". . . beautiful white peacocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the tall cypress trees . . . When they cry out the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when they spread their tails."
-Salomé, by Oscar Wilde. Translated by Lord Alfred Douglas.
Hermione usually opted to spend her lunch break near the Ministry, but today she Apparated back to her flat. She was greeted by the sight of the recently purchased dress in its garment bag spread on the sofa. It really was beautiful. Hermione couldn't resist the urge to try it on again.
Whenever Hermione tried to look at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, she was reminded of O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi:
"Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art."
The dress was ivory-colored muslin, with a full A-line skirt that extended just past her knees. Discreet ruffles ran the length of the skirt, reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy's wedding dress. The bodice was Hermione's favorite part: her bare shoulders emerged from a soft cloud of ivory tulle. With her creamy complexion and light brown hair, the overall effect was the classy nostalgia of a wedding by the beach.
The only fly in the ointment of a flattering dress was the fact that Draco bleeding Malfoy had selected it. Since when had he been such a metrosexual? To further the thought, how had he known exactly what would look good on her, Hermione Granger? Even more disturbingly, it fit like a glove. It was all most unsettling and it was best that she not think about it too hard.
There was also the conundrum of whether or not she should pay him back for the dress. It had been very expensive, but then again Hermione had never asked him to buy it for her. She had been saving some money, so it wasn't a question of cost. Malfoy had insisted that it was a gift, but then again Hermione couldn't suffer the thought of owing him so much as a stick of gum. It was settled, then; she would save her pride and pull out her wallet.
She was rather nervous about that evening's
soirée. She was sure that she could do her part well, but all the same she couldn't quell the biting anxiousness in her abdomen whenever she thought of returning to Malfoy Manor.
It was the night of the Hallows Eve
Soirée. Draco surveyed the front hall of Malfoy Manor rather anxiously. It would be the first time that Granger had been to his home since she had been dragged here by her hair and tortured.
Draco was paralyzed, not by a jinx, but by fear and pain. Hermione was screaming, screaming. She was at Bellatrix Lestrange's feet, writhing in agony. A twisted glee was spreading over Lestrange's face as she continued to torture her. Draco thought he was going to die. This was true torture, worse than the Cruciatus curse . . . yes, he had experienced the Cruciatus curse, and it was nothing compared to this . . .
Draco snapped out of it. He never went into that room any more. It had been closed off, the door bolted by magic. No one was permitted there, not even Dotty. It was frozen in the state it had been: the upturned furniture, the smashed chandelier. Draco raised a hand to his face and lightly touched the skin just under his left cheekbone. Embedded in his flesh just under the healed layer of skin was a shard of crystal about an inch long. The rest of the fragments had been magically removed from his face after the chandelier fell, but Draco had requested that the largest piece be left in as a reminder. The Dark Mark had faded; the shard remained. The only visible mark on his visage was a slight whitening of the skin around his unique subdermal memento.
Hermione took a deep breath on the steps of the manor. She had decided to arrive fashionably late, and golden light and laughter were wafting out of the windows. Memories of the war, so long smothered, were reemerging in her mind. How different the manor looked now. How different . . .
A white shape moved suddenly in the darkness. Hermione's pulse spiked, and she clutched a hand to her chest. An albino peacock stepped into the light.
"Oh," said Hermione, taking gulps of the chill evening air and trying to slow her heart rate.
The peacock looked at her shrewdly for a moment, then gingerly unfolded his magnificent white feathers like a fan. Hermione's recently restored breath caught in her throat. It was a half-snowflake glittering in the candlelight, it was a diamond flower against the soft blue twilight. It was ironic, really, that white feathers were a symbol of cowardice. . .
"Thank you," she whispered, "for my courage."
The party had been going on for a quarter hour. The grand foyer was filled with anyone who was anyone in the wizarding world, dressed in eveningwear as a tribute to Muggle culture and speaking in low, well-bred tones. Little glass balls, each containing a single candle, floated over the heads of the guests. An enormous silver-wrought chandelier provided the primary illumination, and the glow of enchanted candlelight diffused across the room. The mahogany parquet floor shone discreetly, reflecting the golden light. A magnificent double staircase curled its way grandly towards the second floor. The walls were covered in misty grey-white satin.
Draco scanned the crowd. There was only one face that mattered tonight, if everything was to go according to plan.
There she was. She walked with the measured, uplifted tread of a bride, moving discreetly yet confidently through the crowd. She was seeking him. The dress fit her perfectly, as he had known it would. She had accessorized with low ivory-colored heels and discreet pearl earrings. Draco moved to meet her halfway.
The ivory dress made her skin appear softer, more of a delicate peach shade. The tulle emphasized the slenderness and fragility of her bare shoulders. Her eyes were luminous in the reflected candlelight. Her hair . . . her hair looked soft and ever-so-slightly wavy, framing her face in a light brown cloud. Draco had the unprecedented urge to run his hands through her hair.
