Hermione spun in front of the mirror, her appearance astonishing her. Under the fine gold bracelets Tony had given her for her birthday and the simple round pendant necklace Hermione had chosen for its resemblance to her mother's, she looked the image of refinery. Her hair, rather than being tamed via Sleakeazy or copious amounts of hairspray, was moussed and allowed to curl in every direction it pleased. Instead of looking like a mess, she looked… powerful. Like even Muggles might notice the magic coursing through her body.
She straightened her posture. Confident. Pepper told her confidence was key at these events.
Hermione was Tony's 'date,' and it was her unofficial debut as his sister. As she was his young, unrelated heiress, it was decided by powers beyond her that they needed to push the sister angle to establish the strength and platonic nature of their relationship. Tony was not dating another nineteen-year-old, and Hermione was not a gold-digger.
She still felt like one sometimes, though, when Tony insisted on buying her something unnecessary and brutally expensive. A thousand dollar pair of bracelets? Done. A trip to London with her friends? Paid for without her actually knowing he was planning it. He threw money around like it didn't matter to him, but it did matter to her. He was right: she was raised a rich kid. She wasn't raised anywhere near Tony's level, though, and it was hard to feel like she didn't somehow owe him for everything he gifted her.
She couldn't bring herself to feel entirely guilty about the dress, though. It was too beautiful. The thin layers of burgundy tulle that made up the skirt started deceptively high, making her look taller than she really was; combined with the comfortable (expensive) high heels and the freedom of her hair, she felt like she was taking up more space than she had in a long time.
She looked like her father. He had been darker-skinned than her white-ceramic mother, and she saw him peeking out from between her eyes in the form of her nose, the high cheekbones that had caused her so much grief as a child. Bringing a hand to the mirror, she touched her face gently as if it would bring him to her.
"Cinderella!" Tony called. "Your carriage awaits!"
Damn. "Hold on one second!" She scrambled for her earrings and just managed to zip her dress up with one hand.
When she made it to the living room, one earring between her lips while she pressed the other through, she expected Tony to be waiting impatiently, perhaps tapping a foot and looking frequently at the door. Instead she was greeted with a wide smile and an empty rocks glass.
"What'll you have?"
She pulled the earring from between her lips and fiddled it into her ear. "Shouldn't we be leaving?"
"Yeah, in a sec," he said like this was obvious. "You need a drink first, though."
"You told me the first thing to do once I got there was have a drink," she reminded him.
"I forgot you're a kid in the eyes of the law," he told her, and she rolled her eyes remembering the legal drinking age of the United States was so high. "It's a gala, though, so you'll need a drink. You can take a flask if you want."
Hermione pondered the idea. "Kilkerran?"
Tony grinned. "They grow up so fast. I remember when you didn't know the difference between scotch and bourbon."
"That was a few weeks ago, Tony."
"Like I said, so fast!" He busied himself poking around under the bar for something and finally pulled back with an "Aha!" He proudly presented her with a plain silver flask. "This was my first flask. I'd be honored if you used it."
Despite her reservations about the idea and the absurdity of the sentimentality of the flask, she smiled graciously. "I'd be honored to use it," she responded, and he practically threw it at her.
"You hold it, I'll pour!"
Tony's arm found her elbow and guided her forward and through the path of press. "Eyes ahead," he reminded her, grinning at the crowd, and she kept them trained on the venue door. It wasn't far now. "You're doing great."
"Remind me why I'm here," she said through a gritted-teeth smile.
"We're controlling the narrative," he murmured back. "Showing you off after the press release."
"This feels absolutely ridiculous. What am I even supposed to do?"
"Mingle." He said it in a tone that meant he would be rolling his eyes if he wasn't in front of a dozen cameras. "Everyone's going to want to talk to you."
She felt exposed, naked, wished she was wrapped in the curtains of a four-poster bed or hiding in the tent and not here on an open red carpet with nothing covering her body but a thin tulle-and-silk dress. Everyone talking to her was exactly what she was worried about. It didn't matter that they'd rehearsed and rehearsed how this should go; people never acted according to plan, she knew that. She had little faith the night would go how she hoped.
If she only knew how right she would be, she might've stayed home.
When they got into the main hall, Tony spun her once and released her arm. "You're a Stark. You're young, beautiful, and rich as hell — I promise they don't expect much."
With that, he released Hermione to the wolves. Just as they rehearsed, she headed straight to the bar and asked for a glass of ice before tilting the flask of scotch over it and taking a deep swig. She could play more than young, beautiful, and rich: she could play a Stark.
"Miss Stark, I take it?" asked a deep voice to her left. She turned and was faced with a jaw cut from diamond under the face of an angel.
"That's me," she acknowledged lightly. The scotch burned gently, peat filling every sense. "And you are?" Being Miss Stark was so much less work than being Miss Granger already. One barely needed manners.
He was a Vanderbilt. "If I might ask, where did Stark find you?"
She pulled her lips into a semblance of a smirk. "I was left on his stoop in a basket."
The man had the good grace to laugh. "Stupid questions, stupid answers."
