"Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason . It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy."
-1984, by George Orwell.
Ron picked Hermione up at her flat. When she opened the door, he gave her an appreciative once-over. She was wearing a cobalt-blue knee-length chiffon dress with a halter neckline. The jewel tone was very flattering to her complexion. She had swept her hair into a chignon, leaving a few wispy curls to define her cheekbones. Under the dress, she wore opaque black tights for warmth. Her makeup was minimal: a bit of mascara, brown eyeliner, and some pearl-pink lip gloss. One of Hermione's many peculiarities was that unlike most witches, she preferred Muggle clothing to robes when not at work. She liked the way that Muggle clothes looked and felt, besides the originality that it gave her among witches. Most magical people seemed to think that she was sending a blatant pro-Muggle message. Who knew that she could ever be subversive by just wearing "normal" clothes?
"You look really nice."
"Thanks." She wasn't the only one. Ron was very dashing in black dress robes. "Did you make the reservation?"
"Yeah." He offered Hermione his arm with a slightly awkward air. "I also got a Muggle taxi. No Apparition tonight."
Apparently Ron had sensed the gravity of the occasion. Admittedly, Hermione wasn't the queen of subtlety. Subtlety required a much more Slytherin attitude than simple tact. She smiled to put him at ease, and they departed on their date.
Blue Dragon was an upscale London restaurant that had sprung up in the postwar boom. It was enchanted, like the Leaky Cauldron, to be undetectable to Muggles. The taxi driver looked curiously at his well-dressed passengers when they alighted in a deserted street lined on either side with closed retail shops. Unseen by the taxi driver, the tasteful blue-and-black facade of Blue Dragon stood between a clothing store and an electronics depot.
The Japanese restaurant attracted a mixed clientele - though not nearly so varied as the Hog's Head. It was the first restaurant of its kind in Britain, and many foreign witches and wizards - especially those from the continent - made it a point to visit whilst they were in London. English wasn't the only language being murmured in discreet tones over the small black tables; Hermione felt a thrill of satisfaction when she recognized that a trio of older witches was speaking French.
The interior was lit with a blue glow eminating from the bluebell flames in little bell jars that ornamented each table. The effect was rather eerie. Ron grinned at Hermione, clearly remembering the blue fires that she was especially adept at illegally conjuring during their Hogwarts days. That was something Hermione loved about him - they had so many shared experiences. But . . . was that a romantic characteristic? Or something that she would value in a best friend? Had their relationship really evolved?
"I heard that Cho Chang and her Muggle husband opened this place," she remarked after they had been seated. Ron's hair looked queerly purple in the blue half-light.
"Yeah. That's the rumor, anyway. I heard that her husband - I forget his name - is some sort of famous Japanese chef who moved to London." He looked absently over his shoulder, taking in the decor. "This is nice."
"Yes, it must be be very lucrative, considering that it's the only black-tie wizard restaurant in Great Britain."
" 'Black tie?' " Ron looked curiously at Hermione. She smiled.
"It's a Muggle expression, Ronald. So, how are things at work?"
"Really great, thanks. George had a brilliant idea for ths new candy that makes your eyebrows. . ."
Against her will, Hermione's mind started to drift. Ron had joined his brother in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which seemed on-track to becoming the family business. Hermione was ever-supportive, but really, how interesting could the new product line be? With a Herculean effort, she tuned back in to what he was saying.
". . . sometimes half-yellow, half-blue. I got the idea from that day in Transfiguration, remember? When Harry spent the whole day walking around with a yellow eyebrow without realizing it?"
She giggled reluctantly. "I remember."
"How is your job going? Oh, right - Ginny told me that you got a promotion! Congratulations." Unexpectedly, he kissed her. Hermione blushed reflexively.
"Thanks, but I turned it down. I'm not really interested in Muggle diplomacy, with all due respect to those who make it their career."
"I get it. It's not nearly as important as SPEW, Ministry division, right?"
The comment was jestingly spoken, but Hermione felt a quick pang of resentment.
"Thank you, Roonil Wazlib," she said tartly, refering to the time that a defective spell-checking quill had once spelled his name in their sixth year. Ron laughed.
"I forgot about that! Good times, good times."
What are we going to talk about when we're old and can't remember every little detail of our school days? wondered Hermione to herself.
