Chapter 39: Hermione

The Heart of the Moon

"The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all of the phenomena occurring—and all of the acts carried out—on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with a cool, measured detachment. On the moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon."
— Haruki Murakami,1Q84

Earlier that evening—
Hotel Lavende Magnifique
Aix-en-Provence

The Quidditch final had stretched into a grueling, three-day ordeal that Hermione could only describe as her worst nightmare brought to life. She had warned anyone who would listen that it might happen; had studied historical matches that dragged on for days. Predictably, Ron had laughed her off, calling her ignorant of Quidditch mechanics.

Hermione had been right and subsequently felt a bitter cocktail of vindication and despair.

She did not care for England's loss—her patriotism only extended so far—but rather for Ginny. Three relentless days of fierce competition had pushed Ginny beyond exhaustion, and now she had to swallow the sting of defeat before facing cameras and crowds at the gala.

Hermione waited for Ginny to join her in her hotel room, as planned, to get ready for the event. She prepared herself to comfort and console Ginny, to cheer her into a positive headspace.

And then Ginny arrived.

"I was part of Quidditch history, Hermione!" she exclaimed, buoyant, vibrating with excitement as she threw a pile of fabrics, satchels, and vials onto Hermione's hotel bed.

Ginny barely gave Hermione time to react before forcing her into a magically reinforced bra that made her cleavage jut scandalously toward her chin.

Hermione protested, "Who am I trying to impress?"

Ginny, whose hair was coiled into enchanted curlers that glowed every few seconds, smiled wickedly. "Anyone you want!"

"How about no one?" Hermione muttered, adjusting the bra straps to ease some of the tension.

"There will be photos, I'm sure," Ginny mused as she laid out a bag of cosmetics on the vanity of Hermione's hotel room. "Don't you want your boyfriend to salivate a bit when he looks at the papers tomorrow?"

Hermione stiffened as she maneuvered around the bed to pull her dress robes from her trunk. "He's not my boyfriend. We've been on three and a half dates."

"You enjoyed them, didn't you?" Ginny asked.

"Of course."

"Have you had sex yet?"

Hermione blinked, always startled by Ginny's blunt nature. "No."

"Do you want to?"

"I'm not … opposed to the idea." Hermione wasn't. In an empirical sense, she knew sex with Joseph would be great. Fantastic, probably.

"So why not stake a claim? That man is bloody fit if you ask me."

Hermione hung Lavender's beautiful creation on her wardrobe door, reaching for her wand to smooth out a slight wrinkle in the hemline. "I don't feel very proprietary. He's not like that."

Hermione had spoken with Joseph a few hours earlier when she returned from the match. She had gloated about predicting the match's absurd length but couldn't ignore her anxiety about attending a high-profile event on the night of a full moon—again.

Joseph had been comforting, as always, his voice calm and reassuring: "If anyone has full moon security down, it's the French after the Montauroux attack. And anyway, I was checking some lunar charts online the other day. Did you know there's another lunar eclipse tonight?"

"No," Hermione had replied. "I probably should follow those charts … but wait! What will your pack do? You told me it was painful the last time."

"We'll be alright," he replied, voice staticky through the long-distance connection. "Some may choose not to take Wolfsbane tonight and make it easier to get through. I'll bear the pain, though."

"I hate knowing you'll be going through that …"

"Don't worry. It's not as though we can control the Earth. Try to enjoy yourself tonight—that will make me feel better. … And come home soon. I miss you."

The thought of Joseph's warmth tugged at her even now, though an uncomfortable knot had tightened in her stomach.

When Hermione turned around to face Ginny again, the witch was slightly frowning.

"Is everything okay? How has your holiday been? I wish I'd seen more of Provence while I've been here."

"Oh, lovely. I saw five chateaus, and my French is not as rusty as I thought," Hermione replied. She hesitated, debating whether to tell Ginny about her eventful excursion to the Sauvan Estate. She hadn't even told Harry about it, their days being too hectic in the lead-up to the final.

In the end, she decided that, among her confidantes, Ginny would be the least skeptical of the situation. And Hermione's feelings were eating away at her; she needed to tell someone. "I went to this amazing eighteenth-century magical estate on my own the other day, and … I ran into Malfoy."

Ginny swerved dramatically in her chair. "The ferret?"

Hermione nodded. "With Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson."

"The trifecta," Ginny whistled. "Wow. What are the odds?"

"I know," Hermione replied. "But … they showed me around. It was … peaceful? It sounds so odd to say out loud. I even drove Theo and Pansy in my rental car."

"Those two in a Muggle car? Merlin. First, I learn George and Angelina are partnering with Theodore Nott. Now you're gallivanting with 'Theo and Pansy' around the French countryside … what world am I living in?" Ginny turned back toward the mirror to apply a shimmery gold onto her eyelids. "Pansy! Don't tell me you're using 'Draco' now, too."

"As if," Hermione murmured with a breathy chuckle, though the idea of actually speaking Malfoy's given name aloud made her pause. She decided not to tell Ginny about Malfoy running off at the sight of her scar. Not even Hermione knew how to feel about that.

And she definitely was not telling anyone,ever, about that almost-kiss at the DA.

Or about how Malfoy's voice took on an excited lilt when he spoke about cauldron shapes.

Or about the meaning of coral roses and dill blossoms.

Or about the dream she had the previous night.