"You look pretty."
"Thank you." She looked him over. "You too."
Draco knew that it was a jab as his stereotypically-feminine vanity, but tonight he didn't care. He knew that he looked good. The bespoke black suit hadn't been cheap, but he had wanted it made in the Muggle way on Savile Row.
Dotty bobbed over, looking like a knee-level floating tray of champagne. Granger gave a soft squeal and crouched.
"Dotty! How are you? Have things been better?"
Dotty beamed at her. "Much better, miss! Master Lucius has not hit Dotty once since the hearing." The elf gave a small yelp when she recognized Draco's knees. "Master Draco! Dotty is sorry, sir!" She bowed, endangering the tray badly.
"Er, don't be sorry," said Draco awkwardly. He wasn't used to addressing her. "You haven't done anything wrong."
"Champagne, Master Draco? Miss Granger?" Granger rose to her feet and accepted the stemmed glass. Draco took one as well.
"I spiked it with firewhiskey," whispered Draco as Dotty bobbed away. Granger shrieked, sloshing a little over the edge of the glass.
"You didn't!"
"Only a drop or two. Don't worry, no one ever gets properly wasted at these events."
"Fair enough."
As though on cue, Astoria drifted over. She was very fetching in a fitted midnight blue cocktail dress, slit to the knee. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with starlike diamond-tipped pins.
"May I introduce my girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass? Astoria, this is Hermione Granger."
"Charmed," said Astoria, briefly taking her hand. The look on Granger's face clearly said, Is this how fancy people shake hands? To Draco's relief, she carried it gracefully enough.
"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Astoria."
"At last?"
"Well, I've heard of you from Malfoy."
An elegantly shaped eyebrow went up. "Nothing too scandalous, I hope."
Granger laughed lightly, a high tinkling sound. Draco was taken aback by this display of traditional femininity. First high heels and a full skirt, now Hermione Granger had actually giggled. It was all a bit disarming.
"No, no. All good things, je vous assure."
Astoria looked amused. "Incidentally, I have heard of you too."
"Oh, no! I am certain that Malfoy drags my name through the mud in the most slanderous way possible."
Astoria smiled. "Far from it. I've heard that you are an exceptionally bright witch who is - how did you phrase it, dear? - 'chained to some low-level office job'."
"Oh!" Granger shot Draco a rather reproachful glance. He smirked and shrugged exaggeratedly at her.
"I call it as I see it, Granger."
"Oh, come, this is silly. You two cannot keep calling one another by your surnames! This isn't Hogwarts. We are guests here, non? You call him Draco and you call her Hermione."
"Hermione," said Draco, experimenting. He liked it. "If I may, there are a few other guests that I should like to introduce you to."
"Oh, do. The Other Minister is looking quite forsaken," added Astoria, nodding to where he was standing. Hermione's gaze followed her gesture, and Draco took the opportunity of hissing in Astoria's ear.
"In the name of Merlin, keep her away from the Potters."
Astoria nodded almost imperceptibly. Really, she was wonderful.
Draco took Hermione's wrist and they walked to where the Other Minister was standing, clutching a glass of champagne and looking, as Astoria had said, forsaken.
The first half of the evening went like clockwork. Draco introduced Hermione to all the right people. She was charming and witty and practically exuded the discreet je ne sais quoi so prized by the inner circle of wizarding influence.
By the time Dotty had made her third round of the room with hors d'oeuvres, everyone was starting to get bored. Draco directed his wand at a quartet of instruments arranged inconspicuously in the corner, and they began to play themselves: a violin, a harp, a flute, and a viola. The witches and wizards clapped politely, and Draco bowed. There would be no dancing tonight, as it was a soirée and not a ball, but it was necessary to set the mood. Dotty had abandoned her hors d'oeuvres tray and was busily unfastening the doors to the balcony. Every began streaming out.
Appreciative sighs rippled through the crowd. Another army of candles in glass balls had been released over the balcony. Draco had magically warmed the air a few degrees to make the evening air more comfortable. The balcony was enormous. Everyone would be able to fit, easily.
Draco was pleased. Hermione had been the center of attention so far. He only had to hope that she didn't run into . . . Potter.
"Harry!" Hermione was so surprised that she almost dropped her empty glass. She hurried over to him, where he was standing with his wife. "Ginny!"
"Hermione! What are you doing here?" asked Harry, equally surprised and pleased.
She hugged both of them in turn. Harry had rented a Muggle tuxedo and Ginny looked lovely in a knee-length plum satin dress. "Draco invited me."
"Draco?" Ginny's eyebrows shot up. "So, you're on first-name terms now?"
"Er - yes, I suppose so." Worlds were colliding. "Is Ron here?"
