Blaise had seen her cooing over the mani pedi, he'd even had to discreetly adjust himself when Angelina had been massaging Hermione's calves and she'd moaned. It was with a twist of hopelessness that he thought suddenly of her walking down the aisle towards him and Draco swathed in white. The daydream had merit in that she clearly didn't judge him or Draco for the past, and yet shared all the likelihood of blast-ended skrewts becoming next year's fad pet for toddlers.
Watching her finally assess her hair and seeing the bloom of recognition on her face, that she was beautiful and powerful, that had been nearly painful for him. He'd been raised by a mother who treasured, hid behind, and wielded her femininity like a finely honed weapon. He'd also seen his mother for the three years of his childhood after his father passed, when she was alone, hadn't eaten, and certainly hadn't found herself beautiful. He knew the pain involved in the half smiles with sad eyes that didn't believe his juvenile protestations that he had the prettiest mama on the whole planet.
The idea that Hermione Granger might see herself as anything less than stunning didn't surprise him—considering she'd always been a bookworm and a bit of a loner, he imagined her blood status and the realities of childhood taunting—it added up. But the idea that she hadn't seen the results of her own growth, that her insecurities hadn't been destroyed for new ones by adulthood. That rankled.
She'd insisted on paying for her appointment herself, despite him insisting on the visit in the first place, because 'she wanted to thank Angelina herself for all the effort'. That had rankled too.
It was this irritation and distraction that saw them leaving the salon and heading to the apparition point, passing Dervish & Banges that made him overlook a shock of red-orange hair attached to a badly dressed and lanky body struggling to shrink what appeared to be a grandfather clock. Hermione had been walking on Draco's right, still leaning on her cane, and he felt Draco stiffen mid-step to his right.
Suddenly The Weasel himself had turned, done what otherwise would have been a hilarious double-take, and had stomped over to address Granger directly. And what he had said had rankled so much that Blaise swore he'd put his own fingernails through his palms:
"Mione, what in Merlin's name are you doing out with these two Death Eaters?...and what the bloody hell have you done to your hair?!"
Blaise and Draco watched as her nostrils flared with indignation, breathing in slowly to control her ire, and perhaps she thought answering the twat would make him get out of her path, but that seemed unlikely to Blaise,
"Who I spend time with isn't really your concern, is it Ronald? As for my hair, I just came from seeing Angelina. She does lovely work."
The Weasel had molded his mouth into a thin white line when she'd essentially told him to bugger off and mind his own business, he audibly bunched his hands into fists when he snidely responded,
"Does Harry know you've been gadding about with these wankers then, or are you just lying to him about this too?"
Blaise watched her eyes narrow slightly, he could practically see her decide to go for the kill. Little crackles if electricity shot out from the ends of her curls and fingertips, sounding like lightning strikes at high speed, and the corner of her mouth turned up when she replied,
"Seeing as Draco is now Harry's Auror partner, I'm fairly certain he's aware that we're friends. We're all doing dinner sometime next week."
Clearly all the blood had rushed to his face in his fit of temper, as his face had gone beet purple in way that made his freckles look white. Blind rage was the only paltry reason Blaise could think of for what fell out of the bastard's mouth after that,
"Oh I see now, out to the salon in the hopes of prettying yourself up to become the whore of one of these posh snakes then, eh? Don't know why you bothered, this land binding business is the only way anyone could stand you being a demanding prude long enough to marry you anyway."
Draco was glaring at Weasley in a way that spoke of killing, maiming the corpse, setting it alight, and pissing on the ashes. He opened his mouth to drawl a retort, Blaise had even begun to reach for his wand, but Granger had beaten them all to it. She'd looked him up and down for a moment, incredulity battling injured calculation on her face, and somehow decided that his lunging posture meant she had a perfect shot to swing her cane full force upwards from the ground.
Right into his bollocks.
Blaise suppressed a sympathetic cringe.
Draco managed not only to not flinch, but to slide a smirk onto his mouth, as smooth as silk, in place of the fury that had been there only an instant before.
Weasley had crumpled instantly in the street, and she'd planted the cane next to his head rather abruptly, visibly pleased when he flinched away from it, and stepped over his body like it was nothing. She smiled viciously down at the Weasel and drawled, rather a lot like Draco would have,
"It's impossible to be a whore and a prude at the same time, Ronald. And you have dirt on your nose, just there," she scratched vaguely at the side of a nostril, "did you know?"
She didn't speak past that, just kept her somewhat pained three-legged limp up the road, to which Draco and Blaise could only stride forward to catch up. Of course, neither of them could resist giving the Weasel a good firm kick to the gut first, then brushed themselves off as though his exhalations offended, and followed her.
...
Draco gave into the urge and took her hand, slinging it lazily into the crook of his elbow, and before she could even look up at him regarding the touch, Blaise had set a hand on his shoulder, and he'd apparated them all back to her twee cottage on the coast. He resolutely ignored the tingling in his fingertips as he conjured Blaise another glass of water, noting that with all the apparating they'd done today, Blaise was recovering faster than usual.
