create a beautiful, very daring line along the bust. Try it on."
She held the dress out to Hermione, who stepped behind a screen in the corner, stripped to her knickers and slipped the cool green column very carefully over her body. It felt like soft, slithering heaven and the short train pooled around her ankles elegantly. She'd definitely need very high heels with it. She went up on tip toe and minced out from behind the screen.
Lucretia clapped her hands, "Lovely! Absolutely lovely. I was right—your figure is made for the bias cut."
Hermione stepped up on a small dais and twisted this way and that, looking at herself in an ornate three way mirror. The dress was perfect, but Lucretia had pulled another few gowns out as well.
One was pink, feathered and totally whimsical; another was a soft yellow chiffon with a gored skirt; and still another—a very risque cut in a deep wine-red gauze. Hermione tried them all, enjoying herself hugely, but thinking she should probably just go with the green silk, when her eye was caught by a flash of silver. She gingerly pulled out the edge of what looked like a flowing sheet of mercury: metallic, but warm at the same time.
"The Vionnet!" Lucretia walked over and pulled it off the rack. "Of course. That is the perfect dress for you. The drape, the cut. And one must have slim hips and a petite bust to carry it off because one simply can't wear anything under it." She winked at Hermione. "Put it on!"
Hermione obliged. The style was simple, a draped column, and although the tailoring was magnificent, it was the fabric that elevated the dress to sublime. It moved like liquid silver and clung to every curve of her body. The cut was also very sexy, with a deep, slightly draped vee between the breasts and a back so low that it was almost non-existent.
"Stunning," pronounced Lucretia, circling Hermione and scrutinizing her from every angle. "Vionnet was a squib, you know. And not one of those squibs who have no magic whatsoever. She had something, and she wove it into every dress she created. And since she created this piece for me, she put in even more than usual."
"It is absolutely magic, for lack of a better word," said Hermione, looking down and smoothing the skirt.
"I wore that dress the night I met my second, and favourite, husband," mused Lucretia. "It will do me good to see it circulate again." She clapped her hands twice. "Then we are decided!"
"Mignon!" she called to a house elf who was hovering in the corner. "Take the Vionnet to be freshened. We'll bring it to Mademoiselle Granger the day of the party." She turned to Hermione, "And Mignon will come with the dress to help with your hair and makeup, which must be apropos."
Hermione inclined her head to the tiny elf, "I should be glad of your help." The elf went bright red, bobbing several curtsies as Hermione went back behind the screen to change out of the gown, now looking forward to the party without reservation.
~oOo~
Draco assisted Astoria out of the floo into the vast, cool chamber of the Black chateau's entryway. They stood for a second, getting their bearings and Draco realised they were alone—his aunt and her elves weren't there to welcome them. That was strange, he'd owled a few days ago from Paris and she usually made a point to greet them, especially if she knew Astor was coming.
At that moment a harried looking house elf came puffing into the room, apologizing for her tardiness and exclaiming that she would show Monsieur et Mademoiselle to their rooms directly and then bring them refreshment on the instant. She finished her outburst with more apologies, and began hustling them out of the room, still muttering to herself.
Draco assured her that it was fine as Astoria stopped the elf and bent down to her level.
"Please don't fret, Mimi! We know the way to our rooms and the kitchen," she smiled. "What are you so busy with and how may we help? And where is Auntie Cree?"
"Oh mam'selle! We is at sixes and sevens!" the elf squeaked. "The guests is arriving at seven and the decor in the second ballroom is still not done. The fairy cakes is not floating and the champagne fountain is spraying too high. Madame had to go to her room with a cool cloth or she is having the headache for the party! She said to tell you hello and your clothes for tonight is in your rooms."
"What party?" asked Draco, his brow lowered. He'd hoped for a quiet evening and early appointment with his bed after a whirlwind departure from New York and frenetic last few days in Paris.
"We is putting on a ball tonight, Monsieur! Two hundred peoples!"
Draco sighed and Astoria clapped, "Delightful!"
Mimi rolled her eyes expressively and wrung her hands.
"Off with you then, Mimi," Draco said, not unkindly. "It sounds like you have enough to do without seeing to us. Besides we'll have just enough time for a quick rest and not much else before this whole thing starts." He shooed the elf away and kissed Astoria's cheek before starting in the direction of his rooms.
Astoria turned toward the opposite wing then suddenly blurted, "do you think she'll come?"
Draco stopped, turned and gave her a level stare. She clapped her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry! I spoke without thinking." Her eyes were huge. "I just wonder if she's met Auntie yet."
"I have no idea and that's the last I want to hear about it." Draco said stiffly. Astoria nodded and hustled out of the room while Draco shook his head and began climbing the stairs.
If he was being truthful, that was the first thought that had entered his mind upon hearing about the party as well. Would she be here? It had been weeks since their last meeting and they hadn't communicated after those last notes in England. But it was entirely possible she'd made his aunt's acquaintance in that time.
He stepped into the familiar comfort of his rooms, noting a very smart dinner suit with an ivory jacket hung on the front door of his wardrobe. So Lucretia wanted him in muggle-wear tonight? Draco smiled faintly and unbuttoned his shirt, determined to do nothing else until he washed the dirt of the city and floo travel off his person.
A bit later, feeling somewhat refreshed, he reclined on the balcony in his dressing gown, smoking a cigarette and drowsing in the warm rays of the late afternoon sun. Inevitably it seemed, his thoughts ran to Hermione. After the last encounter with his mother, the pressure from his friends and the intervening weeks away, he admitted was feeling a bit…imbalanced.
Had the attraction been real or just the hunter in him reacting to a challenge? He'd certainly felt euphoric after that day in the park—and the memory of it still stirred him. But he ran cool and cautious by nature.
He tipped back his head and frowned, blowing out a long plume of smoke. What would he do if she knocked on his door right now? The memory of her taste ran across his senses and he shifted, his features softening. Then he straightened and ran his hand through his damp hair, reserve replacing the whimsy in his face. He was being ridiculous. There was no guarantee she'd even be present tonight. His aunt could be reclusive and high in the instep—it was entirely possible she hadn't reached out.
Draco went to the wardrobe and began donning the elegant suit, trying to remember the spell for tying a muggle bow tie properly. As he worked, his expression settled into its typical aloof lines and by the time he was fully dressed, his sangfroid was properly in place. He squared his shoulders in the mirror and shot his cuffs, then brushed a speck from the cream colored lapel of the jacket.
He was ready as he'd ever be to do social battle with two hundred of his aunt's closest friends.
And if he saw Hermione and wasn't moved, then he'd have his answer. It had certainly happened before with other women. He knew his fancy could be fickle. And if that was the case, he'd simply be back where he started, which he told himself wouldn't be entirely bad.