Draco looked up from the menu to see her. A jolt of electricity sped through him. This was the rush that he had missed in the time since she had discovered the plan.
Weasley was across from her, laughing at some comment that she had made. Bitter, acrid envy, sharp as it had been at Hogwarts, spiked through him. Granger looked torn between amusement and irritation.
Astoria coughed lightly to recall his attention to herself. They weren't on a date; actually, Draco was starting to suspect that it was a financial matter that she had brought him to discuss.
"Skip the presentation, Torie," he said boredly. "Just tell me what you want an investment for and I'll see what I can do."
"I want to open a Muggle fashion house," she said quickly. Draco's eyebrows went up.
"No, listen," she continued determinedly. "I've wanted to do this for a very long time. I already applied to the Ministry for a permit to do business in the Muggle world. This could seriously be lucrative."
"Your family is loaded," said Draco. "Why - "
"Oh, come off it! How do you think they reacted? Not well, I can assure you." She pulled a sketchbook out of her purse. "Look at these. Aren't they excellent?"
They were. The sketches were of womens' dresses, elegant and gorgeous. "I'm intrigued. How much do you want?"
She gave a price. Draco whistled softly. "I'll see what I can do, but my father absolutely chained the vault shut since the near-incident with the Ministry. I can barely get a Sickle off him."
Astoria smiled radiantly. For once, she actually looked her age instead of ten years older. "Thank you!" She seemed about to kiss Draco, but thought better of it. "You're staring at Hermione Granger," she said shrewdly, following his gaze.
"True." The perpetual twilight of the interior made her dress glow like a blue jewel.
"Who's the redhead?"
"What?"
"The redhead with her."
"Oh. That's Ronald Weasley. Ugly fellow, isn't he?"
She gave the Weasel a once-over. "Not really. I take it you know him from Hogwarts?"
"Oh yes."
They sat in silence. Astoria began playing with the edge of the tablecloth.
"This is pathetic, Draco. Go talk to her."
"Why? The view is so much better from my present position."
"Don't be such a Mr. Darcy."
"What?"
"Never mind." Draco might read the occasional Muggle novel, but Astoria was secretly addicted to the classics.
"I can't interrupt, she's on a date."
"You choose odd moments to turn Gryffindorian. Turn away, they're looking at us."
Draco met Hermione's wide brown eyes for a moment, being sure to raise a supercilious eyeborw as though she had been the one gaping like a hyptonized Basilisk.
Unfortunately, Draco was not a Basilisk, not even a hypnotized one, and neither Granger nor her weaseline escort was even the slightest bit Petrified. Draco noted with satisfaction that Weasley looked properly perturbed, however.
"What is he doing here?" hissed Ron, old enmity making him tactfully quiet for once.
"I don't know," Hermione whispered back. "He seems to be on a date with his girlfriend."
Ron cast a few furtive, suspicious glances at the pair. "The slimy git is staring at you," he added indignantly.
"How mystifying." Hermione couldn't help stealing another glance. His admittedly breathtaking profile was positively ethereal in the magical blue light.
He was indeed staring at her. It was subtle, but humans can tell when eye contact is being made even when the eye's pupil is not precisely discernible. The fact that Malfoy's pupils were surrounded by molten silver only made the whole experience more unsettling. Hermione turned back to her somen noodles, a pink flush creeping over her face.
Ron looked irked. "I'm going to go ask him why he's staring at you," he muttered.
"No," said Hermione quickly, stopping him. Ron opened his mouth to protest. "I'll go," she appeased quickly. "I can handle him, if you recall."
Ron smirked."Yeah, okay." Hermione half-expected him to pull out some opera glasses to better enjoy what was clearly going to be a gladiator fight worthy of even their golden days at Hogwarts. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Honestly.
She approached Malfoy and Astoria with some trepidation. He turned to face her with that infuriating aristocratic nonchalance.
"Ah, Granger."
"Malfoy."
"You remember Astoria." She was prettier than Hermione remembered her. Much too pretty, and too young.
"Er . . . were you by any chance staring at me?"
"I? Stare at you?" The delicate yet sharp emphasis was placed for maximum insult gradient. Hermione flushed a deeper shade of pink.