It was a fluke, she had decided. Hermione had been half-delirious from day two of the Quidditch final, only arriving at her hotel around two in the morning. She was the second to abandon the stadium after Mrs. Weasley and Audrey had sensibly taken Roxanne, Victoire, and the baby Molly to bed at a regular hour.

Hermione hadn't realized that Malfoy was in the direct opposite box from them until she accidentally spotted him while showing Roxanne how to use the omnioculars earlier in the day. She had thought briefly that Malfoy was looking directly at her, but after she blinked, he hadn't been looking at the stadium but rather speaking with a small girl sitting beside him.

Malfoy had taken the girl out of the box and returned a few minutes later, both holding ice cream cones. First, Malfoy had escorted Teddy to a Muggle tennis match, and then there he had been, purchasing some unknown little girl ice cream.

It did not make sense.

So, itdidmake sense, Hermione dubiously decided, that thoughts of Malfoy had permeated her synapses and caused her to have the filthiest, most confusing dream of her life.

They were back outside the laboratories of the Sauvan Estate, huddled together by the stone-walled entryway. Hermione held out the copy of her informational pamphlet toward Malfoy, her bare arm outstretched expectantly. Malfoy's eyes bore into her own. They were darker in her dream—a stormy charcoal that shifted in the dappled light of the summer afternoon.

Instead of delicately claiming the paper as he had in real life, Dream-Malfoy's hand reached out, and a pale finger touched Hermione's shoulder, trailing down her arm and causing gooseflesh to erupt over her skin. She froze, and her breath grew shallow as she watched his eyes follow his finger across her exposed limb.

Malfoy took the pamphlet, then, but didn't pocket it. Instead, he let the paper fall, forgotten to the ground.

"I'm not here to tour an estate, Granger," Malfoy said, voice dark and smooth. He stepped closer, and Hermione retreated, her heart thumping uncontrollably as her back pressed into the ivy-covered stone wall.

Malfoy smirked as he closed in, his lithe torso a hair's breadth away from Hermione's chest. He was so tall that Hermione needed to crane her neck to look up at him.

He leaned down so that his lips came in line to her own, and when he spoke, his hot breath caressed her face.

"I'm here to finish what we started."

Malfoy's lips came crashing into hers, hands cupping her face, fingers tangling in her hair. Dream-Hermione, it seemed, had no qualms about kissing Draco Malfoy. Dream-Hermione gasped and moaned and ran her hands over the luxurious material covering Malfoy's chest. She angled her head and opened her mouth so that their tongues might slide against each other—so that she could explore the inside of his beautiful, cruel, heated mouth.

And then Malfoy groaned, grabbing Hermione's waist and heaving her into the air. He pushed her roughly so that her back slammed into the soft tendrils of ivy against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he stepped impossibly closer, arms snaking around her back, his groin pressing dangerously through her pleated skirt.

Hermione moaned, and Malfoy devoured. He kissed her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. He licked from her shoulder to the shell of her ear and then bit down on her lobe. Hermione stifled a scream and carded her hands through the delicate strands of his hair.

Dream-Malfoy whispered her name.

"Hermione."

And then Hermione had woken up, drenched with sweat and arousal, chest heaving in an attempt to catch her breath.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

Hermione remembered that she was talking to Ginny and found her friend looking at her oddly. She cleared her throat and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"Do you hope to impress anyone this evening?" Hermione inquired, turning to fumble through the cloth pouch where she kept her jewelry.

"No one and anyone," Ginny replied, letting any talk of Slytherins rest. "I'd better be seen snogging someone soon if I want the tabloids to shut up about me and Harry."

Hermione eyed Ginny's bright white knee-length dress hanging in the corner. "Lavender taught me a handy charm for temporarily lowering a neckline."

"Did she, now?"

Two hours later—

"Hermione, you are a vision!" Theo's voice emerged from the chaos of the gala crowd, and then Hermione was enveloped in a tight hug of cobalt blue silk. When he leaned back, he kept his arms on her shoulders and smiled. "Would you dance with me?"

"Oh, sure," Hermione replied. She was too disoriented from the vast crowd, the full moon, and the vampires she had just encountered to form more words.

"Oi, we just got here," Ron protested beside her.

"Welcome, Weasley! Potter," Theo winked at Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Nott." He looked very uncomfortable in his old emerald green robes; they were about three sizes too small for him, and Hermione had attempted to enlarge them with less-than-ideal spellwork. He was a full-grown wizard but couldn't bother to do some shopping before their holiday. On the other hand, Ron had a merciful wife to do some appropriate shopping for him, and he looked rather dapper in a simple black ensemble.

"Hermione will find you later!" Theo called as he swept Hermione into the throng.

They began moving in dizzying circles, with Theo pulling her into more dramatic dips than she had expected. He seemed to love seeing her breath catch as he swung her close and spun her out again.

"Slow down! Isn't this a waltz?" Hermione cried after her second back-bending dip.

"The music is only a suggestion!" Theo countered as he let her go to execute a textbook pirouette.

Despite Theo's infectious energy, Hermione's thoughts kept drifting.

The evening had begun on a high note. Ginny had left to meet her teammates, looking stunning, and Hermione had to admit she felt fairly beautiful herself. Ginny had a knack for cosmetics that Hermione had never quite mastered. That, plus the stunning dress robes Lavender had made for her, put Hermione in a bright and confident spirit.

But then she saw the vampires.

