Hermione sat before her mirror as one of the maids pulled a brush through her thick hair and another fired of charms and spells to get it to sit just right

Hermione sat staring unseeing into the mirror as Vivian, one of the maids, pulled a brush through her thick hair and another, Clara, fired off a series of charms and spells to get it to sit just right. The mirror had been oddly silent throughout the whole ordeal, it had hummed in consideration a few times but otherwise seemed to be reserving it's opinion until the final result, and at that moment she was entirely grateful for small mercies.

She had realised almost immediately that she had been too hasty in control of her wardrobe over to the excitable women. Hermione had squirmed uncomfortably as the women paraded dresses out for her perusal. From those few dresses it had been obvious that there was a profound difference of opinion as to what constituted a 'high neckline'. Furthermore, her directions had obviously been to imprecise because they had sneakily gotten around her request for a modest neckline by choosing dresses with quite daring hem lines.

Honestly, was she cursed to forever be surrounded by people of Slytherin-esque cunning?

The short dresses had been politely, but firmly declined, and Hermione had given slightly more detailed instructions of exactly what she required. Instructions to which she was forced to add further specifications numerous times after the maids returned with gowns with high slits in the skirt, which bared her back, or were made of thin, gauzy, almost sheer material. At that point, she had decided the women were being deliberately obtuse.

Eventually they all found a grudging compromise by settling on a rather modestly cut gown, with a high keyhole neckline in a very provocative shade of red. That had been her sole concession to their deviousness. More truthfully, the women had flat out refused to allow Hermione out of the room in the all-encompassing fawn dress she had preferred; Chloe even went so far as to threaten to unravel all the seams and vanish integral parts of the "brown potato sack" should Hermione put up further argument. And, really she didn't want anyone to lose their jobs after an abduction over something as trivial as a dress… it was just that she couldn't help remembering Ron's reference to her being a "scarlet woman". Yes, it had seemed funny at the time, but now…

In spite of her delight at seeing the maids exercise a certain level of self-will, Hermione worried that there was some key character flaw on her own part due to the fact that the women Narcissa so easily commanded openly flouted her simple instructions. Although she would be pained to admit it, she had enjoyed herself teasing and gossiping with the women – even if they did have a propensity to take the issue of clothing slightly too seriously.

Hermione blinked her eyes rapidly to clear her sight and looked into the mirror as the women stood back to admire their handiwork. Luckily she hadn't had to fight them on the issue of makeup and hair; the mock battle over clothing had been fun in an exasperating way, but Hermione was too tired to good-naturedly squabble over absolutely every aspect of her appearance. She had to admit they had done a fantastic job of hiding dark under-eye circles and putting some healthy colour back into her cheeks. Her hair had been brushed until it shone and then arranged to fall down her back in carefully shaped curls. The artful simplicity of both her hair and cosmetics belied the actual time and skill it took to create such an captivating illusion.

"Thank you, you've all done a wonderful job."

Chloe smiled and demured, "It is our pleasure. You gave us much to work with."

Draco had sent her a message earlier to inform her that they would join some of the court advisors for formal drinks before leaving for Luc's party. Gathering a light robe to wear over her dress, Hermione reassured the women that she remembered the spell they had insisted on teaching her to refresh her appearance and renew her makeup. And, yes, she promised to use it halfway through the night.

She glanced at the clock. Her smile dimmed just slightly. It was time.

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Hermione's first public appearance that afternoon had been met with loud cheering which erupted the moment she and Draco emerged onto the balcony. In direct contrast this time, as her presence was announced by a liveried footman, a strange hush fell over the room. The silence was so unnatural and all attention immediately focused on her that it reminded her oddly enough of the Yule Ball. Except where that silence had conveyed awe and amazement this stillness, while not exactly hostile, was definitely unwelcoming. In this room she felt like an interloper, uncomfortable and incredibly self-conscious. Her eyes quickly swept over the milling people, only consciously noticing two people despite the small crowd gathered around the room.

