Chapter 33: Hermione
Impossible
"Perhaps it's impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be." ― Orson Scott Card,Ender's Game
Meanwhile—
What just happened?
Hermione walked quickly through the arena, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to get away—put some distance between herself and Malfoy before she lost her composure entirely.
How had she let it get so far?
She had been sitting there, speaking with him, actuallyenjoyingtheir conversation. It was strange enough that they had been talking like old acquaintances, but then there had been that moment—that almost kiss. Her mind replayed it over and over, the way his face had softened, the way his eyes had locked onto hers with an intensity she had never seen before. And then the brush of his lips, so light—barely even there—but enough to send a shockwave through her entire body.
She felt electric. She felt like wildfire. She burned.
Hermione hadn't expected it. Not fromMalfoy. There had always beensomethingbetween them—resentment, hatred, indifference—but it had never beenthis.
This was new, and it frightened her.
Hermione had spent many years thinking of Malfoy as an enemy, the arrogant boy who had tormented her and her friends—the son of a dynasty that wanted her and everyone like her dead. But Malfoy was no longer that person—right? Had they not been discussing just that? Not in precise words, but …
It unnerved her how close she had been to leaning into a kiss. To kiss Malfoy!
What had she been thinking? She had been so caught up in the moment, in the depth of his voice, in how he had looked at her with something akin to admiration. And then he had leaned in close, and she had almost—almost—let it happen.
What would have happened if she hadn't pulled away?
The thought made Hermione's stomach churn with fear and excitement. Malfoy was handsome—captivating. She had known that ever since she was old enough to think of the opposite sex in such terms. But she had never considered Malfoy in that way, not seriously. But now …
It was all she could think about: that brief touch, that shared breath.
This was dangerous territory. Hermione couldn't afford to get involved with Malfoy. What would people think? She was already on tenterhooks with the press and the Ministry. Wouldn't a—relationship? No, that was too strong of a word. Flirtation? Fling? Entanglement?—with Draco Malfoy, of all people, make things worse?
She disagreed that Malfoy needed to retreat from all society to protect his privacy, but something in his attitude toward the larger world rang true within her. Neither of them was beloved, even though it was for different reasons.
And then there was another possibility: Malfoy had not intended to kiss her at all, and she was imagining the entire thing. Somehow, that was the scariest thought of all.
She needed to find Harry and Ron and immediately return to some normalcy. Urgently. Ten minutes alone with Malfoy, and she had already lost her mind.
The Next Day—
Sunday, August 5, 2007
The next day, Hermione was exhausted. The remaining weakness from her time in the hospital and her two intense duels with Harry and Theo had taken their toll on her body.
She lay in bed until noon and pretended that she couldn't still feel the burning ghost of Malfoy's breath on her lips.
After pulling herself together and lumbering out of bed, Hermione went to Ron and Lavender's apartment. Hermione could hear Ron snoring through the closed door to their bedroom—and she thoughtshehad been lazy.
Hermione stepped into the chaotic swirl of fabrics that filled Lavender and Ron's sitting room, almost tripping over a roll of emerald green satin. She caught herself on the arm of a chair. The room looked like a fabric shop had exploded, with bolts of cloth draped over every available surface.
"Hello?" she called.
"Hermione, you're here!" Lavender popped up from behind a stack of brocade, her blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She looked flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling as she surveyed her handiwork. "Sorry for the mess."
"Are you alright?" Hermione inquired as Lavender bobbed out of her sight again.
"Brill," Lavender's disembodied voice replied. "Just couldn't figure out the right fabrics. I'll return most of these, but I wanted to have them here while I worked on your robes. I have a few options for you to look at, but you'll look stunning, I promise."
Lavender picked up a stack of folded linens, dropping them on a chair to make room for Hermione to maneuver around toward her.
Hermione smiled, though her nerves fluttered at the idea of being the center of attention at the European Championship gala. "Thanks, Lavender. I'm really grateful for this. Just …"
"I know," Lavender interrupted, holding up a hand. "No pink, full coverage on the arms, and you need to be able to move. I've got you covered, literally."
Lavender reached behind a stack of cushions and pulled out the first set of dress robes. They were a deep emerald color, the fabric shimmering as she unfurled it. The robes had long, fitted sleeves and a high neckline, the bodice intricately embroidered with golden threads in a pattern that resembled vines climbing toward the shoulders. The skirt was full, with a slit hidden beneath layers of fabric that would allow for easy movement.
"These are beautiful," Hermione said, running her fingers over the embroidery. "But maybe a bit too heavy? For an August event, that is."
Lavender nodded thoughtfully. "Fair point. I do love the color on you, though." She set the robes aside and reached for the next option, which was more subdued.