To the credit of the French, the security seemed excessive, and rightly so for a full moon night in the year 2007. But the vampire guards prowling the edges of the stadium intimidated. Harry and Ron had flanked Hermione as they entered, but even their presence did little to calm her nerves.

Hermione's memories of last year's capture by the vampire Darla remained too vivid.

As if sensing her distraction, Theo leaned in and remarked, "You look like you've got something on your mind. Don't tell me I'm a terrible dancer." He threw her out in another spin, catching her smoothly when she twirled back into his arms.

Hermione laughed, breathless. "You're a fantastic dancer, Theo." If one liked to be on the decidedlyoverside of whelmed.

"I know." He grinned. "So, what's wrong?"

Hermione hesitated but admitted, "The vampires … I had a terrible experience with a coven of vampires last year."

Theo stiffened slightly. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

"Got captured for a day. It was fine, in the end. It helped me figure some things out."

"Captured?" Theo's movements slowed.

"Yes. … The vampire meant well. I kept in touch for a while—after. She's living in a sanctuary near Cornwall now. But the bloodletting and bondage were not ideal."

Theo blinked. "Your life is mad, Hermione," he said, to which she shrugged. Then he added, "What are your opinions on how the French are handling the security, then?"

Hermione glanced through the crowd toward the dark entryway of the stadium. "The French have always had more lenient laws concerning magical creatures than Britain. More sensible ones, I think."

Theo murmured, "I don't much like vampires, to be honest. It's not prejudice, Hermione, I promise. Just some wariness based on bad memories."

"Do your bad memories top mine?" Hermione asked, interested.

"No bloodletting or bondage, thank Merlin, but during the war, there were these rumors … well, Draco could elaborate better."

Hermione wanted to know more about Malfoy and his knowledge of vampires, but she was wary of asking lest Theo realize her confusing feelings about his best friend. She let the conversation drift off as the music changed into a different, much slower rhythm.

As they settled into a nondescript sway, Theo asked, "How was the rest of the match after I left your box?"

"Oh, delightful. I went home and enjoyed two full nights of sleep with the Weasley kids while everyone else suffered," she said with a smirk. "Harry and Ron had to take Invigoration Draughts by the end."

Theo chuckled as he effortlessly maneuvered them through a crowded passage of the dance floor. "I might have taken one or five myself." He adjusted his arm, pulling her closer.

"You don't look like it," she teased. "You look amazing." And he did. The sheen of his cobalt blue dress robes gleamed under the floating lights, highlighting the shade of his eyes.

He smiled. "Don't make me blush, Hermione. And don't sell yourself short. These robes suit you—if I were so inclined, I'd keep you to myself all night."

Hermione peeked down at her dress, admiring Lavender's craftsmanship. The soft blue fabric shimmered with an intricate pattern of lilies, the sleeves long and fitted, and the bodice hugging her torso—incidentally emphasizing Ginny's handiwork on her breasts. What Theo could not see: the floor-length skirt was prepared to retract at will, revealing tailored trousers underneath, and it had an expanded pocket where her beaded bag lay hidden, as well as a concealed wand holster.

"Thank you," she said, her cheeks warm.

Theo's eyes sparkled. "You look positively scrumptious when you blush."

Hermione rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile. "Stop flirting, Theo, or I might get the wrong idea."

"Impossible," he replied with a smirk. "You're never wrong."

She laughed and then asked, "How was the rest of your match?"

Theo winced. "Not my finest moment. Draco had to spoon-feed me a potion so I could even stand to get to the Floo."

Hermione shot him a reproachful look, to which he only shrugged. "It was the dark ages, Hermione! We didn't know if we'd die in that gods-forsaken box. If I had a Time-Turner, I'd go back and enchant myself to make better choices."

"Just make better choices in the future, Theo. Trust me—Time Turners aren't worth the trouble."

Theo cocked his head. "I'm intrigued. It sounds like you have experience?"

Hermione hesitated momentarily before replying, "I had one—just during our third year."

For a moment, Theo froze, then shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide. "Merlin. You mean … I dimly recall thinking back then—how is Hermione Granger taking every elective? I was very competitive, you see, and even I couldn't manage that. Tell me everything," he implored her with the cutest half-pouting, half-impressed expression.

And so, Hermione gave the abridged version of her third-year tribulations—including the incident with Sirius, Buckbeak, and a transformed Professor Lupin.

"I cannot even begin to process this. You … and Potter … and … bloody hell. But—it seems like the Time Turner was worth the trouble for Sirius Black, at least!"

"And Buckbeak the Hippogriff," Hermione added with a grin. She did not reveal that Witherwings still thrived at Hogwarts with Hagrid. Malfoy may be different, but she did not put it past him to seek decades-old retribution.

Theo's eyes gleamed with mischief. "You know, Draco would love this story—"

She leveled a dangerous look at him. "Don't you dare, Theodore Nott. I thought we were friends? You can't betray my secrets."

He spun her again, chuckling. "As you wish, my lady."

Someone cleared their throat sharply behind them. Pansy was tapping Theo on the shoulder with an impatient glint in her eyes.

"Hi, Hermione. Love the look," came Pansy's acerbic voice. "Mind if I steal Theodore?"

Pansy leaned close to Theo without missing a beat, whispering something in his ear. His eyebrows arched, and he smiled at her with a nod.

"Thanks for the dance, Hermione!" he said with a wink. "Talk again later?"

Hermione watched him get whisked away by Pansy. Alone, surrounded by swaying couples and the buzz of the gala, she shrugged to herself, deciding she would find Harry, Ron, or Ginny for a drink.

