"Oh Mum. This week has been so awful. I've never been more consistently mortified in my entire life."

"Consistent mortification, hm? Sounds serious. Think you'll live?"

"Very funny."

Hermione took a moment to sip her tea and looked out the window of the little Parisian café her mother had chosen as their meeting spot that morning. The rain was starting to let up and the streets were slowly beginning to fill with more and more people. It was grey and damp, but at least it wasn't Scotland.

She'd never admit it out loud, but she'd been so grateful her mother had been willing to just drop everything and take the train to Paris at a moment's notice. She'd bought Hermione a croissant and a bracing cup of tea, given her a good long hug, and slipped her entirely too many Muggle pounds for shopping. She hadn't even seemed phased that her daughter was traveling to another country on a mere shopping trip with people she barely knew. Instead, Dr. Granger simply seemed pleased she'd been included at all, even tangentially and only for breakfast. After all, the dental practice couldn't wait and the commute meant she could only stay for the morning before she had to catch the train back to London.

"Oh darling, I'm only teasing. Whatever happened this week to put you in such a mood?"

"Well, it all started with Neville," Hermione began.

"He's your little friend who likes plants, isn't he?"

"Mum. I'm fifteen. Neville's not my little friend. But yes, he is my friend. And he's prodigiously good at herbology."

"Well then. What happened with your friend that was so mortifying?" Hermione's mum had a sly little smile on her face, the same one she'd worn when showing Hermione's friends her baby pictures over the summer. Hermione chose to ignore her.

"Well. So, Harry and Neville and I are all taking Practical Magic together. And usually we all walk to class together after dinner, but Harry had an early detention with Professor Snape. Again. So it was just Neville and I walking together. And. Well, on our walk to the classroom, Neville asked me to the Yule Ball."

"Ah. But you're going with this Viktor boy, aren't you?"

"Yes, but Neville didn't know that. So I had to tell him no. I was nice about it of course, because I like Neville. Not like that, but you know. He's a good friend. Well, anyways, we had to walk the whole way to the classroom pretending I hadn't just turned him down. It was so awkward. And then, we finally got to class but it only got worse."

"Oh dear. Don't tell me another boy asked you in front of Neville."

As if that would happen. Even the idea that one boy, let alone two, would ask her seemed preposterous. The notion that someone else would ask was beyond the pale.

"No. Nothing like that. It's just. The professor dismissed all the third year students for the week because they're too young to go to the ball. And so I had to sit next to Harry and Neville as the professor started an entire lesson on…contraceptives."

She couldn't keep the horror out of her voice if she tried.

"Don't tell me there were bananas involved," her mum replied with a grin and a sip of tea.

"Lord, no. I think they'd be horrified by Muggle contraceptives. There were two spells and we had to brew a potion. And the professor made us all keep a dose and take it with us. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look Harry or Neville in the face again."

"Oh darling, I'm sure they were just as embarrassed as you were. But I am glad that one of the professors made sure you all were prepared for any eventuality. I remember my first school dance when I was your age: they're a hotbed of hormones."

Hermione grimaced at the idea of Harry or Neville having sex. It was simply too disgusting to contemplate.

"I really don't think it was necessary. It's not like anyone's going to be having sex at the Yule Ball."

"You never know. Teenagers have a way of stretching the rules. Add in a dark night with dancing and romance? These things happen."

"Well, it's not going to happen to me," she cried, embarrassed beyond belief at this conversation.

"I'll admit I'm relieved to hear you say that. Not that I'd judge you if you'd decided you were ready, but you and Viktor haven't been seeing each other very long. And he's older than you. I'd be concerned if you were telling me the two of you were planning on using that potion of yours already."

"Viktor and I. I mean. We aren't. We haven't. We haven't even talked about that. All I've done is kiss him a couple of times."

She was babbling. She knew she was, but she couldn't seem to stop. She'd contemplated the idea of…intercourse. That kind of contemplation was only natural, after all, and she did find Viktor attractive. But it was a sort of soft, nebulous, ill-defined idea of a future maybe, not something she'd planned on doing in just two weeks. What a terrifying idea.

Which of course meant that her mother was going to be convinced that Hermione was having sex and was determined to have this discussion right here, in the café, in front of god and everyone.