"Yes," she asserted stubbornly. Astoria, apparently sensing the storm clouds, murmured something about the ladies' loo and slipped discreetly away.
"Pray tell, why would I stare at you?" He looked her ostentatiously up and down.
Really! "I was hoping you could tell me," she said coolly.
Draco was about to retort with a splendid and witty innuendo when they were interrupted by a strangled sort of gasp from the Weasel. Granger spun around to see the redhead in apparent discomfort, to understate it.
"Bloody hell," he said uncouthly. Granger was at his side in a moment, causing Draco to roll his eyes in annoyance - and yes, maybe a flicker of the old jealousy too.
"Ron! Are you okay?" The Weasel was displaying all the signs of having recently consumed something very, very spicy. A caustic grin tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth.
"Wasabi," he managed, his eyes watering. Draco simply couldn't supress a sadistic cackle, quickly disguising it as a cough. Weasley had accidentally consumed vast quantities of wasabi on his date with Granger. Oh, life was good to Draco.
Granger's lovely wavy hair started to frizz slightly with agitation. Apparently its native texture was unleashed when stressed. Draco would have to keep that in mind. For future reference.
"Sorry, 'Mione - I'll meet you at your flat, okay?" Weasley managed, Disapparating.
"I'll pay the bill, then," muttered Granger. To someone who didn't know her, she might have looked irritatable, but Draco knew that she was actually just flustered and confused.
"Nonsense, Granger," he said briskly.
"Sorry?"
"I'm paying. If I hadn't distratced you, you would have been able to monitor your date and keep him from putting undesirable substances in his mouth."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You admit you were staring at me?"
"What can I say? You look fabulous."
"Er - thank you," said Hermione, visibly unsettled. Draco smirked, feeling vastly self-satisfied.
He insisted on paying the bill. "You really shouldn't have," Hermione said, looking almost pleading.
"It's the Ben Franklin effect, Granger. I already did you a few favors, thus psychologically I am prone to want to help you more."
"That's very considerate, Malfoy," she said, disarming him with a sweet, hesitant smile.
"Considerate?" His voice tilted embarrassingly. "I think not. It's just that . . . You create a sort of cognitive dissonance in me that I find extremely refeshing. It gets boring, being worshipped all the time."
"I'm sure," she said, laughing lightly.
Draco couldn't help smiling. He felt like he had accidentally taken a draught of Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Talking with Hermione, laughing with Hermione. . . who, incidentally, was "Hermione" again instead of "Granger" in his mind.
"Er . . . I suppose I ought to go," she said. Was it Draco's imagination, or did she sound oh-so-slightly reluctant?
"I'll escourt you," he said on a sudden inspiration
"I'm just Apparating, silly!"
"Granger, I'm afraid I cannot allow a beautiful young witch to travel London alone at night."
"Since when did you become so - so - gallant?" she spluttered. Draco felt mildly insulted to be characterized as Gryffindorian for the second time that evening. Since he was a former Slytherin, did that mean he had to kick everyone in the shins to prove his mettle or something? "Anyway, you can't stand up your girlfriend," she said, sounding a bit relieved as Astoria reappeared.
"Oh, we're . . ." he trailed off, flustered.
"Honey, we're not dating," cut in Astoria smoothly. Hermione looked quite surprised.
"I just thought . . . because . . ."
"We were talking business, actually. Draco has graciously agreed to help me launch my dream business. Isn't that wonderful of him?" said Astoria innocently. Draco glared at her. He had certainly made no such agreement.
Hermione's eyes were luminous. She looked rapturously at Draco. "Oh! Draco, that's really, really great! Congratulations."
"Yes, he's given me a loan so I can open a Muggle fashion house."
Astoria glanced smugly at him, knowing that she had secured her loan by dragging Hermione into it. What a Slytherin thing to do.
"Anyway," said Hermione, looking at her watch with a faintly awkward air, "I should go back to my flat. Ron'll be waiting. Er, thanks again, Malfoy." And she was gone.
Oh, sickening. Ron was at her flat. He was the one who had consumed vast quantities of wasabi and then Disapparated, and he still got to sleep with her. Not - not that Draco would . . . if he got the chance.
The nausea was gone, to be replaced by pounding jealousy. He hadn't been lying about the cognitive dissonance. Everything was so confused.
Draco decided to get absolutely drunk.