But before Hermione could take a step, a voice, thick with a familiar accent, cut through the music. "Does the lady need a partner?"

Hermione whirled around, her eyes widening with surprise. "Viktor!" she shouted, beaming as she jumped into his arms. He caught her, laughing warmly with his deep, gravelly voice, and spun her around, his firm grip steadying her as he set her back on her feet.

She took in the sight of him, noticing the changes from their last meeting years ago. He looked older, his jaw framed by a neatly kept beard that suited his features. He wore simple burgundy dress robes, and she spotted a diamond glinting in his left ear. He still had that familiar Seeker's build—tall and lean, yet solid.

He smiled down at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hermione, you look beautiful."

Hermione's cheeks flushed at his compliment. It had taken him a whole year while they were dating to say her name without tripping over it—but he mastered the syllables eventually. "Thank you," she replied with a warm smile. "And you look handsome!"

He extended his hand, his expression softening. "Shall we dance?"

She accepted it, laughing as she added, "Go slow—I just had a very enthusiastic partner."

They began to sway, falling into an easy rhythm, and Hermione was struck by how natural it felt. Viktor still smelled like oranges and pine. He still kept his nails trim, still had a mole beneath his left ear, still looked at her with—well, she would not say love anymore—affection.

They talked about the match. Both agreed it had gone on too long, even for Viktor's taste. They remarked on the beauty of the cliffside venue and swapped updates on family and work. As they danced, Hermione marveled at how much simpler everything felt with him, the easy camaraderie of old times. It had always been simple and happy with Viktor.

"And you like being an Auror?" he asked, looking curious.

"For now, it's working for me," she replied, glancing up at him. "But I'm hoping to return to Magical Creatures next month."

Viktor nodded, and then his gaze softened. "Hermione, it is good to see you."

She met his gaze, a warmth blooming in her chest. "And you! I wasn't sure I'd see you here after not seeing you during the final."

He leaned a little closer. "When will you visit me in Bulgaria?"

Hermione hesitated. She had considered going straight to Bulgaria after the championship had concluded, but the final had stretched on, and now she felt the pull of her responsibilities, such as they were. September was creeping closer, bringing with it the end of her leave.

Viktor seemed to read her hesitation. "It is an open invitation. You may come and see me whenever you like." His tone turned earnest, almost solemn. "If you ever need any help, please come to me. Tell me you will remember?"

Hermione frowned slightly, catching an odd cadence in his voice. "Of course, Viktor. I always know I can count on you. Maybe I could visit around Christmastime? After I visit my parents in Australia."

He pushed his mouth into a smile. "Yes. Christmastime sounds perfect."

They continued to dance and talk, the world around them slipping away as they moved through the song's end and then through another. Hermione could have been fifteen again, twirling clumsily around the Great Hall during the Yule Ball.

Viktor pulled Hermione into his arms for another warm embrace as the second song ended. He enveloped her, and she allowed herself to breathe him in. They were content together amid the chaos of the gala, which had gotten much louder and rowdier since she had first arrived.

Viktor took Hermione's hand and pulled her to the edge of the dance floor. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

"I must go," Viktor told her, and Hermione felt a pang of sadness. She would have spent all evening with him if he'd asked. Then he explained, "My teammates from Bulgaria told me not to disappear for long. I will see you soon, though, yes?"

"Of course, I'll be around. Thank you for the dance," Hermione replied, a bit put off by the fact that Viktor seemed to be rushing away. She did miss him.

Then Viktor departed, leaving Hermione alone again. She took a deep breath, calming herself from the long bout of dancing, and took stock of her surroundings.

It was a shame that Hermione had not yet had a drink, so she made her way to the bar. While waiting for the barkeep to make her one of the fruity signature cocktails—when in Provence, she thought—Hermione looked up to admire the decorations.

The design was fairly innovative. Shining mirrored panels floated to the top of the stadium, each reflecting the floating fairy lights and torchlight from the dance floor back down toward the guests. Beyond those, Hermione could see the dark blue of the night sky and the full moon. The moon made her think of Joseph again. The lunar eclipse should happen soon, thrusting Joseph, the members of his pack, and any werewolves nearby into excruciating pain. The knot in her stomach wound tighter.

The cocktail, which contained muddled blackberries, was tart and sweet on her tongue. She wandered to the other end of the massive bar, admiring the well-dressed attendees and watching for Harry, Ron, or any other Weasleys.

The stadium was packed, and music and chatter filled the air. Surprisingly, no reporters accosted the guests, and Hermione felt almost anonymous for the first time in a long time.

She had made a full circle of the pitch by the time she found it—a table devoted to the best of French delicacies.

Bread.

Hermione raked her gaze over croissants, brioche, personally-sized baguettes—and other shapes and textures for which she did not have the names. She grabbed a steaming brioche roll and collapsed into a chair at a nearby empty table. She sank her teeth into the buttery, sweet cloud and sighed in contentment.

"Orgasm by carb? Not as good as orgasm by sex, but I suppose it fills the void."

Pansy floated into the seat next to her, a baguette in one hand and a ramekin of butter in the other.

Hermione swallowed and managed to say hello after sipping her drink.

"Sorry about stealing Theo earlier." Pansy's voice was as sharp-edged as ever, but Hermione was still getting used to the lack of a cruel undertone.