"Hermione, look at me. I told you, there's no judgement here. I trust you to speak your mind and move at your own pace. But this boy is much older than you are. He'll be graduating this year and you've got a lot of school left. He might expect things or ask for things you're not ready for. Promise me that you'll not say 'yes' to anything when you want to say 'no.' And that you bring that potion with you if you even think you might want to say 'yes' to something. I won't judge you for being a hormonal teenager. But I will judge you if you're stupid about it."

"If I promise, can we stop talking about it? Please?"

"I suppose I've embarrassed you enough for the afternoon. So, was this the end of your mortification?"

"I wish. That was just Monday."

"So what happened on Tuesday?"

"I grew feathers. In front of the whole Common Room. For over an hour."

"How on Earth!?"

"It was Ron's older brothers, Fred and George. I think they were upset with me."

"Whatever for?"

"I…may have blamed them for something. Loudly."

Announced their guilt in front of the whole common room was the part that went unsaid. Her mother was always telling her to keep her barbed tongue inside her head. She didn't need any more ammunition in her war against Hermione's occasionally wicked temper.

"Well, were they guilty?"

"I don't know. I mean, I think they are, but I haven't actually got any proof."

"Then whatever were you doing publicly accusing them of something? I taught you better than that."

"Yes, Mum. I know. I got carried away."

Contrition was always best when dealing with this well-worn argument. Her mother was the most even-tempered person she'd ever met. Her despair over Hermione's combative and somewhat prickly temperament was obvious and had been a constant source of tension for years. Thankfully, she seemed content to let the subject lie for the moment in favor of indulging her curiosity.

"So what did you think they did, then?"

"There's been a rash of thefts recently in Hogsmeade, the local village. Someone's been stealing pricy ingredients from the apothecary. And joke products. And books. Fred and George are determined to start their own joke shop and they really haven't the money to afford the ingredients for their experiments."

"That sounds like an awful lot of circumstantial evidence, darling."

Hermione hated that her mum was right. She'd 'played judge and jury' again, as her mum often said. But she wasn't ready to admit defeat quite yet.

"I know, I know. But who else would it be?"

"I can't begin to answer that, but perhaps it's time to consider giving your classmates the benefit of the doubt since you don't have a lick of proof."

"I suppose."

"So, was that the end of your mortification, or did something happen on Wednesday, too?"

"Ugh. Wednesday was dueling lessons. I'm awful. So awful it's beyond words. Harry knocked me flat on my arse at least five times. I'm still sore all over. It doesn't seem to matter how much I practice or how many spells I know. Harry uses, like, the same five spells over and over because they're the only ones he's good at and yet he still beats me every time. It's humiliating."

"I'm sure Harry doesn't mean to embarrass you. You can't be good at everything, you know. Your friends are bound to be better at you than something, and this is something Harry is better at. That's perfectly normal."

"Well he doesn't have to be so smug about it."

"Because you would never be smug in front of your friends who are struggling with something you happen to be very good at."

Hermione did not deign to respond, choosing instead to take a vicious, too-big bite of her croissant and watch the light drizzle streak the window pane of the café.

"So, if that was Wednesday, what happened on Thursday?"

At this, Hermione looked back at her mum with a savage expression. This particular mortification stung.

"Ron finally realized I'm a girl. And now everyone is laughing at me."

"I don't follow."

"Harry and Ron didn't have dates for the Yule Ball, and Harry needed to find one quickly because he has to open the ball. And Fleur made him promise to find a date by Friday so she could come shopping with us today."

"Go on."

"They kept talking about all the girls in our year and in fifth year. They were so judgy, especially Ronald. 'So and so isn't pretty enough; that one has spots; she's too pudgy; could you imagine having to spend an evening with her.'"

Hermione's voice went high and mocking as she mimicked the insipid conversation of her two best friends.

"I wanted to bash their heads in."

"I don't miss being fifteen. Not at all." Her mum took another dainty sip of tea. "So what happened next?"

"Ron suddenly got really excited, and shouted to the whole Common Room that 'wait, Hermione, you're a girl!' And then he proclaimed that I could go with Harry, because of course no one else would have wanted to go with me and otherwise I'd have to go all alone and wouldn't that be humiliating."

Even now, the memory made her want to scream or cry: she couldn't rightly decide which one. But definitely one of the two.

"Does he not know about Viktor?" her mum asked.

"Lord no. Ron's been such a prat all year. The last thing I wanted to tell him was that his favorite quidditch player asked me to the school dance. He'd never believe me anyway."