Narcissa was positioned on one side of the room, wearing a heavily embroidered formal gown and jewellery that had no doubt cost enough to feed entire countries for a week. Draco was standing in the other corner, engaged in conversation with a serious-looking older woman. She could see him clearly, standing tall, his blonde hair shining like a beacon above the gathering from across the room. This evening he looked particularly striking, his dark robes elegantly cut to emphasise his broad shoulders and long limbs. He had always been attractive, Hermione acknowledged wryly, it was such a pity that he was also arrogant and mean-spirited.

She felt his eyes on her for the briefest of moments, but when Hermione looked towards him he was still talking to the severe-faced woman. She found it disconcerting how she was able to recognise his gaze momentarily touching on her in when everyone in the room had been looking her way. Hermione remained in the doorway and continued to watch Draco. He stood intensely still, seemingly concentrated on the conversation, but if Hermione wasn't mistaken he was already beginning to feel restless. His impatience was not manifested, as it was for some, by restless activity but rather through the intense expression on his face and the aura of frustration and impatience he projected. She was half-disappointed when his eyes did not flicker over to her again. Realising that she could not spend the entire night tucked away in a corner, spying on her fake fiancée, Hermione grabbed a glass of wine off a passing tray to bolster her courage and decided to mingle instead.

Until Harry and Ron had befriended her, Hermione had had few very close friendships. It was not that she was unfriendly or lacking in social skills, she had simply opinionated and forceful from a young age and that had intimidated children her own age. She had also had very clear ideas about the appropriate time and place for socialisation – not in the classroom or library and not when she was trying to do her homework. At Hogwarts she had more important things to worry about than inane chatter, and if she prided herself on her success of her schoolwork at the expense of her popularity then so be it. Despite complaints from those in her year that she could be antisocial and dogmatic Hermione prided herself on her adeptness at polite small-talk and ability to converse with almost anyone in any situation.

This was proving to be the exception to that rule. All the conversations she attempted to join seemed to focus on topics concerning the preservation of Wizarding culture and ancient bloodlines or, even worse, Quidditch. To her extreme annoyance, everyone managed to talk over her when she attempted to change the subject. Eventually Hermione took the rather unsubtle hint that she was not welcome.

Hermione was nothing if not a pragmatist. She realised that she was out of her depth in this particular context. There had been one person who she had been studiously avoiding who could help her; Draco. By this point she had circulated around most of the room, excepting the area in which Narcissa seemed to be holding court. She simply did not have the energy for any more conflict, open or veiled. Strange that in a room filled with people, she would find his company the least abrasive.

To be fair, she had found one friendly individual who was a decent conversationalist to boot in a white-haired, long nosed grandfatherly looking wizard bent almost double with age. But after he told a particularly offensive joke involving a house-elf, a trick wand and a blast-ended skrewt she had quickly made her excuses. Senility was no excuse for vulgarity.

Her uncertainty increased as she approached him. Hesitating just within Draco's field of vision, feeling immensely unsure of herself, Hermione wavered in her decision. Perhaps she should just turn around and go back to her room? She shouldn't have had that extra glass of wine. She could feel a migraine coming on. She had forgotten to switch off the light. She–

Draco turned, still in conversation, and held his arm out to her.

A sudden movement on the other side of the room caught her eye. She suppressed her urge to recoil when she saw Narcissa's wand hand jerk violently. The reaction was purely instinctive; Hermipone knew that, as angry as she was, Narcissa would never resort to hexing a person in public. For Narcissa, image was everything. In fact, she probably would not deign to even swing the wand herself, but would rather hire someone else to do the dirty deed for her and keep her hands figuratively clean. Complicated wand movements had the habit of chipping one's nails, after all…

"Hermione…" Draco murmured as she rested her hand on the crook of his elbow, effectively ripping her attention away from Narcissa. The seductive pitch of his voice was so different to the mocking tone he had used before. Hermione did not even question that he had spoken her name for her ears alone. This time she was forced to suppress the lazy shiver that shimmered up her spine at the small smile gracing his usually rigid mouth.

