With a skip in her step, Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall. It was four hours until the Ball she had theoretically organized, and she was checking in to make sure that everything was in order before heading upstairs to get ready. Despite her protests, Hermione found herself looking forward to the ball. A lot had changed since that September day when she had found out about her rampantly sexist task (though her attitude on that aspect had stayed the same), and she couldn't help that when she thought about dancing with Tom her heartbeat became a bit less regular or how a smile tugged at the corners of her stubborn mouth.

As she entered the Great Hall to survey the surroundings and account for everyone present, she couldn't conceal a small sigh. Pomona and Hazel were there for food and music, respectively, but the usual Slytherin ice princess was replaced by an even more irritating member of the house: Mildred.

Hermione let her cheery demeanor slip into her typical businesslike attitude for prefect duties. "Hazel, Pomona, Bulstrode. What happened to Dorea?"

"Well, Dorea asked if Eileen or I could cover for this rather rude checkup of yours and I jumped at the opportunity."

"I will not apologize for ensuring that everything runs smoothly tonight. Why couldn't Dorea make it?"

"Something happened with her dress and she needed time to fix it. Since I don't have to get ready, I thought I could fill in." Mildred said the last sentence with venom followed by a sickly-sweet sing-song voice.

"Well, I don't see how it's my problem you don't have a date, but—" Hermione stopped midsentence because of the very loud scoff that came from Mildred's direction and the fierce head shake Hermione caught from Hazel that appeared to be some sort of warning.

"Silly girl," Mildred said in a dangerous voice, "Tom doesn't tell you much, does he? I have been his date to the Ball for the last two years."

"I don't know why I should be offended that Tom hasn't told me when you clearly just weren't worth his notice," The words rolled out of Hermione's mouth and despite her deep dislike of Mildred, she couldn't help but feel awful after they did. Mildred's eyes narrowed, but they were also watering.

"The decorations look sufficient," Hermione continued. (They looked more than sufficient, but Hermione was trying to mercifully dismiss Mildred quickly). "Unless you need anything from me, you can go now."

"I don't need anything from you," Mildred said with her chin held high as she quickly exited the room. Hermione let out a little breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Sorry about that," Hermione muttered. "We don't really get on."

Pomona's eyes were wide and Hazel's were knowing. "She's the worst, honestly," Hazel drawled. "And don't let her get to you. Tom always looked a little queasy around her. I think he did it as a favor. You're seriously the first girl he's actually dated. He just had to take someone to the ball and she follows him around, so I guess she was an easy choice."

"Thanks, Hazel. I'm not offended, really," Hermione said quietly, wanting to change the subject in an attempt to push away the little knot of guilt that had formed in her stomach, which Hazel was only exacerbating. "The decorations really do look wonderful," Hermione said to herself more than anyone else. Although the Slytherins could not restrain themselves from making it green, the color scheme was a minty green with white trim, giving the room an ethereal look. The enchanted ceiling currently blended with the mint as the sky was a clear blue day, but Hermione was confident it would look even lovelier against an inky black sky.

"They really do," Pomona said appreciatively. The three women talked about the rest of the plans, with Hazel interjecting occasionally with attempted reassurance. All in all, Hermione was happy to excuse herself to get ready, as though she needed three and a half hours to put clothes and make-up on. Perhaps it was the state of her hair, but neither witch questioned it.

A few hours later, and Hermione was surveying herself in the full-length mirror, fixing a stray curl here and there, but mostly taking the ten minutes before meeting Tom in the common room to reflect. It felt surreal to be dressing for a ball; the last she had attended had been four years ago, although it felt like someone else's life when she looked back at it now. She still had an absurd crush on Ron and he spoke to her in those days. Moreover, Harry was alive and Tom—well, Voldemort—wasn't even back yet. And since he had come back, her whole life had revolved around him. Defeating him and now… it was still about him, but in a very different way.

The night of the Yule Ball many years ago had been the first time Hermione felt pretty, but after that, appearances had been the last thing on her mind. All her energy had been channeled into righting the universe somehow. And now things had come full circle because in this strange limbo fifty-one years before she had walked out onto the dancefloor with a Quidditch star, she felt truly beautiful, even more than she had that night.

Although Lyra could not have known when she chose the dress, the bronze was perfect. It felt as though Hermione was embracing her new identity and place in this time, as a Ravenclaw and as a woman. All of Hermione's Gryffindor clothing had been destroyed by battle after battle, until a year ago when she only had her Gryffindor scarf left. When she first packed to embark on her impossible mission, Hermione yearned for her scarf, though she couldn't bring herself to regret giving it to Draco. And being back in this time, Hermione still looked at the carefree Gryffindor groups with longing. But she would never be that carefree girl again; and was she ever really that carefree in the first place?

Sometimes Hermione wondered what had happened to her scarf. Such trains of thought had popped up frequently in the early weeks of fall, but lately she no longer had to fight to suppress them. Now, she could almost form a smile when she thought of Narcissa coming across a red and gold scarf. Almost.