"This one looks grey, but it's silver in the light," Lavender explained, holding a set of sleek, tailored robes. The fabric was lightweight, almost matte in finish, with a subtle sheen that emerged when Lavender rippled it under a nearby lamp. The sleeves were fitted with delicate silver buttons running from wrist to elbow. The neckline was square, the bodice structured but not stiff, and the skirt flared slightly at the hips, giving the whole ensemble a modern, elegant feel.
Hermione examined the robes, turning them this way and that. "This is lovely, Lavender. But maybe a bit too formal? I'm not sure it's right for a summer Quidditch event."
Lavender nodded again. "I thought you might say that. Which is why I saved the best for last."
She turned to a chair in the corner, where the final set of robes hung carefully over the back. They were periwinkle blue, the silk fabric catching the light as Lavender brought them over. The robes seemed simple from a distance, with a pattern resembling tiny white dots scattered across the fabric. But as Lavender held them up, Hermione saw that the dots were miniature calla lilies, their delicate petals perfectly formed.
"This is …" Hermione trailed off, touching the fabric. It felt like water between her fingers, cool and smooth, almost weightless.
"Put it on," Lavender urged, handing her the robes and gesturing toward the only open space in the room. "Go on, I'll give you some privacy."
Hermione nodded, taking the robes and watching Lavender exit. She slipped out of her casual clothes and into the dress robes, marveling at how perfectly they fit. The bodice clung securely to her form without being restrictive, and the skirt flowed around her legs like a waterfall. The open back was more daring than Hermione would ever choose, but she didn't mind it as much as she thought. The robes were elegant yet practical—she could move quickly, dance, even run if she had to.
When Lavender stepped back into the sitting room, her eyes were wide and admiring. "Hermione, you look incredible! That color is perfect on you, and the cut is just right, if I say so myself. Turn around, let me see."
Hermione did as she was told, twirling slightly to let the skirt flare out. She couldn't help but smile; the robes did feel perfect.
Lavender clapped her hands together, beaming. "This is the one! You'll be the most stunning witch at the gala. What do you think?"
Hermione hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the open back. "Is the back too much, though?"
"Not at all," Lavender assured her. "And besides, look at this." She reached toward the small of Hermione's back, tapping a hidden button. With a quick flick, the skirt detached, revealing a pair of concealed knee-length trousers underneath. "See? You can remove the skirt if needed—hopefully, you won't have to run off into battle again."
Hermione laughed, feeling more at ease. "Probably not, but it's nice to know I could if I had to."
Lavender grinned. "If you run, I hope it's from admirers."
Hermione's smile faltered for just a moment. "Nope, no admirers to worry about. Why do you say that?"
Lavender gave her a sly look. "Oh, just a hunch. You seem to be on everyone's mind lately." She turned and walked into the next room. When Lavender returned, she was holding a magazine with a garishly pink cover. Hermione recognized it immediately—Witch Weekly.
Lavender held it out to her, her expression suddenly more serious. "Potterwatch is going mainstream."
Hermione took the magazine in her hand, sitting on a free square inch of the sofa in the room. On the cover an awful photo of her and Harry was prominently displayed. The image looped repeatedly, showing the moment Harry stepped on her toe while dancing at a ball, causing her to shove him away in pain. But in the photo, it looked like she was angrily pushing him away, her face twisted in anger.
The headline blared: HERMIONE GRANGER—HEARTBREAKER! THE STORY OF HARRY POTTER'S UNREQUITED LOVE.
Hermione's stomach churned with disgust. "This is awful. … Maybe we should reconsider our plan to interview with Witch Weekly." Their previous agreement had taken a back burner since Hermione's injury, but now Hermione was reconsidering the entire thing.
Lavender shrugged, though her eyes were sharp and understanding. "If you want to drown out this media coverage, we'll have to give them something else to publish."
Hermione sighed, nodding. "I suppose you're right."
Lavender tilted her head, a hint of a smile returning. "Speaking of which, have you been dating anyone else since you broke up with Terry?"
Hermione shook her head, trying to keep her thoughts from drifting to Malfoy. "No, I'm not."
Lavender's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Well, Harry mentioned that someone might be interested in you."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Did Harry know about Malfoy? Did he see them last night? Was this Lavender's roundabout way of teasing her? But then Lavender added, "Harry said one of the werewolves you help was flirting with you."
Hermione blushed, thinking of Joseph Dearborn and the dinner invitation she had dismissed as strictly business. Immediately after that, she had run into Terry … and then had that awkward encounter in their old apartment. Andthenthe explosion happened. Poor Joseph Dearborn had slipped her mind.
But, had he intended that invitation as a date?
"You mean Joseph. … Oh, I'm not sure that's true," Hermione said.
Lavender shrugged, still smiling. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to be seen out with a hot, muscular older man who also happens to be a werewolf. Think of the statement it would make."
"Hmm." Hermione nodded, though she wasn't considering it. The idea of using Joseph for publicity was abhorrent. She did want to have dinner with him if only to pick his brain about the differences between Muggle and Magical law.