And anyway, Hermione had already forgotten about Pansy cutting in. She said, "No problem. How's your evening?" A floating tray of wine passed by, and Hermione took the opportunity to discard her nearly empty glass in favor of two Champagnes, one of which she placed in front of Pansy.

"Bit of a zoo, isn't it?" Pansy remarked after nodding to Hermione in thanks.

"Nice to be lost in a crowd, I think," Hermione admitted. "I expected more photographers. I appreciate not being accosted, but now I worry that Lavender's dress won't even get a footnote in the magazines."

"I saw the French team members swarmed by flashes over by the orchestra," Pansy suggested as she set down her butter knife. She then swallowed a bite of buttered bread about four times smaller than what Hermione would have preferred.

"That color looks good on you," Hermione commented, admiring the coral, shimmering fabric of Pansy's dress robes.

"I know," Pansy replied, causing Hermione to suspect that unerring confidence was a Slytherin requirement.

"Well, stand up then," Pansy commanded, gesturing to the space before them with a painted finger. "Let's have a look at Brown's handiwork. I'll appreciate it if no one else will."

Hermione gave Pansy a stern glance before obliging her, standing and doing one slow spin.

"Love the pattern. The color's excellent, of course, but not your best. … We can talk about that later. The fit is impeccable—and the exposed back. Is that reinforced water silk?"

"Er …"

"Of course, you don't know. So disappointing, Hermione. Any enchantments?"

"Yes," Hermione rushed to answer, happy she knew more about this garment than her sundress the other day. She pulled her wand from its holster and tapped the double stitching at her waist. The skirt began to shrink until it disappeared, and as it shrunk, solid periwinkle slim-cut trousers grew to cover her legs.

Pansy's eyes widened. "That's unique."

"What?" Hermione asked, unable to interpret Pansy's tone.

"No, I mean it. Even the trousers are cut nicely. But … why?"

"Just in case," Hermione muttered, tapping her wand to return her skirt to its original appearance. She sat back down and sheathed her wand. "Versatility."

"Hmm." Was all Pansy said for a moment. "Interesting to advertise. Day to night, Semi-casual to cocktail …"

Gala to battle, Hermione did not say, afraid to speak her fears into existence.

Hermione and Pansy continued to chat, and Hermione was surprised to find herself having a lovely time. One semi-cathartic conversation in a magical greenhouse did not make a friendship, but perhaps Pansy was more open to being friends than Hermione had initially realized. The conversation, at least, became engrossing.

"Say what you will about Lord Snake-Face, Hermione—may he suffer in death forevermore, the fucking sadist—but," Pansy gestured vaguely with her fingers toward the stadium entrance, "you must admit he had a knack for negotiation."

They were discussing vampires and werewolves and the vampires' unsettling presence as the gala guards.

"Negotiation?" Hermione was on her third drink of the evening and pleasantly buzzed, so her voice came out more indignant than intended. "You mean threats and blackmail and bribes ranging from unethical to blatantly immoral?"

"Dark creatures respond to darkness, is all I'm saying," Pansy replied before polishing off her baguette.

"No creature is inherently dark," Hermione argued. Pansy gave her a skeptical look, and Hermione added, "I know you disagree—many feel the same. But that's beside the point. Voldemort probably offered covens and packs free reign over Muggle and Muggleborn populations. That's not negotiation, Pansy. Surely you don't believe that." Hermione worried this friendship would be over before it had even begun.

"No, you're right. What I mean is—how can a moral society compete when, in living memory, these populations were within reach of something more than a moral society can offer? The greatest prize was theirs, if only their messiah hadn't died."

"Vampires are not stupid, Pansy," Hermione retorted. "Treaties across the world have been made and broken for centuries. I would think Voldemort's promises made some vampires optimistic, but there was hardly enough time to promise them before he died. And it's not as though the British Ministry sought retribution against creatures after the war. Quite the opposite—the first thing Kingsley did as Minister was treat with the giants."

"I hope you're right," Pansy said, though she still looked skeptical.

"If I've learned anything since joining Magical Creatures—since learning I was a witch if I'm being honest—then I've learned peaceful independence is not just the standard but the only viable way forward. The Statute of Secrecy protects wizardkind from potential violence from Muggle populations because we are so outnumbered on a global scale. But the same goes for vampires and giants and merfolk and dwarfs and werewolves, too. Voldemort imagined a dark army capable of defeating or subduing the rest of Britain and then the world."

Hermione set down her glass and continued, "It might have worked in Britain, but it would only have been a matter of time before international intervention. There are seven billion Muggles on the Earth—billion, Pansy. And they have weapons and resources that most wizards don't know about. Even if every wizard and creature, light or dark, banded together, the numbers alone do not guarantee magical supremacy."

"The entire basis of Pureblood supremacy is the fear that Muggles would eradicate wizardkind in a war," Pansy replied, thoughtful. "Keep magical society separate. Muggleborns and half-bloods threaten that separation through their familial ties."

"And that's the crux of it, isn't it?" Hermione sighed deeply. "But true separation is impossible, even for Purebloods. Magical and Muggle industries, finance, and international relations are all impossibly intertwined. The absence of Muggleborns would only give wizards the perception of control."

"And that is why I'm glad my father died," Pansy commented as casually as if stating she was glad she had cut her hair. "He'd never shut the fuck up about it. Made my mother and I recite prejudicial scripture as if it would make a difference, and then go double his galleons on the Muggle stock market."

"No!"