It endeared him to her, so she kept talking. "We're family," she explained, "that's all that matters."
"Not to everyone," Vanderbilt muttered, and she decided she didn't like him anymore.
"Yes, well, to the people that count," she said awkwardly and then glided away, tulle skirt flowing behind her.
The rest of the evening was doomed to be an exercise in repetition, person after person approaching only to find out as much as they could about her 'real' relationship with Tony.
"The kid can do things," Hermione heard much later, and she immediately slowed her pace to try to catch more of the conversation. The man speaking was Eastern European, maybe Russian? "He's dangerous, but the thrill—"
"What kind of things?" asked an American. He was tall, broad, with a square jaw and a suit that had to cost more than her dress and jewelry combined.
"He makes things fly," the first man said conspiratorially. Hermione's blood ran cold. A magical child, and by the way the Russian was talking, he was a Muggle. The Americans had their own version of the Statute of Secrecy, and MACUSA wouldn't be thrilled to hear rumors were spreading at high-end events. "It's best when he gets angry."
"Feisty, is he?" Something in the American's voice set off alarm bells in Hermione's head. "How much?" The Russian said something at a low level she couldn't make out. "Why don't we go visit?"
She shouldn't have followed. She definitely shouldn't have knocked back a big swig from her flask first, or not thought to switch her heels for more tactical shoes, but she'd never done something quite like this before, wasn't sure even what she was doing. She did know that if Tony found out, he was going to be upset. With any luck he was drinking his way through the bar's supplies right now and not noticing she was gone. She'd have to do this quickly if she wanted to get back before he noticed.
She followed the men's limousine to a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. She Apparated into the building before they even got out of the car and sprinted in the direction of sound, of children crying.
When she found them, Hermione dropped to the floor. One of the boys was nursing a black eye and looked painfully like Ron, all freckles and red hair and big baby blue eyes. "You're okay," she told the small group of children, focusing on the injured boy at the front, "you'll be okay."
A little girl's eyes widened in fear, and just as Hermione started to assure her that it was alright, she was one of the good guys, a thick Russian accent behind her interrupted.
"You are not SHIELD, but you will do," the man said, then kicked her in the face once she turned to look at him. The last thing she registered as consciousness left her was a single arrow slicing through the air and entering the man's neck.
She came to slowly, surrounded by soft whimpers and the strong, warm voice of a man. What was he saying? When she raised her head, his tone changed.
"Hermione Stark," the voice groaned. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to save some children," she said, her voice blubbery through the nosebleed she realized she was experiencing.
He snorted. "Well, I've got it covered, so run home."
The dismissal stung. She could've helped, she could've done this herself. Still, there was no reason to expose her magic to this complete stranger, and doubtless Tony was looking for her anyway. "Fine." She paused. "Do you want me to take any of them home?"
"I've got it," he snapped, and she pursed her lips.
"Understood." She stood then and took a look at the children huddling behind him. "Keep them safe," she told him seriously. His mouth twisted to angrily retort, but she cut him off: "You've got it. Right."
"Just go home and stay out of this," he said. She contemplated taking his memory of her — he'd seen her face, after all — but something told her he wasn't going to give her up. She didn't like taking memories, anyways.
"I'll go home," she told him, and although she couldn't see behind his mask, she imagined he was rolling his eyes.
"The cops are coming. Just get out of here." And then he led the children away like some kind of demented pied piper, cradling the smallest in his arms.
It should've been the last time she got involved in something like that. She didn't need to be rolling around in her own blood anymore.
A little over a year later, for the fourth time in her life, Hermione got stabbed.
She could tell it was as clean a puncture wound as she could hope for, though, and kept fighting through it. Bombarda minima, she cast, trying to keep collateral damage to a minimum in the museum. Expelliarmus netted the offending knife as well as two others and three guns she didn't know what to do with — she'd have to find a way to learn to shoot without JARVIS catching on and telling Tony. She settled for banishing them to the river below.
"What the fuck was that?" one of the goons asked another. Hermione didn't have time for this; she needed to get home. Where was the Hawkeye when you needed him —
Speak of the devil, she thought, watching the man in question emerge from the shadows.
He put a finger to his lips and signed for her to look away from him. She did, and then the satisfying thwip of arrow after arrow started to fly around the room. She cast spell after wordless spell quicker than she could have said the incantations, slitting throats and leaving lines of cuts the police would later say were too clean, suspiciously clean.
When the fight was over and the Hawkeye was dragging hog-tied criminals out of the building, Hermione Apparated directly to the balcony attached to her suite, not wanting to run into Tony or — god forbid — any guests in this state. Shaking her head, she wiped the blood from her lower lip with a swipe of the back of her hand and opened the door to her bedroom. Although all she wanted was to collapse onto thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton, she set about stripping out of her 'costume' so she could shower the sweat off and inspect her injuries.
A deep cough tore her out of her focus, and when she made eye contact with Tony she yelped. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded, too upset at his presence in her bedroom to bother being embarrassed about her half-undressed state.
"What's wrong with me?" He had the stony low voice he only used when he was phenomenally pissed off. "What's wrong with you? You're gonna get yourself killed."