"Viktor plays this quidditch game, then?"

Oops.

She probably shouldn't have said anything at all. But her mum wasn't one to let things go without an explanation.

"Oh. Yes. Somewhat professionally actually. He's quite good at it."

"Professionally? This boy you're seeing is a professional athlete? Why haven't you said anything about this before?" Her mum set her teacup down harshly, the porcelain clacking so loudly Hermione worried she'd chipped it.

"Because I didn't want you to worry: like you are, right now. Viktor is very grounded and very smart. And he just so happens to have a job that he's good at. He reminds me a lot of Harry actually. He's a bit famous because of what he does, but he really hates it."

Hermione's mum pursed her lips.

"I'm not sure I like the idea of you seeing someone so much older and who's already a professional athlete. He lives in a very different world than you do, Hermione. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"I'll be fine. I can take care of myself. Can we stop talking about this?"

Her mum's lips were pressed into a hard white line, entirely too reminiscent of Professor McGonagall for Hermione's comfort. She crossed her fingers in her lap and prayed to any deity that would listen that her mum left this topic alone for now.

"For now. But I want to meet this young man for myself before you get too serious. Love makes you blind to a lot of faults, and while I trust your judgement, I'd like to meet him. And soon."

"Yes, Mum."

It was an easy promise to make. And an easier promise to break. Viktor would return to Bulgaria at the end of spring term and her parents would never get the opportunity to see him. It wasn't like they were going to travel to Bulgaria to hang out with Viktor's Pureblood parents.

"Your father and I would like to attend one of these events at your school. The Deputy Headmistress sent a letter to us detailing how to get tickets. We've decided to attend the third event, the one in June. Your Viktor will still be there, I assume?"

No.

No no no.

This was not happening.

And yet, Hermione knew better than anyone that once her parents decided on something it was going to happen, come hell or high water.

"Yes. He, um. He's one of the champions competing actually."

"Wonderful. So we'll meet him in June, then. Make sure you tell him so he's not surprised, dear. Now, where were we? Ron wanted you to go to the ball with Harry?"

The return to this conversation was a much appreciated distraction from the panic swirling in Hermione's brain.

"Yes. I had to try and convince him in front of the entire Common Room that I already had a date. Harry already knew I had a date because he knows about Viktor and I, but Ron was so convinced that no one would want to go with me that he didn't even believe it when Harry and Ginny told him they knew I was already going with someone."

Her mum shook her head in amused exasperation, a slight smile on her face.

"I can see why you're frustrated with him."

"That's not even the worst of it! He spent all day Thursday and Friday asking every boy we know if they'd asked me to the dance. And every time someone said 'no' he'd loudly tell me that no one was ever going to say yes because I was lying. Now everyone in our year is convinced I'm too stuck up or too embarrassed to admit I've not got a date. I'm never going to live this down."

"Oh Hermione. That sounds awful, but I'm sure it will blow over. These kinds of things always do. Someone will do something funny or stupid and everyone will start talking about them and forget all about you. You'll just have to give it a little bit of time."

"I just wish they'd all mind their own business."

"They're teenagers. They don't know how to mind their own business."

"Well, teenagers are stupid."

Hermione's mum just laughed.

"So was that the end of your humiliation, then? We've made it all the way up to Friday, now."

"NO! That's the worst of it! It's not even over yet. I want to crawl under some sort of log or fall asleep until the Yule Ball is all over."

"I'm sure you won't need to do something so dramatic. Now tell me what else happened yesterday."

"I had to help Harry get a date to the ball."

"He was incapable of doing that on his own, was he?"

"No. Well. Yes. Yes he was. He was going to leave it until the absolute last minute, like he does everything else. But there won't be almost anyone to go with if he does that."

"So how did you help, then?"

"Ron and I started going through all the girls in our year that Harry thought he could go with, and it was my job to find out if they'd already gotten a date. Big surprise: they all had."

"So you just marched right up to them and asked if they'd go out with Harry?"

She'd never admit it, but that's precisely how she'd started. It had been beyond embarrassing, but everyone seemed to expect that Hermione wouldn't know or care to approach the topic with anything close to tact, so they hadn't seemed all that surprised. She'd tried for a while while waiting for Transfiguration to start, but it required entirely too much small talk for Hermione's preference. By the fourth girl she'd had to talk to for more than five minutes, she'd returned to bluntly asking.

