Chapter 13: Hermione

Eyes Sparkle

"Stay close to those who sing, tell stories, enjoy life and whose eyes sparkle with happiness. Because happiness is contagious and will always manage to find a solution whereas logic can find only an explanation for the mistake made." — Paulo Coelho, The Manuscript Found in Accra

Three days earlier—
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Outside The Goodwin Residence, Fulham

"And … where did you get this?" Hermione asked skeptically. The Wolfsbane was, to her expertise, perfectly brewed.

"I told you, my new potions contact," replied Harry. He tapped the heels of his trainers on the pavement, something Hermione knew to be one of his nervous tics. "He's French."

"What's his name?" She interrogated.

Harry's eyes widened. "Oh, um… Jacques… Jacques Eclair," he paused, "the third."

"Jacques Eclair the Third?" repeated Hermione blankly.

"Yes," Harry said with some assurance, though his heel kept tapping.

Hermione brought the carafe of potion up to eye level, gazing between it and her best friend. "This is a goblin-made silver ewer dating, if I am not mistaken, to the thirteenth century."

Harry seemed nonplussed, but he recovered quickly. "Oh, but that's mine, you know. Found it around Grimmauld Place."

Hermione took a step toward him, and Harry moved back in alarm. "Why are you lying?"

Green eyes met brown, and after a moment, Harry sighed in resignation. "I'm sorry. I gave my word to keep this person's identity concealed."

"Well, fine, but don't go trying to pull 'Jacques Eclair the Third' on anyone else," she said, and Harry looked sheepish. "You trust where you got this? The person who brewed this?"

Harry considered her question for a moment, and he seemed a bit surprised when he replied. "Yes."

"Okay then. I trust you," Hermione told him with a firm nod. And she did, even though in her mind she made a note to figure out who the real Monsieur Eclair was in the future. She squared her shoulders and turned toward the Goodwin's front door. "See you later?"

Harry smiled and nodded. "Of course. Sure you don't want me to come inside with you?"

"Best to have as few people as possible this time, I think," she said, and Harry left with a wave.

Thankfully, Mr. Goodwin was out at work, so Hermione could pass off the medicine to Philip and his mother without incident. She wrote down detailed instructions for them on how much to take over the next several days and monitored their first dose.

"There's enough in that container for three people," Hermione told Philip at the door as she left sometime later.

Philip nodded sadly. "Thanks."

Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Flat of Ron and Lavender Weasley

Hermione felt like a human cupcake.

There was so much volume. The dress robe billowed out to what felt like an impossible extent. Hermione had hoped her regret for giving Lavender free rein over the evening's attire would not be so profound, but in the immediate moments after the fabric encased her body, Hermione felt the regret wash over her in waves.

"Wow," Hermione said, careful to manage her tone.

Lavender squealed. "You look amazing! Oh, it's just like I imagined!"

"The robe is incredible, Lav. And it really suits you, Hermione," Parvati said from across the room.

Hermione refrained from commenting and moved around to get used to the garment. She was surprised that she felt at ease as she moved through the cramped flat. The fabric, despite there being so much of it, felt like air.

"It's so light," Hermione murmured. "Is there —?"

"—a modified featherlight charm on the hem," Lavender interjected knowingly. "Yes! You taught me that spell fifth year."

A genuine smile bloomed on Hermione's face.

"And it has pockets!" Lavender enthused.

Hermione dug around the full skirt and was surprised to find hidden incisions at each hip. She dug her hands inside and found the pockets sturdy and deep. Curious, she picked up her beaded bag from the coffee table where she had rested it, and she was delighted when the bag fit perfectly inside the righthand pocket.

"Lavender, this is great," Hermione told her friend with genuine enthusiasm.

"I know it's not exactly your style," Lavender replied with a wink, "but I think you'll appreciate some of these experimental features. So, we have the featherlight charm on the skirt hem and pockets with a partial extension charm. You already asked for the cropped trousers under the skirt, so I hope those are feeling okay. Plus, since I know you…" Lavender walked over to Hermione and grabbed her left arm, flipping it up and over.

The sleeves were sheer, but much of the translucent fabric was covered with gold sequins and beads, including the span of her forearm with her scar, which Hermione appreciated.