Granger was suddenly slinging herself towards the house with her cane, occasionally muttering unkindly at it when it caught on the cobbles or strafed sand into her practical and plain ballet flats. She had seemed a bit giddy looking in the mirror at the salon, only to deflate a bit at the mention of her upcoming nuptials, and further withered during the Weasel's onslaught.
He supposed he could relate with the impending doom sensation of waiting. He could definitely relate to having ones insecurities and failing rubbed in ones face, as an overall unpleasant and damaging experience. Draco abstractly wondered how long the Sorting Hat would take, but it had only been two days. Even with magic, it was unlikely that an ancient semi-sentient hat could sort through a good portion of the population of Wizarding Britain with any kind of urgency. Or at least, not make good matches if asked to do so at speed. He would have to ask Granger, but she was already clearly irate, so perhaps not today.
...
She was officially livid, but didn't feel like she could give in to her temper, considering she had guests. Or witnesses, really. Ron had no right to comment on any aspect of her life—and to imply that she was somehow disloyal to a past cause and Harry's current life by proxy—well that was preposterous.
Ugh, she just needed to break something and have a good cry, but that was off the menu until she was alone. It wasn't that she thought ill of Malfoy or Zabini anymore, or even an insecurity that they might mock her—she didn't see either of them doing that anymore—but she really didn't want them to see how much Ron's words had actually hurt her.
She had only discussed the end of her and Ron's relationship once, with Harry and Ginny, so the idea that it might need to be verbally rehashed made her deeply uncomfortable. Vulnerable, itchy, and slightly nauseous. And still terribly furious. She dodged the house to head straight for the back garden, past the chicken coops and the woodshed, out into open pasture. She dropped the cane at her side, partially because her hands were shaking too much to hold it and partially to just stand still in her own pulsating fury. She whirled around, knowing the two former Slytherins were behind her, observing.
"Fuck this," she muttered to herself. She realized she had pulled her wand from its holster on her forearm at some point, and she was clenching it so hard her knuckle bones were essentially visible through her skin.
She pulled a handful of hay from the ground and transfigured it into a very large stack of dishes that looked just like Molly Weasley's prized china set, all blue chintz and lacy edges.
"Gentleman, we're not having tea yet, or practicing your Patronus'. Not yet anyway, I need your help first—have either of you ever been to on a shooting party before?"
Malfoy's delightfully vicious smile told her everything she needed to know.
...
First and foremost, Blaise was absolutely sure that he'd never heard Hermione Granger curse before. He still wasn't entirely that he had heard it just now, it was entirely possible that he hallucinated the sound of her voice from the expression on her face.
He found himself standing in awe as Draco levitated the hideous china into the air, whizzing each plate, saucer, and cup off and up into the sky for Granger to non-verbally blast out of the air.
To crush to dust.
To shoot bluebell flames at.
To charm into attacking other flatware midair to grand effect.
To strike with lightning until the porcelain got red hot and popped like a Christmas chestnut.
To break off a third and bludgeon the remainder to bits with the smaller bit of itself.
To disembowel itself, which on the inanimate and bowel-less serving platter, had effectively pulled the middle out and twisted it up like a pretzel until it shattered.
To slingshot into surrounding tree trunks and laugh at the tinkling sound of splintering porcelain.
To force the shards back into the air, forming spectral hands, which she seemed to to be controlling with her own motions, as she gave an unearthly bellow and squeezed them against each other. The cacophony of shattering, scraping, tense bending, snapping, crushing and grinding followed her scream as the last of the chintz floated off in the breeze in a puff of white powder.
Which is what Harry Potter walked around the corner to witness, as well as her gleeful expression at the havoc she'd made. He seemed nonplussed, which didn't make any sense. Blaise found himself swiveling to look back at her—chin up, wand in hand—defiantly unashamed. Merlin, the last ten minutes would have been so fucking sexy if they hadn't also been terrifying. Who would know those kinds of violent spells?!—Hermione Granger—apparently.
...
Draco watched Blaise's face watching Potter—the Boy Wonder who was eyeing Granger and her destruction whilst simultaneously picking at something on his coat—and when Blaise's heated stare landed on him, he knew, because he'd felt it too. Potter scuffed his left foot, his physical tell for having to say something he didn't want to,
"Ron's reported the three of you to the Aurors for an assault today in Hogsmeade. I was hoping to come here and have you tell me you'd been home all day, but I can already see that's not the case."
Granger's voice was glacial and volcanic at the same time,
"Then tell Stephens to come here and take my memory, if he's so keen to push the issue for Ron." At this, Potter had the temerity to laugh,
"Stephens is the head of the Auror Department, Hermione. He got that job precisely by not being that stupid. He sent me to do it instead, as you're less likely to do to me what you were just doing to my mother-in-law's china—by the way—please tell me that was transfigured and not the real set?"
Potter was twirling a vial in his hand as he spoke that stopped abruptly when he arrived at that final thought, but Granger didn't let him off the hook that easy. She smirked at him as she took the vial, pulled her memory out in a silver blue strand with her wand, and almost sung at him,
"That's for me to know, Harry, and for you to find out."