As Hermione continued to leaf through Witch Weekly, her eye caught on a smaller article nestled beneath the garish headline that disgusted her. The title read ASTORIA GREENGRASS AND ADRIAN PUCEY CALL OFF ENGAGEMENT. Curiosity bloomed, and she began to read.
The article was as sensational as she had expected, dripping with innuendo and speculation. It detailed how Astoria Greengrass, the "stunning" younger sister of Daphne Greengrass, had called off her engagement to Adrian Pucey, another Slytherin that Hermione vaguely remembered, after only a few weeks. But it wasn't the breakup that made Hermione's stomach twist; it was the following lines.
Miss Greengrass, who was famously engaged to Draco Malfoy five years ago, before they also parted ways, seems to have a penchant for broken engagements. Sources close to the former couple suggest that something is off with Miss Greengrass, but could it be that her heart never quite left her enigmatic former fiancé? Just last week, the Greengrass sisters were overheard at the exclusive Griffon Tea Parlour discussing none other than the reclusive current Lord Malfoy himself. Perhaps there's a chance for romance to rekindle?
Beneath the article was a photograph of Astoria, her beauty undeniable even in the grainy print. She was seated at the tea parlor, her features framed by the soft light filtering through the windows. Her black hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders.
Astoria was breathtaking, the kind of woman who made perfection seem effortless, and the article's flirtatious suggestion about rekindling a romance with Malfoy only added to Hermione's unease. Suddenly, the memory of the night before—the almost-kiss, the intensity in Malfoy's eyes—seemed insignificant, a fleeting moment that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Why would someone like Malfoy act like he was pursuing Hermione when his past experience wasthis? Astoria Greengrass and Malfoy had been engaged. Posh. Poised.Pureblood. Hermione didn't think Astoria was better than her—absolutely not, in fact. But there was no denying that Hermione and Astoria were as far apart as two witches could be in their society.
As Hermione set the magazine down, Lavender's earlier suggestion began to take on a new weight. Maybe she should go along with the "getting out there" plan, not just to drown out the media's nonsense, but to remind herself that she had her own life to live, separate from whatever was—wasn't—happening with Malfoy. It would be a way to push forward, even if a part of her couldn't shake the feeling of his breath on her lips.
Had it really been less than a day? Hermione's thoughts drifted back to what Malfoy had said the night before about making herself impossible to ignore.
"Maybe you're right, Lavender. If I'm seen on a date, the magazine might be more interested in interviewing us—together."
Lavender shrieked with delight, clapping her hands. "Yes! That's the spirit! And I've just the thing for you to wear on that date. Maybe an anonymous owl to a paparazzo could seal the deal."
Hermione laughed nervously, the idea making her a bit uncomfortable. "I don't know about that. I should talk to Joseph first. I'm not agreeing to anything yet—I'm not even sure this sort of thing is ethical. Only if he agrees."
Lavender winked, already rifling through another stack of fabrics. "Whatever you decide, you're going to look fabulous doing it. Just promise me you'll have some fun, Hermione. You deserve it."
Two Days Later—
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Law Offices of Joseph A. Dearborn, Fleet Street, London
Joseph looked up from his desk as she entered his office, his face lighting up with a warm smile. He stood up and met her on the opposite side of his desk, reaching down to hug her. "Hermione! I got the message you left with my receptionist earlier. How are you feeling?"
She returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm much better, thanks. I'm sorry I missed the full moon—I was a bit preoccupied."
Joseph's expression turned serious. Hermione thought he looked good—remarkably good. Considering why she was there, it was hard for her not to notice how well he fit into his navy blue Muggle three-piece suit. It had been a week since the full moon, and he seemed to have recovered fully, with just a normal amount of tiredness in his eyes for a practicing lawyer.
"The other Aurors told me you were injured. I'm just glad to see you're okay, honestly." His voice showed his sincerity, and his eyes searched her face as if making sure she was alright.
Hermione nodded. "Yes, it was a close call, but I'm fine now. Still, I was sad not to be there the other night—I was so excited to be reassigned, finally, and then…"
Joseph waved off her apology with a gentle shake of his head. "Don't even think about it. Your health comes first."
The warmth in his words made Hermione feel a little lighter, and she allowed herself to relax. She appreciated Joseph's straightforward kindness, contrasting with the more complicated dynamics of others she interacted with.
"Thank you," she said softly, glancing around his office. It was modest, with bookshelves lined with legal texts. Two worn leather chairs sat in the corner by the window—where they had last sat for a meeting. "It's been rough, but I'm on the mend."
Joseph's gaze remained on her, his eyes lingering longer than necessary before he spoke again. "I'm glad to hear that. You know, you can always come by if you ever need to talk—or anything else."
"I might take you up on that," she said with a small smile.