Lavender ran her fingers from the cuff upward, and to Hermione's delight, a lip revealed a second layer of fabric.

"I added a concealed wand holster here on the forearm."

Eyes wide, Hermione eagerly picked up her wand and slid it under the lip, finding that the wood fit snugly against her arm but virtually disappeared. No one would know by looking that it was there.

"Lavender," Hermione breathed out. "This spell-work is incredible."

The witch beamed back at Hermione, the scars along her face bending with the force of her smile. "You're my muse! Come over to the mirror. You have to see."

Hermione flushed and allowed Lavender to guide her through the messy flat, which looked like a hurricane had run through it, into the bedroom and over to a floor-length mirror.

Standing in front of the reflective surface, Hermione was stunned. Since the Yule Ball during Hogwarts, she could not remember ever having looked so put together. The robe's neckline was lower than Hermione would have liked. Still, Lavender left a layer of sheer fabric over much of her chest. A clasp at the base of her neck secured a long cape and train behind her. The sequins and beads were dense around her waist, where the full skirt extended out, matching the density at her elbows and forearms on the long sleeves. They faded into the black base fabric as they extended toward the ground and her wrists.

Parvati had spent an hour fixing up Hermione's hair. The front was pinned back behind each of Hermione's ears while the rest of the length ran in loose waves down her back. Parvati had used some product that made it appear like gold leaf fluttered through the strands, matching the specks of light in her dress. The effect was quite the image, even though Hermione did not quite feel like herself.

"Lavender," Hermione stated, turning to face the other witch, "Thank you. This is the best I've looked, pretty much ever. Thank you, too, Parvati," she called toward the door where Parvati stood, smiling.

"Are you kidding?" Lavender replied incredulously. "Thank you. This could really help me get the word out, maybe get some clients," she clapped her hands excitedly.

In the distance, the witches heard the sound of a door opening and closing, and Ron's voice came through soon after. "Hey, everyone! Are you almost ready?"

A few moments later, a bright red head of hair peeked into the bedroom around Parvati's shoulder. "Hi, ladies. Wow—"

He stepped into the room with a gobsmacked expression. But Hermione smiled, knowing she was not his gaze's subject.

"Lav," he almost whispered. "You look so beautiful." He approached her, looking at her silvery sky-blue dress with awe before grinning, grabbing her by the waist, and spinning her around in the air. "I am the luckiest man alive."

Lavender giggled, and when Ron set her back on the ground, she kissed him sweetly, and he pulled her close. Hermione blushed and looked away. Parvati rolled her eyes in the doorway.

After some long moments, Lavender swatted Ron's shoulder. "Stop it. I'm not the masterpiece tonight—look at Hermione!"

Ron turned his attention toward Hermione, and his goofy grin transformed into a soft smile. "Hey, Mione. You look great."

Hermione spun around, allowing the fabric to balloon out around her legs. "All thanks to your wife."

"I can't wait to be accosted by the press," Ron said, turning back to Lavender, "so that I can brag about the most beautiful and talented designer in the world."

Lavender blushed, "Okay, okay, let's get going. We're late already."

One hour later—
The Atrium, Ministry of Magic

Hermione was exhausted. She had apparated into the Ministry an hour ago with Ron, Lavender, and Parvati, and they had yet to make it into the event space.

As soon as they appeared, they were surrounded. Ministry colleagues, starry-eyed guests, and reporters from every publication in Europe surrounded them, Hermione in particular.

"Hermione Granger, look over here!"

"Miss Granger—do you expect another massacre in France again tonight?"

"Miss Granger, what is your department doing to protect us from werewolves?"

"Miss Granger, have you and Harry Potter discussed steps to prevent an attack?"

If there was anything true about Hermione Granger, it was that she liked to be prepared. The flash of bulbs was blinding and disorienting. But Hermione came to the Victory Ball having memorized answers to every possible question she would be asked, and she repeated them back to reporters faster than they could prepare their Quick Quotes Quills.