"No." Harry was looking at her rather strangely. "Now that I think about it, it's strange. We're both here, coincidentally it would seem, and Ron isn't."
Hermione knew what he meant. After the war, when everyone was throwing celebrations like mad, she, Harry, and Ron had been in much demand. A "triple act", so to speak. It was a bit odd that two of the trio should be invited to an important event and not even be aware of each other for most of the evening.
"Ginny, your dress is gorgeous," she said, changing the subject with great tact. There would be time to puzzle everything out when she wasn't wearing a dress bought by Malfoy.
"Thanks!" Ginny spun playfully, her red hair fanning out behind her. "You look really pretty tonight. Where did you get that dress?"
"Harrod's," she said evasively. Malfoy chose that moment to join them.
"Mr. Potter, Miss Weasley," he greeted them stiffly.
"Mrs. Potter now," corrected Ginny, displaying the cushion-cut diamond glinting on her left hand.
"Congratulations. When did you get married?"
"July of last year." The Potters smiled at one another. They had certainly been in an unnecessary hurry to get married, in Hermione's opinion, but they seemed to have been created for one another. Hermione could never help comparing their relationship to hers and Ron's. Yes, they had started dating around the same time, and yes, the war had sort of thrown them together, but where Harry and Ginny complemented one another, Hermione and Ron clashed.
"Are you planning on starting a family?" It was a usual pleasantry, but somehow it seemed odd coming from Malfoy.
"Yes, but not yet. I'm still playing for the Harpies."
"The Holyhead Harpies? Ah, yes, I saw you at the match the other day. Are you all right? You fell rather badly."
Ginny waved a hand airily, as though her injury had been a pesky moth. "Perfectly all right, thanks. The Healers can fix anything. I've certainly had worse!" Hermione's lingering guilt over her insensitivity that day was alleviated somewhat.
"Thank you for inviting us tonight," said Harry politely. Hermione got the sense that he was still more than a bit confused about where his relationship with Malfoy stood after the war. He wasn't the only one.
"It is my pleasure." Hermione could practically see him biting his tongue to keep from saying something caustic about it not being a party without the "Chosen One". Malfoy abruptly took her wrist. "Hermione, I really must ask you to come with me. The Other Minister has been clamoring for you. Really, it was a stroke of genius on my part, introducing him to the most capable Muggle-born in the room. I suspect that he's quite smitten with you."
Harry looked as though he was trying to find the veiled insult in Malfoy's "Muggle-born" comment. Apparently finding none, he bid Hermione a reluctant goodbye.
Ginny watched Malfoy and Hermione walk away, her lively brown eyes narrowed.
"It's funny," she said quietly to Harry. "They make a really striking couple, don't you think?"
Harry looked at her in surprise, then followed her gaze. Malfoy was tall and comprised almost entirely of angles. Next to him, Hermione looked disarmingly fragile and doll-like in her off-white dress. Yet her gait didn't convey fragility; she was the embodiment of determination. Together, they practically radiated power.
"Yes," said Harry slowly. "I see what you mean, actually. They look . . ."
"Dangerous."
Harry laughed quietly. "Yes, exactly. I wouldn't like to cross their path."
Ginny was still wearing her analytical pout. "I rather wonder whether it is the Other Minister who is smitten with Hermione after all. . . ? We may never get her and Ron to the altar, at this rate."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Draco just can't seem to take his eyes off her, can he?"
The evening had been a smashing success. Everyone had admired Hermione, who Draco had begun to think of as his pet project as well as his pet peeve. Every time he overhead someone compliment her attire or her obvious intellect, he felt like it was a personal tribute to him. Had he not discovered her? He would make this uncut diamond a tribute to the highest wizarding society. Tonight had only been her debut. There would be other parties, other meetings. . .
Here, Draco's imagination hit a snag. Who would be escorting her? He certainly couldn't have the Weasel hanging on her coattails, muddying everything with his uncouth language. It occurred to Draco that he himself might be the envied wizard on her arm. Yes, envied . . . aside from her tact and wit, Hermione was undeniably pretty. Not only would she be the living embodiment of what Draco had privately dubbed the Muggleborn Integration of Superior Society (MISS), but she would be the most desirable bachelorette of their day. Besides, what a statement it would make if they were seen together! The pureblood elitist's son with the famed Muggle-born war heroine. Contrary to whatever Lucius had trained Draco to parrot, his family had never been above an advantageous alliance of dubious blood purity. Before the International Statute of Secrecy, the Malfoys had been eminent in the Muggle world. Certain unions had prevented the phenomena of inbreeding that was evident in so many "pureblood" families.
Patience was the key. Before Draco could act on the plan, Hermione had to be advantageously situated at the Ministry and feeling indebted. After they had made certain business arrangements between them . . . who knew?