"I mean. Sometimes. But I did try to work it into conversation. By lunch, I'd covered the entire list."

"Well, I saw that girl with the pigtails, so he must have found someone."

"Ooh. Yes. It's going to cause quite the stir, actually. I've no idea why Harry decided to invite her."

"Did you not suggest her, then?"

"Lord, no. Viktor did, actually. They sit at the same table for meals and he said he'd heard she didn't have a date and was terrified her only option was going to be Gregory Goyle. Who's absolutely awful, by the way: dumb as rocks and really mean."

When her mum simply sipped her tea with raised eyebrows, Hermione continued the story.

"Her name's Daphne Greengrass, and she's in Slytherin. Viktor said she's nice, and I suppose she's not terrible. I don't really know her."

"Slytherin includes those pureblood people, don't they? The racists?"

"Yes. Although I suppose they don't have a corner on the market: there's some pretty awful people in all the houses. But Slytherin's known for it."

"And your Viktor has joined Slytherin house for the year?"

"No! Viktor would never do that!"

"But he sits with them, doesn't he? And didn't you say in your last letter that he's a pureblood?"

"Well he does, and he is. But he's not like them. I promise."

"Of course, dear." Her mum's voice made it very clear what she thought of Hermione's mental gymnastics. Was she really being close-minded again? She didn't think so: there was a clear difference between Viktor and Draco bloody Malfoy. But. Well. Perhaps she could be…gentler…in her approach to the Slytherins she didn't know and give them some small benefit of the doubt. At least at first, until they inevitably proved her wrong.

"How about you tell me about why Harry decided to ask her?" her mum interrupted her musings.

"Honestly? I told him about Viktor's suggestion on a lark. It was a joke. I didn't mean for him to take it seriously. But he just got this look on his face and laughed and said 'Wouldn't that be the talk of the ball?' and next thing I know he's telling me he has a date. And then this morning when I met up with Fleur to portkey over here to Paris, there she was, pleased as punch, just sitting in the Champion's Dorm."

"Well, maybe Harry just hadn't thought of her before since she's in Slytherin. I think it's nice that he's reaching across the aisle as it were. She can't be too bad if she said yes."

It was hard to admit, but Daphne had been quiet and apprehensive and, while not warm or kind, she hadn't been awful yet.

"I still can't believe I have to go shopping with her today. I can't believe I have to go shopping with anyone. I hate shopping."

"I know, dear. But I think you'll survive. It was very thoughtful of Fleur to set this up for you girls. She didn't need to invite you, after all. Perhaps this is her way of asking to be friends?"

"Maybe."

"Now, tell me where all of you are going shopping. And what the other girls are doing while you have tea with me."

"They're having breakfast at a wizarding café with Fleur's mum and sister. I've no idea where they'll be taking us or even what dress robes really look like. Fleur insisted that because I'm going with one of the Champions that just about any designer will give me robes for free. For the publicity or whatever."

It made her shudder to think of taking advantage of Viktor's fame for a dress, and she had no intention of following through on Fleur's mercenary suggestion. Her mother's face suggested she shared Hermione's distaste for the idea.

"Are you ok with that? I can give you some more money. It's not like you've got expensive tastes, and this is a ball. You deserve a dress that makes you feel beautiful without the politics of designer nonsense."

"I've still got money left over from this summer. Mrs. Weasley did all the shopping and she's very…economical. And you've already given me too much. I'll be fine, promise."

Hermione glanced down at her watch and grimaced.

"Time for you to go?"

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is. Time to go shopping. Wish me luck." Draining the rest of her tea in one long swig, she stood up and began putting on her scarf.

"You won't need luck, darling. Just a smile. You'll be just fine. And I daresay, if you let yourself, you might even have fun and make some new friends."

"Yes, mum."

"Now give your mother a hug and promise me you'll pick out a dress you love and send me plenty of pictures of you and Viktor at the ball."

"I will. Promise."

=/=/=

"That blue. It is very bad with your skin."

Hermione had barely even looked at the blue dress robes before Fleur had offered her…delightful opinion. It had been the same all day. Hermione would finally find a set of robes she might like and Fleur would shoot her down, pronouncing exactly why they weren't suitable.

Hermione huffed and shoved the robes back onto the rack.

"She's right, you know. They're too bright a blue. They'd make your skin look yellow." Daphne said, searching through the same rack of robes Hermione was looking through.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, certainly can't go to the Yule Ball looking jaundiced."