In sum, The Ministry did not have any particular expectations for potentially dangerous activities in France this evening, but they were in constant contact and prepared to provide any assistance necessary to their European allies. Also, the incident in Montaroux, France, during the early hours of April the third, was not a massacre, and it would be detrimental to international relations to call it so. No one lost their life, and no one was infected with Lycanthropy. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have been working tirelessly to ensure the public safety of wizards and Muggles in Britain, including provenly effective measures such as the acquisition and dissemination of the Wolfsbane potion to those infected with Lycanthropy as well as magically reinforced sanctuary on nights of the full moon, including this evening. These measures are set to be further reinforced and inscribed into law with the Remus Lupin Memorial Bill for the Rights and Protections of People with Lycanthropy, which will be put before the Wizengamot at the earliest opportunity. Please direct any other questions to department heads Octavia Randall and Gawain Robards and you are stepping on the train of my robe please take a step back thank you very much.

Hermione Granger did not stutter during a test of her mental acumen.

Then she heard, "Miss Granger, what are you wearing?"

Ah, finally. It was easy to talk about Lavender and compliment her work. It was impressive, Hermione had to admit. Her skirt had no wrinkles even after being surrounded by a horde of sweaty journalists—dress robe and the design process. She found that she could put forth an image of genuine happiness while speaking of the garment and its creator, whom she eventually pulled close and thrust into the throng of attention. Once reporters latched onto a preening Lavender and Ron Weasley as subjects of scrutiny, Hermione was finally able to slip away.

As she stepped toward the dance floor and the ball proper, Hermione encountered Priscilla from her department, who provided her with down-to-earth small talk and, thus, a merciful reprieve from her duty of quelling public panic. Even as she conversed with Priscilla, she noticed a group of fresh-from-Hogwarts Ministry employees hovering a few feet away, ready to regale her with more questions.

"What brings you ladies here this evening?" interjected a familiar voice, and Hermione turned to see Harry's cheeky grin.

"Harry," she greeted with a sigh of relief. He looked as tired as she felt, but the burgundy tone of his robes made his green eyes stand out all the brighter.

"Hi, Mr. Potter. Are you having a good evening?" Priscilla asked from beside them.

"Good enough, Priscilla, thank you. You know you can call me Harry, right? We've met at least a dozen times."

The blonde witch looked at him wide-eyed. "Okay, Mr. Potter, thank you. I'll remember that for next time. Great. Have a nice evening. Oh, look, there's pudding over there. Okay, goodbye then." And she scurried off.

Harry blinked, "Will that ever change, you think?"

"No." Hermione giggled. "Maybe it's your bulging arm muscles. They bend the space-time in your immediate vicinity, you see. It's very disorienting for the layperson."

"Oh Merlin, just stop with that," he muttered, glowering. "Except, are they …?" He lifted his elbows experimentally.

"I'm only joking. You look great." Hermione reached forward and rubbed his upper arms in support. Definitely tight with the fabric, but that was a conversation for another time.

He huffed and looked back at her, taking a step back. He grabbed her left hand with his right and murmured, "Wow," lifting their hands up and spinning her around. "You look amazing. Lavender did a great job."

Hermione smiled, knowing he witnessed more than one frantic exchange between her, Ron, Lavender, and anyone in their immediate vicinity the past few weeks.

"Thanks. How's the evening?"

He sighed. "Megan is on duty in the pit awaiting any owls or floo calls. I still marvel they didn't move the event to the weekend. Would have solved all the full moon security issues."

"They're trying to put us in an early grave from stress and intentionally discriminate against werewolves who physically cannot be here," Hermione muttered. Noticing the proximity of many groups around them, she cleared her throat. "Of course, it's about not bowing down to fear."

"Right," Harry said knowingly, and then he suddenly adopted his most contrived smile. He cast his eyes around, then abruptly turned to Hermione and held out his hand. "Care to dance, Deputy Head Granger?"

"Harry," she started incredulously, "you literally broke my toe the last time—"

He cut in, "I thought you might like to know that Terry is heading towards us —"

"Of course Head Auror Potter, I would love to dance!" She grabbed his wrist and pulled him bodily through the throng to the nearby dancing space. As they turned toward each other, she surreptitiously glanced back where they had been and saw Terry's familiar sandy brown head standing alone at the edge of the floor. She huffed and faced Harry. "Don't do anything fancy, okay? Let's just—we can sway."