"Yes," Pansy nodded. "Fucking hypocrite. All the Pureblood families did that, you know, except maybe the richest ones—the Malfoys—the Blacks, maybe, but I'm not sure. But essentially everyone was complicit in Muggle industry trying to get ahead while espousing Muggle eradication."

The ridiculous idea of discussing magical family finances with Malfoy popped into Hermione's head—and then left it just as quickly. She doubted that she and Malfoy could have a genuinely personal conversation.

"Hermione!" called a familiar voice.

Hermione turned to see Ginny approaching them, her cheeks flushed to match the ringlets of hair down her back.

"Ginny! How's the evening?"

"Brilliant," Ginny remarked. "Did shots with the Swedes. And then I 'accidentally,'"—and Ginny's tone made it very clear that she meant intentionally—"tripped one of the French chasers. Had to get my petty revenge."

Hermione laughed and then said, "You remember Pansy. Pansy, Ginny."

"Parkinson," Ginny greeted, crossing her arms.

"She-Weasel," Pansy quipped back. And a sinking feeling grew in Hermione's chest until Ginny started laughing.

"Is this," Ginny began, pointing between Hermione and Pansy, "actually a thing?"

"Fuck you, Weasley. I'm delightful," Pansy retorted.

"Delightful and charming, I see," Ginny said wryly. "Long as you don't sell us out to the nearest warlord."

"Oh, is one nearby?" Pansy inquired brightly as she flicked a swooping bang from her eye. Ginny merely quirked her mouth. Hermione marveled at the mixture of personalities before her. Ginny and Pansy were quite similar, now that she thought of it.

"Say, Weasley," Pansy remarked, "That dark-haired beater on your team. Is he available?"

"Georgiou?" Ginny asked, disdain giving way to curiosity. "I think he's unattached. He's about one drink away from being completely sloshed, though."

"Perfect." Pansy stood, smoothing the folds of her skirt. "Introduce me before I need to find a sobering draught to get him to bed."

"Really?" Ginny sounded dubious.

"I'm very good. It will be mutually beneficial."

"Alright. Respect, Parkinson. … Want to come, Hermione?"

"Nope," Hermione rejected. "I'm going to go find Harry and Ron."

The witches then parted company. Hermione eyed the bread tower as she left with a promise to return. As she meandered toward the bar again—the most likely place to find Ron, she thought—she glanced up at the sky. Sure enough, the upper edge of the full moon had begun to show a reddish tinge.

She felt tense. Perhaps the gala had been enough for her, and she would return to her hotel to end the evening. It didn't feel right to dance, drink, and celebrate when the Night of Terror case was nowhere close to being solved and when werewolves for miles around were on the verge of painfully re-transforming over the next hour.

Hermione neared the bar and paused in the liminal space between the dance floor and the throngs of thirsty guests. She eyed the stadium exit and began walking in that direction. She would hopefully see Harry or one of the Weasleys before she left to let them know of her departure.

And then a tall, hard body bulldozed her.

Hermione's arm folded unceremoniously into her diaphragm, causing her to gasp for air. As she recovered, she looked up into the eyes of her attacker.

Steel grey.

"Malfoy!" Hermione gasped, preparing to berate him. Weren't Purebloods supposed to be polite and not bloody knock the breath out of innocent witches' lungs?

But her words caught in her throat as she took in Malfoy's appearance. He looked panicked, which was odd. And then he said something ridiculous.

"Granger—dance with me."

Hermione froze. The world froze.

"What are you—"

"No time," Malfoy hissed, eyes wide as he glanced behind him.

He grabbed her.

For a moment, the sensation was so similar to her dream that Hermione hardly reacted. Malfoy's right arm snaked around her waist, firm pressure guiding her backward—

—but not into an ivy-covered stone wall. Instead, Hermione's heel hit the edge of the wooden dance floor, causing her to stumble. Malfoy's arm pressed firmly around her torso, holding her upright. He spun them around. His left hand reached down to hold her right hand.

In the blink of an eye, they were waltzing.

"It's customary to wait for a partner to respond before accosting them into a dance," Hermione scolded, contemplating how much of a scene it would make if she shoved him away and stormed off.

"Shut up, Granger. I need to—"

It was all Hermione could do to process what was happening as Malfoy led them across the dance floor in a formation very atypical of the waltz. It seemed like he was fleeing something, if Hermione had to guess, which unsettled her—just not as much as the basic fact of dancing with Malfoy unsettled her.

Eventually, they reached the opposite end of the floor and dropped into rhythm with the music. When Malfoy relaxed, Hermione could feel it. His arms loosened, his grip lightened, and he exhaled, but he still would not meet her eyes.

That pissed her off.

"Who are you trying to avoid?" she demanded.

The music crescendoed, and Malfoy twirled her around in sync with the other couples.

He was rather good—not that she wouldeversay that to him. The dance was practically a kidnapping, after all.

"The worst witch in all Provence," Malfoy replied as they continued in the traditional box three-step, first to the right, then to the left. "Unfortunately, this gala suffers from a severe lack of Champagne towers for concealment."

Hermione startled at the casual reference to their time together at the Victory Ball in May. What happened next seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised her.

She laughed.

"What makes someone the worst witch in all Provence?" She glanced into his face only to find his mouth slightly open.

Hermione could not think of his mouth right now. She looked away.

He responded, "The personality of a blast-ended skrewt, a propensity for light sexual assault, and possible lineage from the fucking devil."

"Is that all?"

