The one absolute fact that Hermione struggled to understand was how the decision to end her mutually unhappy marriage had lost her her career, the majority of her friendships, and had bought her near universal public condemnation and disdain, whereas Ron, who had been just as unhappy, and far more ostentatiously so, had only increased the public adulation he had previously gained as a self-proclaimed war hero, and someone who occasionally stopped a ball from going through a hoop for a living.

Hermione was aware that she wasn't easy to like. A natural extreme awkwardness and crippling shyness led to over-compensation that many found abrasive and grating. Even so, she hadn't been completely prepared for the wizarding world's response to her and Ron's equally mediocre first dances on Witchly Come Dancing.

The morning after the show, Ron found himself the bookies' 'favourite underdog', and 'most likely to win'; to a certain extent, Hermione could discount some of this, due to Weasley domination of the betting industry, but just how short the odds of his winning being offered were had disturbed her equilibrium somewhat.

It had been harder to ignore the Op-Ed published that same morning titled 'Why I (still) hate Hermione Granger' that focused mainly on the guilty pleasure that could be had watching her dance, 'whilst hoping that she would make a complete fool of herself and fall on her self-righteous ass – preferably breaking something in the process.' The article had concluded by reminding their readers that any and all magical interference in the competition, including voodoo, was strictly forbidden – 'but we can still dream, eh?'

The author of this generous article had been one of Hermione's closest colleagues, whom she had gone to bat for on more than one occasion, and with whom she had thought professional respect was bordering on friendship. It appeared that she was no better judge of character in professional relationships than she was in personal ones.

And as she struggled to maintain focus or enthusiasm for the foolish endeavour she had committed herself to, Draco Malfoy remained patient, encouraging and calm.

It was disturbing.

She knew that she was getting the moves correct, but that everything she did was flat and lifeless. Her anger at Ron had been sufficient to propel her through the first week, but how could she stand against the weight of the whole wizarding world?

Not to mention, they were attempting a Samba, and as Ron had told the whole world, sexy really wasn't her thing. How could she disconnect from all the voices in her head telling her how ridiculous she looked?

Wednesday morning brought both a costume fitting, whilst the radio blared out a Skeeter exclusive interview with 'The wizarding world's dancing darling, war hero, Ron Weasley!'

'Now I know all of my darling listeners are well aware of how wonderful war hero and Quidditch legend Ron Weasley looks in his normal Quidditch uniform or on the town with one of his lucky ladies, but were we prepared for how stunningly sexy you would look in tight lycra? I think not?!'

'Ms Granger, I'm going to need you to stand still. I can't pin this straight if you stamp your feet.'

'Now Rita, you flatter me! You know that I love to entertain, and to bring happiness to all of my fans, but I'd hardly describe myself as some form of sex symbol.'

'Oh, but we would, wouldn't we super-fans?' * studio applause * 'Now Ron, darling, I know that we are all longing to ask… you've been the absolute soul of discretion over the tragic ending of your happy, happy, marriage to former politician Ms. Granger…'

'Soul of..?! Is she fucking kidding me?!'

'Ms. Granger, please! That language is unacceptable, and I really must ask you to stand still!'

'…never one to kiss and tell, but I think it's fairly common knowledge that 'Mione cared more about her career than our relationship; it did get kind of lonely in bed sometimes…'

'Hermione, did you know that you are turning the exact same shade as a dirigible plum? It's a lovely colour, but I'm not sure it goes with that pink that they are dressing you in. To be fair, I'm not sure that anything goes with that pink they are dressing you in; I wonder why the costume department keeps selecting pink for you, when you specifically noted on the application forms that it was your most hated colour…'

'Miss Lovegood, we agreed to your remaining at this fitting on the strict understanding that you not speak! We have completed all of the wards against nargles, wrackspurts and blabbernymphs you requested, you have to uphold your side of the bargain!'

'What ever you say, Madam Morrible!'

'Malkin, dear. Madam Malkin!'

'…I mean, everyone knows that a wizard has needs, right? And if those needs aren't being met in his marriage, well, it's just not fair, is it?'

'Hemione? You appear to be sparking, dear? Do you think we'd better finish this fitting later?'

'Malfoy.'

'You're late; and what the hell is that thing?!'

Hermione hung the pink abomination on the coat hook and stared at it contemplatively. It was that exact shade of pink that makes you think of the most unpleasant indigestion remedies, but with the addition of random tufts of feathers on the shoulders, bust and hem.

'This is the costume department's concerted attempt to make sure I look like a laughing stock on Saturday. Sadly, after your wandwork last week, it has anti-transfiguration charms on it.'

Malfoy snorted 'If you think I'm dancing with you looking like that… I'm in this competition to win, same as every year.'

Hermione smiled.

The thing that was well known in Griffindor, throughout all of Hogwarts, was that Hermione Granger had a phenomenal temper. She could be relied on to explode noisily and messily on cue, normally with a side order of nasty hexes.

What was known only to a select few of her closest friends was that, despite the accuracy of said hexes, this was not the time to be afraid. No, the time to be afraid was when Hermione was very, very calm, logical, and smiling that particular smile.

'I'm planning to publicly eviscerate Ronald, and I may need your help.'

'About fucking time. I'll call Pansy.'