Harry sighed tiredly. "It was one time—"

"It was broken, Harry James Potter, and there was a photograph—"

"—hardly the end of the world—"

"—still print it whenever I come up in an article. I can't fathom how you were an athlete—"

"—said sorry so many times, and there is far more maneuverability while flying because of all the air, you know—"

"—I forgive you." She ended firmly, then added with a smile after a moment, "for tonight."

Harry grinned, "I'll take it."

They began to sway delicately, and after a moment Hermione used her firm grip on Harry's shoulder—his robes were definitely a bit tight, she made a mental note—to lead them across the room and away from her ex-boyfriend.

"Terry is the last thing I want to deal with tonight," she told Harry in a low tone. "Every time it starts out okay and then it just devolves into—I don't know what I would call it. Groveling, maybe, or certainly some type of supplication. Just—" She shuddered. "Two years, Harry. Why did you never say anything?"

"You were happy for a while. It was nice," he responded thoughtfully. "I'll never forgive him for that mission, though …" he trailed off.

"It turned out alright," Hermione assured him.

Harry hummed in acknowledgment, and they continued to dance, Hermione keeping a careful eye on Harry's gait.

"I wish I could fire him," Harry said after a while. "Or send him on permanent assignment to Siberia. If he were an actual Auror, I would do it."

Hermione smiled and rested her head on her friend's shoulder momentarily. "I would unjustly wield my authority for you, too, Harry." She sighed.

"I know," he replied. "You have. Many times."

She pulled her head back and looked at him sharply, but he was laughing, and she shook her head with a chuckle.

"Are you giving a speech tonight?" Hermione asked.

"Probably," he mused. "Kingsley will call me up, no doubt." He paused thoughtfully, and Hermione took a moment to admire the floating lanterns above their heads and how they reflected off the dark polished marble. "Say," Harry continued, "why don't I get you up there? You can speak to the moment much better than I can."

Hermione disagreed, because if anything was reliable it was Harry Potter in a crisis. He had a way of exuding the passion of his convictions much more than she did—and significantly more than anyone else in Ministry leadership. While Hermione understood the convoluted intricacies of magical politics, this forum was not the place for such topics, and she could already imagine the glazed-over eyes she would elicit if she brought up the evidence for decreased cases of Lycanthropy in countries where Wolfsbane was significantly subsidized by the government.

"No," she said, squeezing his hand. "Tonight is for remembering Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin and everyone who should be here. We can take up the battle again tomorrow."

Harry gave her a soft look and held her a little closer. The dance ended soon after, and Hermione led them to the opposite edge of the floor from where they began. They paused once nearing the buffet.

"I think I'll find the loo, and it may take a while since I'm not exactly sure how to get this skirt out of the way," Hermione mused while experimentally lifting the hem.

"I would offer to help, but I'm not sure that would be proper," Harry replied.

"Thanks," offered Hermione, rolling her eyes. "Find you later?"

He nodded, and Hermione turned toward the temporary lavatories. As soon as she started walking, something caught her attention at the corner of her eye. As she angled her head for a better view, she was horrified to see Terry eyeing her from across the dance floor and making his way in her direction.

"You must be joking," Hermione muttered fiercely, and she picked up her pace.

Hermione reached the line of doorways that had been her original destination. She hesitated to enter, however, at the thought that Terry would be waiting to pounce when she eventually exited. With a frustrated huff, Hermione ducked behind a group of gossiping women and spotted a glittering tower of champagne. Well, Hermione thought, if she must hide from persistent ex-boyfriends, it might as well be with access to alcohol.

She reached the tower and rounded behind it—directly into something tall and solid.

Hermione heard the clattering of glass and a muttered curse, and she realized with growing horror that the something she walked into was, in fact, someone. And that someone was now entirely drenched in champagne.

"Oh no, I am so sorry. Let me just—oh, Merlin, Malfoy?"