Malfoy guided her into a perfect underarm turn, and Hermione understood that he was quite a good dancer—much better than Theo, who ostensibly had a similar upbringing. Viktor was capable but uncreative. Harry, Terry, and Ron were not even worthy of being mentioned in the same conversation.

Hermione was dancing with Draco Malfoy. Her heart started beating faster, not just because of the tempo. They were close. He was touching her. She was in his arms.

"Come now, Granger," Malfoy said softly. "Have mercy. I wouldn't wish Jacqueline Ballinois on my worst enemy."

She sniffed, adjusting her posture. That was a bad idea because it forced Malfoy to readjust the placement of his hand on the small of her back—her bare back, exposed from the risqué cut of Lavender's design.

Malfoy suddenly looked as uncomfortable as she felt, and the pressure of his palm eased slightly. He said, "Thank you for enabling my escape."

"Well, don't get used to it," she replied nervously.

"What's the problem, Granger? Afraid to be seen with me?" Malfoy drawled. "Worried Potter and Weasel will think you're fraternizing with the enemy?"

"The enemy?" she repeated, dumbstruck. "I think you need to reconsider your worldview."

He led her into another twirl, and his mouth was dangerously close to her ear when he replied. "What does that mean?"

Hermione took a deep breath and waited for the dance and her heartbeat to even out before she responded. "Now that you've saved my life with your antivenin, Harry might be your biggest fan. Even Ron said it might have been good that you didn't die in the war."

It was true—and one of the most morbidly funny conversations she'd had in years.

Malfoy's entire body stiffened, though he managed to keep up with the movements of the dance.

"I didn't save your life—healers saved your life. We can't have your friends getting the wrong impression of me." The end of his sentence came out sharply. "The world might end if Weasley didn't wish me dead."

There he was, denying the importance of his work. Hermionewouldbe dead, or at the very least still in the hospital weeks later—perhaps permanently disabled—if he had not given St. Mungo's his advanced neutralizers and antidotes.

"Why are you so bloody reluctant to say that you helped?" Hermione rarely cursed, but needs must. She was tired of Malfoy's irate moods: at the Victory Ball, that day in Diagon Alley, in the greenhouse just that week.

His voice was gravelly. "You don't owe me anything, Granger."

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy. Who said I did?" she quipped, not hiding her annoyance. "That's very presumptuous of you. I can be grateful to you—andrecognize that your antivenin barely scratches the surface of making up for everything you've put me through in my life."

There she was, cursing again.

And thenhelaughed. Hermione was struck by its sound—deep and clear, like a wind chime. It was lovely.

Malfoy spun her out again and then pulled her back. The dance floor was very crowded, and couples were corralling them on all sides. Malfoy needed to press her close to avoid a collision.

The song faded and morphed into something slower.

Hermione's chest was fully touching his, and this was once again so like her dream that she was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. She didn't know what steps they were supposed to follow, but luckily Malfoy did. Or at least, he was unconcerned with the shift in the music.

She took a deep breath. Malfoy smelled like parchment, fresh-cut grass, and whiskey.

"Touché, Granger." Malfoy's voice was almost a whisper. "I'll keep trying to make it up to you, then."

Her heart was hammering in her chest.

The hand on the small of Hermione's back flitted toward her hip, where fabric mercifully separated her from the texture of his skin. Malfoy caressed the fabric with his thumb.

"Lily of the Valley," he murmured so quietly that she had to lean toward him. It was the pattern of her dress, she realized. She looked down at her bodice and then up into his eyes. He added, "New beginnings."

She swallowed, unpleasantly noting the lack of moisture in her mouth. Her voice was shaky, but she replied, "I don't know much about flower language."

"Hermione Granger doesn't know something. … I should go alert the media."

It wasn't as though he had called her Hermione, as though he said her name intentionally. But the syllables escaped his lips just the same.

She couldn't think.

So, instead, she danced. They danced together in silence until the end of the second song. Hermione did her best not to look at him. She was afraid of what would happen if she did. Instead, she memorized the feel of him: the temperature of his hands; the hardness of his shoulder where it rested underneath her palm; the angle of his neck whenever he led them through a turn.

And then it ended. The song faded into silence, and the enchanted orchestra took up an upbeat tune so incongruous with Hermione's headspace that she stopped where she stood. Malfoy did, too. She looked at him and noticed that he seemed as fazed as she felt.

Hermione dropped her hand slowly from Malfoy's shoulder. The realization that the dance had concluded came to Malfoy a beat later, and he let her go, taking a quick half-step away.

She was cold from his absence.

"Good luck avoiding … whoever it was," Hermione told him. She could not remember the witch's name nor anything that had happened earlier in the evening.

"Thanks, Granger."

Hermione looked up at the sky and almost gasped. The moon was half red now, the upper edge disappearing into a dark shadow.

"The eclipse," she announced, surprised that she had forgotten for a moment.

Malfoy followed her gaze upward and then looked back down at her.

Wary of falling into the trance of his eyes, Hermione started spewing facts. "In Norse mythology, there are two wolves named Sköll and Hati, and a lunar eclipse occurs when one of the wolves successfully eats either the Sun or the Moon."

Malfoy frowned and slipped his hands into the pockets of his robes. "Maybe your werewolves will get some respite this evening, then."

She was about to mention that an eclipse caused quite the opposite effect—not respite but chaos and pain—when a spinning couple jostled them. Hermione stumbled to the side, and Malfoy's hand shot out to prevent her from falling for the second time that evening.