The awkwardness vanished and she allowed a small sigh of relief as she came to stand next to him. There had been something profound that act; in having someone, anyone, extend that simple courtesy of including her. Some small part of her that she was not willing to acknowledge was grateful that it was he, and not one of the guests, who made that considerate movement.

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Draco was quite exceedingly bored. He had been involved in repetitive and dull conversations all night, all of which seemingly amounted to nothing significant in the end. For as long as he could remember most of the social discussions he had ever had with members of the Council of Elders seemed to revolve around the sacredness of pureblood traditions. It was as if they had actually forgotten how to speak of anything else. Every now and then the subject might touch on Quidditch, as it invariably did among wizards in social gatherings, but Draco had always preferred to play Quidditch than discuss it.

He genuinely mourned the lack of good conversationalists on the Council. Social events such as this were dominated by talk that was not so much a discussion, as is was an extended diatribe that only required their audience to nod their head in agreement at irregular intervals. These men were so self-important and so enamored with their ideas and the sound their own voices that over time they had been rendered incapable of polite conversation. Communication only took place in long, rambling monologues. Even with the Prince. Draco always found it amusingly ironic to listen to one of their lectures about the youth of today's lack of respect for authority and established hierarchies and never be able to get a word in edge-wise. But the unintentional irony was really the only form entertainment these men provided.

Draco agreed to an extent that it was important to maintain traditions, but he had risen above his elitist ideas some time ago. About the same time he and Hermione Granger had formed that tentative friendship. But whereas she had left, her influence and his new ideals had remained. Draco recognised that change was vital to society. It just so happened that his current idea of change was not the kind of 'enslave all half-bloods and muggleborns' philosophy his father had advocated. In Draco's opinion, all this talk about purity of bloodlines and pure Wizardry was stagnation more than preservation. He didn't think the geriatrics on the Council would appreciate it if he confided that he had been more sympathetic to their beliefs at the age of eleven than he was a twenty-seven. Certainly, Draco's current ideas would not be popular in this room. They were too much of a threat to the sacred sense of status quo that these men found so all-important and comforting.

In fact, the sole highlight of the night had been the five minutes he had managed to steal with Uncle Linus before his attention was demanded by someone else. The crooked old man was always good for a ribald story or two.

That had been until Hermione approached him.

Merlin, she looked beautiful.

She had stood off from the small group he was currently engaged in conversation with, just within his range of vision. Even out of the corner of his eye he could see that she was radiant. Obviously, time away from him had agreed with her. Draco had noted how stunning she looked when she had first made her entrance; in that dress, modestly cut but in the most striking shade of red, her hair loose around her shoulders. He had not, however, noticed that the entire room had also turned to watch the newcomer, or how the room which had buzzed with voices shortly beforehand was rendered eerily quiet. He only noticed her – Hermione. Her cruel abandonment had shown him her character flaws, but tonight he was hard pressed to find any fault in her appearance. He would have preferred to continue to watch her unnoticed, but he was soon pulled back into some spectacularly witless conversation. He had feared that he would spend the entire night, so engaged.

But then there she was. Standing a short way off, looking so charmingly uncertain. Hermione nearly never looked indecisive. She was self-assured and determined and she carried that in almost every aspect of her bearing. It was one of the things that Draco admired in her. She did not fawn over him and cling. She was beautiful and intelligent and strong and a long time ago he had very nearly fallen in love with her… But as much as he admired her strength, for a very long time he had equally resented it because it meant that she did not need him. Draco wanted to be needed. He had hated the fact that she made him need her and then vanished.

Now, seeing her hesitant, unsure and so obviously waiting for him to allow her in, she was rendered all the more beautiful. Because she needed him. Just for this one moment, this one social situation, Hermione Granger was out of her element and had sought him, Draco Malfoy, out. He was gratified that she had come to him.