Immediately, Hermione was struck by the impossibility of his appearance. He looked as done and undone as she had ever seen him. His dress robes were clearly bespoke and luxurious, with a silver silk cravat tied tightly around the collar and crisp cuffs secured with what looked to be diamond fixtures. However, Hermione's rush to escape resulted in her having significantly more momentum. The spilled drinks had crashed in his direction, leaving Hermione dry. His face and chest were soaked, and Hermione almost laughed when she saw a sparkling drop fall off the tip of his nose.

Malfoy blinked at her, seemingly dumbfounded, but eventually finding his words.

"What the fuck, Granger?" Oh good. Charming as ever.

He set the now-empty glasses on the table's edge next to them. Hermione was relieved to note that the gargantuan tower of glasses concealed them well enough to prevent any over-eager case managers from the DMLE, who may or may not be former romantic partners, from seeing them.

Hermione stood straight and cleared her throat. "Good evening," she tried, wincing at the incredulity evident in his expression.

"Good evening," he mocked, wiping some of the sticky liquid off his face with the back of his hand. "I suppose it was tolerable before you accosted me."

"I hardly accosted you," she protested, folding her arms across her chest.

"Sorry, it's hard to argue when there is literally carbonated beverage stinging my eyes," Malfoy countered, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"I did apologize," she muttered.

"Rejected," Malfoy stated. What an arse!

"Could you be reasonable for one moment?" she snapped.

His nose pinched up in a sneer as he leaned imposingly over her. "It may break your pretty little brain to realize this, Granger, but I am the wronged party here, or is barreling into unsuspecting guests and drenching them in their own drinks considered polite in your world?"

The guilt returned, and Hermione struggled to keep her mouth shut.

Malfoy then pulled out his wand and attempted to siphon off some of the wine from his dress robes, but the angle of his aim was awkward, and he was not making significant progress.

"May I help?" she offered, pulling out her wand from its concealed holster. Malfoy paused his spell-casting and looked at her dubiously.

"Is this a prank?" he mocked wryly.

She rolled her eyes at the reference to their last meeting. "Just trying to return a favor, make amends, perpetuate good deeds, etcetera."

He contemplated her words for a moment, looking slightly pathetic, but after a moment, he stood up straight, faced her head on, and nodded. "Go on, then. I suppose there are numerous people here with the ability to arrest you if I die."

Hermione lifted her wand in preparation and chuckled. "It's cute that you think anyone would take your side over mine."

Malfoy scoffed, and Hermione almost laughed openly but controlled herself. She proceeded to siphon off as much of the champagne as she could, then gently scoured the fabric of his robes before cleaning his face with a gentler charm. He looked almost normal when Hermione lowered her wand, except for his hair. She wondered if he had arrived this evening with his platinum locks loose around his ears or if the liquid had somehow washed away the pound of gel she remembered him wearing in their youth.

"Done," she said softly.

He patted his chest, tested the surface of his face, and tucked a lock of hair behind his left ear.

"Thank you." He paused awkwardly, looking around, and she did the same.

Seconds passed. Hermione sheathed her wand and, not knowing what to do with her hands, began honest-to-gods twiddling her thumbs. She glanced at Malfoy, whose hands were firmly in his pockets. He was contemplating his perfectly polished boots.

What constituted lingering, she wondered? At one point, she had a perfectly reasonable explanation for fleeing behind this tower of champagne, but now, confronted with significantly more company than she had been expecting, she was at a loss for reasons to stay. And yet, the thought of leaving this refuge—even with the present company—disinterested Hermione. Terry could be anywhere; more reporters could target her ad nauseam; or worse.

They were definitely lingering. Hermione looked up at Malfoy again and found him staring back at her curiously. Hermione cleared her throat, but Malfoy spoke first.

"What brings you here?" he queried.

Hermione blinked. "I work here." She then wanted to smack her head against the wall.

Malfoy monotoned, "Congratulations, Granger, I had no idea," and rolled his eyes. She glared, and he continued, "I meant, what brings you here behind this tower of cheap champagne?"

Hermione froze. "I might ask you the same question." Not suspicious at all, she assured herself even as Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

"I was merely passing through, but it seems to me as though you are lingering," he drawled, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Are you hiding, Granger?"

"No," she sniped, placing her hands on her hips.

"What then?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly.