They had been standing like statues on the dance floor, after all. It was only a matter of time before they got in the way. With a hot hand on her sleeve-covered arm, Malfoy led Hermione to the edge of the dance floor.

The gala was crowded—unreasonably so. But Hermione was still grateful for the anonymity of the masses. Hermione Granger had just danced with Draco Malfoy. This might have been front-page news in London, but in Provence, no photographers trailed them.

Standing frozen in front of Malfoy, Hermione wondered what might have happened if they had danced together at the Victory Ball. Would they have caused a scene? Would an old witch like the one at Westbrook's have yelled at Malfoy for his past? Would Hermione have even let a dance happen? No, probably not. Not back then. Had it been only a few months?

She felt like she'd lived lifetimes since that night: the attacks, Harry's injury, her leave, the DMLE, the explosion … the Dueling Arena. His breath on her lips. Running away.

She had wanted to kiss him, then, and she wanted to kiss him still.

"Malfoy," Hermione said, hoarse. "About that night …"

"Yes?" he urged. His stare was acute. Interminable.

And then a howl broke through the night.

The dancing stopped around Hermione and Malfoy, but the music continued. The spelled instruments were unaware of the frightening sound. Hermione tensed but could not see anything over the crowd of heads.

"What's happening?" Hermione asked Malfoy, who stood a good foot taller.

"Not sure," he murmured. They were still standing close together at the edge of the dance floor.

A woman screamed in the distance. Hermione's head whipped around, looking for its source—the howl, the scream, anything.

It couldn't be werewolves. Not there, with Aurors, vampires, and all manner of protective enchantments around the stadium.

Then came a crash from the stands, followed by another piercing scream, and Hermione's stomach dropped as she saw them. Dreadfully familiar creatures—a pack of them—began leaping down from the stadium seating and onto the pitch. They were masses of mangled fur and bared teeth, hulking shapes with predatory eyes gleaming under the floating lights. They landed with loud thuds and snarls, sending the crowd into an instant panic. A stampede started forming, the silk and satin-clad guests clambering toward the stadium exit.

Suddenly, Hermione flashed back to the Hogwarts greenhouses on May Second, fighting an anonymous and vicious werewolf while Harry defended against three by himself.

Harry. She had to find Harry.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who looked dangerously frozen, though his eyes betrayed some fury. Part of her still wanted to kiss him, and she regretted leaving the moment behind. She pulled her wand from its sheath and tapped at the skirt seam on her waist, the fabric retracting and her trousers emerging instead.

Hermione took a breath and broke into a sprint.

Malfoy's voice sounded from behind her, almost drowned out by the clamor. "Granger, what the fuck are you doing?"

Ignoring Malfoy, Hermione kept running, pushing through terrified witches and wizards scrambling toward the exit. A few tried to disapparate but were met with anti-apparition wards. Others rushed into doors along the pitch's ground level, into the teams' quarters, or up toward the stands.

A flash of crimson darted past her as French Ministry officials attempted to gain control of the situation, their shouts lost in the noise. Hermione caught sight of Harry's distinctive figure, his wand drawn, scanning the chaos.

"Harry!" she cried. He turned, his expression fiercely determined as he approached her.

Another howl split the air, and Hermione glanced up, heart racing as she saw more dark shapes leap, snarling onto the field from the stands. There were at least a dozen of them.

Someone grabbed her arm, pulling her back as she stumbled, and Hermione was shocked to see that Malfoy had followed her. His hair was tousled from their sprint across the pitch, and he clutched his wand.

"Granger, this is not your jurisdiction. Come on!" he insisted, dragging her toward the stadium's exit.

"Stop it!" she shot back, wrenching her arm free.

Harry reached them. He instantly grabbed Hermione's shoulder and proceeded to steer them, also, toward the exit. "Let's get out of here."

Hermione almost screamed in frustration as she freed herself from Harry's grip. She had a swirling, sinking, wrong feeling in her chest. Utterly wrong.

The acrid tang of spellfire wafted through the air. Hermione looked across the pitch, which was nearly empty now. Most of the crowd was flooding toward the open doorways on the other side of the stadium. French Aurors attempted to corral the wolves, flinging curses and jinxes to reign in their movements. At some point, the enchanted instruments had ceased their songs, and even from a distance, Hermione could hear the lupine snarls.

"Where the fuck are those blasted vampires?" Malfoy hissed.

That was a good question. Hermione could not see any of the vampires who had been guarding the stadium.

"Draco!" came another voice, and then Theo trotted over to them from within a nearby mob. "What are you doing? Let's go!" He gestured obviously toward the retreating guests.

Hermione wasmissing something. She looked over at the fighting Aurors, then up at the stands where the wolves had originated. Some witches and wizards cowered in the highest boxes, biding their time until they, too, could flee. Her eyes panned up toward the sky. How had the wolves entered the stadium? Surely, they could not use a Floo.

And then she saw the moon. It was dark brown and red, barely visible through the stadium lights as it bled into the night sky. The eclipse was at its height.

She looked at the snarling wolves, then up at the moon.

The realization hit her like a bludger. "They're not werewolves."

She spun around to face Harry, who was arguing with Malfoy and Theo. "Just get out of here, then!" Harry snapped.

Hermione grabbed Harry's wand arm, looking frantically between the three wizards before her.

"They're not werewolves!"

Up Next: They're not werewolves?