Joseph leaned against his desk, his arms crossing before him, making him look even more imposing. "It's the least I can do. We're in this together, remember?"
"I remember," she replied, her voice steady.
For a moment, they stood there in comfortable silence, the noise of the bustling street outside muffled by the thick walls of the office. It was easy, standing here with him, easier than she had anticipated.
Joseph finally broke the silence, his tone lightening. "So, what brings you to my neck of the woods today? Just checking in, or was there something specific you wanted to discuss?"
Hermione hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject that had been on her mind since her conversation with Lavender. "I did want to talk to you about something…"
Joseph's eyebrows raised slightly. "You've got my full attention."
"Dinner," said Hermione, hesitant to launch into a monologue outright.
Joseph blinked as if taken aback, and then he smiled, quirking a brow in a distinctively suggestive way. "Dinner."
"Yes," said Hermione, blushing.
"I'm glad you remembered, I have to say."
"Yes," Hermione replied, though she did feel a twinge of guilt that she needed her conversation with Lavender to remind her. "But, I do have a couple of, well, concerns."
"I don't bite—most days," Joseph joked, and Hermione chuckled at the irony.
"I've been getting some bad press, you could say," Hermione continued after mustering up her courage. "Bad headlines—negative stories, tabloid stuff. And, I want to draw some positive attention—not to me. I couldn't care less about what journalists write about me. But because I've been so vocal about my Werewolf Rights Bill, I'm afraid the negative associations will drag everything down for as long as I live." Hermione sighed.
"You know," Joseph began, scratching the stubble along his chin, "you are a beloved figure, Hermione. And it's not just me who thinks so."
"Oh." Hermione fiddled with some hair, tucking it behind her ear lobe. She was still surprised at the shorter length. "Well, I do appreciate that, thank you. But the vast majority of …things… these days are negative. If we play our cards right, we can drum up a lot of attention and get people questioning the Night of Terror Act."
"And … this has to do with our date?"
Hermione was stunned for a moment that he called it a date and then felt ridiculous for being stunned. She was a full-grown woman of almost twenty-eight years. Joseph wasthirty-eight. She was not a blushing schoolgirl anymore.
She cleared her throat. "I wanted to see if you would be willing to … I suppose just to be seen with me. A photo in the paper, maybe. I know it's completely amoral and wrong. I'm not that sort of person,really. I can't even quite believe I'm asking, to be honest." Hermione hid her face in her hands, then breathed and met his eyes. Joseph's eyes were a dark blue, like the ocean. And they were currently boring down into her own. "I suppose what I mean is—if we got some attention,especially you, a handsome wizard with a career who just happens to have lycanthropy … do you see what I mean?"
Hermione wanted to crawl into a hole and wait for death. It felt like death might come, too—that's how long the silence was after her ineloquent pitch.
"So …" Joseph's deep voice pierced the awkward lull in the room. He looked almost sad. "Is this the only reason you wanted to have dinner?"
"No!" Hermione exclaimed, horrified. Oh, Merlin, hedidthink she was using him. This was her worst fear. "No, I wanted to have dinner with you anyway. But I didn't want to get into anything without—without…"
"I know you're famous, Hermione," Joseph said. Hermione was sad to see the twinkle in his eyes from earlier had disappeared. "And I know I'm older, and a werewolf, and just a Muggle lawyer—I'm less than nothing in the Magical World. That's why I work here." He gestured around at his office.
"Why do you think you're nothing?" Hermione implored, suddenly angry. "You're one of the best people I've met in the Magical World. You have so many people who count on you, and you seem completely unfazed, even with the government calling you a danger to society. I admire you." Hermione meant all her words. "I think the rest of the world should admire you, too."
They hadn't even sat down the entire time they were talking. Joseph was leaning against his desk, and Hermione stood before him, fingering the wooden back of the guest chair next to her hip.
Joseph let Hermione's words hang in the air between them. He stood from where he leaned and took a step toward her. He was tall, much taller than Harry and maybe even Ron, and close enough for Hermione to smell his Muggle cologne. The aroma was comforting, like something her dad might have worn in her childhood.
"I'm in," Joseph told her, voice firm. The edge of his mouth quirked up. "On one condition."
"Oh?" said Hermione, whose heart was thudding against her ribs.
"You let me take you to dinner right now at the Thai place around the corner. And then we can have dinner again later this week in a Magical restaurant." Joseph smiled. "I'll send the photo to The Prophet myself."
Hermione breathed in, not quite a gasp, and looked into his eyes. "I was thinking of Witch Weekly."
Joseph laughed and shook his head. He bent down and took one of Hermione's hands in his own, bringing her knuckles to his mouth and kissing them softly. "Would you accompany me to dinner, Miss Granger?"
"Yes."
Up Next: The physical and existential suffering of Draco Malfoy's French holiday.