She sighed wearily. "I'm not hiding. I'm avoiding. There's a difference."

"And who, may I ask, has such influence, Granger? Rabid fans?" They were now at arm's distance from one another, and Hermione noticed that his silk cravat had a floral pattern decorating the fabric.

"You may not ask," she deflected, trying to clear her head. She did not want to talk about Terry and found the thought of discussing ex-boyfriends with Malfoy completely abhorrent. She peeked through the shimmering glasses next to them for any sign of Terry but could only make out indistinct shadows. She quickly returned her attention to Malfoy, who was observing her intently. "I didn't know you came to Ministry events," she tried.

"I don't," he replied flatly, though he eyed her curiously. "This evening, I am escorting my aunt, Andromeda Tonks."

"Andromeda?" she repeated, surprised. "I thought she avoided these things as well." However, Hermione was more surprised that Andromeda would ask Malfoy of all people as an escort.

"I believe," he began carefully, "that she felt the political moment called for a show of support or some such sentimentality."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "And … you agreed?"

"No," he intoned flatly without elaborating.

"Yet here you are," she pressed on.

He pursed his lips. "I was coerced."

The image of Andromeda marching Malfoy through the Atrium at wand-point flashed in Hermione's mind, and she chuckled. The sound stopped abruptly when she noticed Malfoy's brows shoot up in response. Hermione spoke, "I think Andromeda could coerce anyone."

"Indeed," he said. "Well, best of luck avoiding what or whomever, Granger." He nodded and began to turn away.

Hermione didn't know where the compulsion to speak had come from, but she called out, "Malfoy, wait."

He stopped mid-step and turned back toward her. The warm light shining through the champagne glasses refracted onto the shining strands of his hair, transforming the white-blonde locks into something golden. It was so unlike the image of him Hermione had in her mind that she was briefly dumbfounded.

"Listen, I just wanted to say. …" she faltered, trying to find the right words. I appreciated your piece in The Prophet? The way you wrote about Fenrir Greenback really spoke to me? You write very eloquently? Thank you? The idea of expressing gratitude to Draco Malfoy did not fully compute, and yet she was the one who had inexplicably initiated this conversation mere moments ago and had still not finished her sentence.

"Spit it out, Granger. I can sense your brain about to implode," Malfoy interjected, leaning back on his heels.

She blurted, "Why did you write that thing in the Daily Prophet?"

Well, there it was. It was not gratitude, but she brought up the topic nonetheless and must face the consequences of her relentless curiosity.

Now they were looking at each other. Their eyes met, and neither he nor she looked away. Hermione could see the gray of Malfoy's irises, softened by the highly misleading golden light. She witnessed his brow furrow and his lips part in surprise. It took him just seconds to recover, but they were seconds enough for her to observe him in a moment of shock.

Suddenly, his mask reappeared. Hermione marveled at how subtle it was. His shoulders pressed back slightly, his mouth closed into a straight line, and his hands, which were relaxed at his side, tensed downward to an infinitesimal degree. And yet, the surprise he had projected vanished in the blink of an eye.

"I was bored," he supplied cooly. "I'm not an activist, Granger."

"Obviously," she huffed. "I meant—well, I suppose I meant how did you come to those particular words? You wrote that you supported 'sensible legislation to help werewolves manage their disease safely while also protecting their rights as human beings,'" she recited from memory. "I guess I was just surprised at that phrasing. Do you actually feel that way? It's only that I've been trying to convince even the most reasonable members of the Wizengamot to profess the same opinion to no effect." She finished with a defeated wave of her hand and found suddenly that she would rather consider the texture of the beadwork at her hips than look him in the eye again.

They were silent for a while, and when Hermione finally looked up, she could not read his expression. He took a breath and spoke again.

"My intention was to refute my father using as few words as possible," said Malfoy. "I did not intend to convince anyone of anything."

"Right," Hermione nodded slowly. Yes, of course. What was she thinking? Of course, Malfoy did not actually care about the plight of werewolves in Britain. It was a family drama playing out on a public platform and nothing more. She was suddenly frustrated that a single scrap of evidence that purebloods could espouse the humane point of view in the face of relentless fear-mongering was just that—a dramatic stunt.