Hermione thought idly about what had brought on this melancholy, but it was simple, really. The whole year had been a repeating of sorts: of her seventh year, at minimum, a reclaiming of the serene, education-oriented year it could have been. But now another winter ball, another opening dance with the most coveted date. It was hard not to think about what wasn't there: Harry. The person that Hermione could only let herself think about in the wee hours of the morning, when she had a fleeting recollection of a dream or nightmare starring her old friend, and would let herself feel the weight of his accusations on her.

"Hermione?" Tom's velvety voice broke her reverie. Hermione did a quick charm to hide the evidence of a stray tear and smoothed out her dress in more of a manifestation of nervousness than anything else. Hermione opened the door and broke out into a dreamy smile.

Although Hermione had expected black or emerald dress robes, Tom wore steel gray robes that brought out the darker flecks in his eyes. His hair was the same as always, mostly smoothed into place except for her favorite stray curl that fell over the left side of his forehead. His pale skin was illuminated in the fleeting light streaming in from outside, almost translucent against the dark hair that framed it.

"You look really nice," Hermione managed, still admiring her date, trying (and mostly succeeding) to be in this moment.

"Same to you," Tom remarked quietly, but there was more warmth in his eyes than usual. He extended an arm, which she gratefully threaded her own through as they walked slowly and quietly toward the Great Hall.

"I like the dress."

"We both almost went with a house color—you went for a more muted look."

"I prefer subtlety."

"I bet you do." Hermione smiled, adding, "you like nice, too."

"You already said that," Tom commented with a soft smile on his face.

"Well, you do," Hermione replied awkwardly, running her hand nervously through her hair. She shouldn't be nervous; she was with Tom, the person she spent an inordinate amount of time with. But it was something about the atmosphere and the fact that she was about to be pulled forcefully out of her comfort zone that brought on the nerves. It might also have something to do with the unabashed way Tom was sizing her up.

As they approached the entrance to the ball, Hermione noticed Professor Dippet standing outside. "Excellent, you're both here."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione and Tom both said at once. Tom glanced at her with slightly narrowed eyes before turning back to the headmaster.

"Good, good, I trust you are aware, Ms. Prewett, that you and Mr. Riddle will open the dance?"

"Yes, I had heard," Hermione responded, adding in her head: through sheer chance, thank you for informing me.

"Excellent. Other couples will start to join you fairly quickly, but please finish the first dance together before going your separate ways."

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that, as she didn't want to bother the headmaster with something so trivial as her private life, so she just responded with, "we understand, Professor."

Tom's pressure on her hand increased, pinching the bones underneath her knuckles. Hermione kept her smile plastered on as she made a feeble attempt to subtly wrest her hand free, which Tom responded to by turning discomfort into dull pain.

Professor Dippet nodded a few times, looking out into the distance, and then mumbled something Hermione couldn't hear. "Excellent, excellent," he said, nodding again. "I shall see both of you inside then."

"Thank you for checking in with us, Professor," Hermione called after him.

And, after there was enough distance between the two of them, Hermione hissed, "What are you doing, Tom? You're hurting me."

"We understand?"

"Are you serious, Tom? Would you like to be apprise our headmaster with the details of our relationship?"

"Salazar, Hermione, it wouldn't take twelve feet of parchment," he seethed as he flung her hand away. "A simple correction would have sufficed."

"Why do you care if Professor Dippet knows we are a couple?"

"What I care about is the fact that you impliedly denied it."

"Tom, I really don't know why you're upset. Everyone knows we are dating, except Professor Dippet apparently. I don't know how it's even possible someone in this school does not know considering how public we are about our relationship."

"You are mine. I care that everyone knows it." Tom possessively placed a hand on the small of her back as he spoke and traced the low neckline of her top with his other hand.

"Tom…"

Tom pulled away from her as though she were on fire. Before she could respond to his antics, she heard a deep, booming laugh from behind her and sighed. Slughorn.

"Ms. Prewett, Mr. Riddle, there's enough time for that later," Slughorn gently scolded, a sloppy grin on his round face as he pushed the pair into the ballroom.

"Sorry, Professor Slughorn," Hermione mumbled. The potions professor was proudly sporting his house colors with dark green robes with a shiny silver "H.S." emblazoned on the left side of his chest that reminded Hermione of old-fashioned muggle pajamas. She let the enthusiastic professor lead them into the Great Hall, and would have frozen if Tom's hand weren't gently pushing her forward.

Every eye was on her and she felt déjà vu wash over like a wave. Tom held out his hand and she took it gingerly. Once they walked to the center of the floor, the band began churning out a painfully slow song and Hermione tried to suppress her blush, but she could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks. She placed one side of her burning face on Tom's chest and let him glide them across the dancefloor. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush," Tom whispered as other couples started to trickle in.

"Really? I blush all the time," Hermione said, surprised.

"No. You don't," Tom said matter-of-factly.

"Hmm," Hermione hummed as she let herself mold into Tom. She felt his hand drift lower on her dress than she would have liked in public, but she shrugged it off. She didn't want to argue now; she wanted to enjoy her night.