"Looking what?" Daphne asked, glancing over at her.

"Like my liver's failing."

"What about your liver?"

"Yellow. Looking yellow," she scoffed. They'd been at this for hours and no one had picked out their robes yet. What little patience Hermione had for shopping had evaporated over an hour ago, leaving a hollow shell full of irritation and scorn.

"Really? I never would have guessed." Daphne replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you don't want to tell me what it means, just say so." The implied 'bitch' fairly rang in the air.

"Jaundiced is a Muggle term, if you must know. It's when your liver fails and it can't filter your blood anymore. You get a buildup of bilirubin, which makes your skin and eyes look yellow. There, is that detailed enough for you?" She said, shoving several robes on the rack and pretending to eye a truly atrocious pair of lime green ones.

Hermione could admit she was almost embarrassed by how miserably mean she sounded, but she couldn't seem to make herself stop.

Daphne huffed and stalked over to another rack of clothes, her pigtails swinging behind her with the force of her steps.

"She wants to be a healer, you know. We were talking about it at breakfast." Cho said quietly from the rack behind her.

"Oh."

Well now she felt small and petty. What a delightful day all around.

"What about this one?" Cho offered, holding up a dark navy dress for Hermione's inspection.

It was…not terrible. The dress itself looked quite Muggle: it was strapless (something Fleur had earlier proclaimed was very Muggle and 'quite daring'), the neckline was gently curved like a heart, and a small shimmery waterfall of fabric fell from the back down to the floor, looking almost like a cape or a robe without actually being particularly wizarding in design.

Fleur marched over holding a gorgeous set of dress robes in champaign with a high mandarin collar and sleeves that split at the elbows to flutter dramatically to the floor.

"For you, Cho. I think it would look very pretty on you. It is your color." She was right, of course. It looked gorgeous and would flatter Cho very nicely. Even Hermione, with what little she knew of fashion, could tell that it would be perfect.

Cho could definitely tell too, for she let out a little squeak and gently took the dress robes and draped them over her arm, hugging them slightly to her chest in excitement.

"I found these: I think they'd suit Hermione. What do you think?"

"Hmm." Fleur made a show of examining the dress robes. "I think they shall do nicely. You will try on, yes?"

Hermione nodded, ready for her search to be over and taking a surreptitious look at the price tag. They were expensive to be sure, but with the money her mother had insisted she take, she should be able to just afford them.

Daphne wandered back over with a scowl on her face and a beautiful mustard-gold dress with full cape slung over her arm.

At Hermione's raised eyebrows, she rolled her eyes. "What? Potter's wearing my house colors to the ball. I can wear his."

Fleur cooed over Daphne's find, pointing out the 'wonderful detailing' and 'full silhouette.' Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Hermione would never admit it, but when she tried on those dress robes she felt like a princess. Twirling in front of the dressing room mirror, the sparkly blue-black fabric at the back fluttered and twinkled like stars.

Preparing to step out and show the other girls, a process Fleur and Cho both insisted was necessary, she paused, hand on the doorknob, and bit her lip. What if they didn't like it? What if they told her this dress—the first dress Hermione had ever felt pretty in—didn't make her look very pretty at all? What if snarky, prickly, Slytherin Daphne made fun of her and then told all the Slytherins exactly how ugly Hermione really was?

Well. She'd show Daphne.

Tossing her head back, she strutted out the dressing room door, her nose in the air, determined to let every insult roll off her back like water.

"Hermione, you look beautiful!" Cho proclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"You should wear your hair up to the ball. It would emphasize your collar bones." Daphne chimed in quietly.

"Oui. I agree. They are very graceful. And I have just the right necklace for you if you do not have one."

All she could do was look down at the other girls and stare, the blood rushing up to her face and neck. Her ears felt hot. Her cheeks were burning. And part of her felt like she might cry.

"Ooh. She blushes," Daphne snarked, although it was tempered by a small smile and a sardonic eyebrow raise.

It almost sounded friendly.

Maybe the Slytherin girl wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps this was the girl that Viktor ate lunch with and thought Harry should take to the ball. Hermione could admit, if just in her head, that the compliments endeared Daphne to her, whether Daphne actually meant them or not.

Slipping back into the dressing room, Hermione gingerly picked up the dress robes and stared at them, watching the light gently twinkle off the shimmery fabric.

Yes, these would do nicely indeed.