So he gestured to her to join him, she had rested her hand on the inside of his arm and he had smiled to himself. And then, almost unwittingly, because it felt so right at that moment, he had whispered her name. His voice was low and hushed, as it would be discussing something extremely sacred, and he was not even sure she had heard him, but he thought he felt her fingers tremble slightly on his arm. For that one moment He forgot that he hated her.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Later that night, Hermione had to marvel at the level of civility she and Draco had managed to maintain. They had stood side by side in close proximity with neither of them making any malicious comments or inflicting any physical pain on the other for the prolonged period of time the formal introductions had taken. It was truly amazing that they could put on such a convincing act of equanimity in public while in private barely a civil word passed between them. In fact, it had been almost comfortable.

It was still exhausting for Hermione playing the part of devoted lover, a role that she was fairly inexperienced at portraying. Luckily, the need to act was almost over; for this gathering at least, they still had Luc's party to attend. They had officially been met and greeted as a couple by almost everyone in the room. The long line of people, most of whose names and faces she had already forgotten, had filed past. From the looks on their faces, the majority of the guests felt genuine physical pain in having to bow and curtsy to her as good manners dictated. She couldn't work out if she was more amused or insulted. Mostly, it just made her nervous.

The majority of the guests were a part of the Council of the Elders of the Court; men who had been contemporaries of Lucius, and even Draco's grandfather. They may have been a generation of two older than she, but in Hermione's opinion (which she was gratified to see, was reflected in some of the general populace if that afternoon's protest was anything to go by) their thinking was stuck somewhere in the 1600s.

For the most part they were rigid, commanding gentlemen in terms of personality as well as posture. Their wives were cut from two moulds; the first strangely reminded Hermione of Minerva McGonagall, elderly and strict, while the second were more in the style of Hannah Abbot, young, pretty but mostly fluff and air.

There were a few younger faces that had not come attached to the arm of an elderly gent, but they were in the minority and for the large part remained separate from the Elders.

They had reached the end of the introduction line. Or almost…

"Draco!" A familiar, and not entirely welcome, voice rang out.

"Mother!" Draco laughed, "Surely a woman who needs no introduction?"

Narcissa smiled indulgently. "Well… engaged to be married! I must say this is a surprise. I was only away from home on a short holiday, hardly a week... and look at the news that greets me on my return. Out with the old, in with the new, is it? You naughty boy you, what else have you been hiding from me?"

Her smile dimmed just slightly as her eyes flicked to land on Hermione. "Or is it your new fiancée I should be blaming for stealing you away from me?" Narcissa laughed brightly, linking her arm through Draco's.

Hermione could see where Draco had got his genes for deception. She was a remarkable actress.

Ignoring Narcissa's veiled taunt, Hermione held herself stiffly beside Draco. She could not compete with Narcissa's theatrics, nor did she feel the need to. Draco looked quizzically from his mother to Hermione, both their faces smooth and mask-like, betraying nothing as they held eye contact. Hermione just desperately wanted out of this awkward situation. Her palms had started sweating the moment Narcissa approached them and she removed her hand from his arm to surreptitiously wipe her wet palms on her robe.

Narcissa took this small movement as Hermione relinquishing her hold on Draco and a cue to guide her son away in to a private corner of the room. Undoubtedly, she would chalk this up to a win for herself against Hermione, having managed to separate Draco from his fiancée. Hermione could hear the woman's voice over the polite chatter, but could not catch the words. She half-wondered whether Narcissa would broach the topic of the engagement again, or if Draco's mother would wait until she better knew the lay of the land.

Completely alone again and realising how pitiable she appeared gazing after Draco giving every appearance of having been abandoned, Hermione went off in search of Mr. Teller-of-Inappropriate-Jokes. At least he didn't shudder at the sight of her…

A/N: This is a little rushed, so may not be up to my usual 'standard', if you can call it that.

The War of the Hemline (as it shall henceforth be referred) is courtesy of Silent-Serpent, who is lovely and devious and I must give my thanks for sharing such lovely deviousness with me. Slytherin, indeed!

Thank you to both readers and reviewers. But especially reviewers.