And then Malfoy spoke again.

"I think you know better than anyone that the logical line of thinking is not always politically advantageous for those seeking power," he said carefully. "The tides are not currently in your favor, Granger. You may have to do something impossible." He smirked. "Be patient."

Hermione rankled. "Be patient? I've been patient. People with Lycanthropy have been patient. This government has perpetuated centuries of the most racist, prejudicial policies on the planet! Did you know there is still a law in effect that prevents werewolves from using public toilets in the wizard or Muggle worlds? It's unenforceable, and yet it has been on the books since 1710." The floodgates of her frustrations opened up, and words kept spilling out. "We were weeks away from passing a bill to finally fix that and dozens of other unconscionable technicalities, and it's all gone up in smoke because of one aberrant attack that no one can seem to figure out. Meanwhile, I have to scrounge up Wolfsbane for almost the entire werewolf population of England out of thin air, practically, because I can't get a line of funding for international importation approved without a vote before the full Wizengamot. How does that even make sense? The full Wizengamot? And Harry's black market potioneer is fine, thanks, but one would think the collaborative mind of the Ministry of Magic could arrange for something more stable without the only solution being, I can only assume, the instigation of a coup!"

Hermione threw her arms in the air, breathing heavily, heart racing. Her stomach gave a lurch when the reality set in, once again, that she was hiding behind a tower of champagne with Draco Malfoy. The same Draco Malfoy who had charmed twigs out of her hair weeks ago and who had now listened to her ramble continuously for over a minute without saying a single word. He was currently staring at her with an intense, inscrutable concentration.

Neither of them spoke immediately, and Hermione took the opportunity to smooth out the already immaculate skirt of her dress. She looked up at the much taller Malfoy again, and he had not shifted his gaze. She wondered whether he was all right. Perhaps he had, actually, been confunded? And then he moved.

He did not speak but rather turned to the looming tower of sparkling wine beside them, picked up two overfilled flutes from a stable row at his eye level, and handed one to Hermione.

"Have a fucking drink, Granger."

She wordlessly accepted the glass proffered from his left hand, and her fingertips brushed him as it passed into her grasp. His hands were warm. Malfoy lifted his own glass, nodded, and took a sip, silver eyes still focused on her face. Only then did Hermione lift her own drink to her lips.

The cold, bubbly liquid tingled in her mouth, and Hermione realized she had not had a thing to eat or drink since meeting Lavender and Parvati hours earlier. She nearly guzzled her glass and angled her body to lean against the wall so that she faced the champagne tower rather than Malfoy. He remained silent and matched her pose, leaning slightly against the wall but maintaining his riding posture.

It really was quite a spectacle. The tower extended far over their heads and must have been more than three meters wide. She could make out the movement of bodies through the rows of glasses but not any details. The enchanted orchestra was playing something upbeat, and Hermione watched the distorted forms of dancers refract through the golden liquid. There was just enough space between the table upon which the tower stood and the wall for a person to walk behind. Hermione tried not to focus on how close she was to Malfoy, but she was surprised to find that she was not uncomfortable. No one would ever have guessed that Hermione Granger would feel content to stand beside Draco Malfoy at a ball.

When Hermione reached the bottom of her glass, Malfoy cleared his throat.

"Better?" he drawled. Hermione could tell by his tone that if he had been less emotionally suppressed, he may have laughed.

"No," she lied.

"Frankly, it's a marvel you function normally at all, Granger, with your mind whirring like that all the time." Malfoy took another sip of his drink. "When your heart bleeds so thoroughly, I wonder, does it decrease your blood pressure? Do you have liters of fluid in your chest cavity?"

Hermione scoffed. "No need to be rude, Malfoy."

"It's bad timing," Malfoy continued, unfazed. "You will not achieve werewolf equality tomorrow, not with the entire western hemisphere blowing a gasket over Montaroux. Your best hope is that the French Ministry finds those werewolves and gives the world specific names and faces to blame rather than an entire subpopulation."

Hermione blinked. She knew, logically, that Malfoy was right—that she had to reset her expectations. Octavia continued reassuring her that the bill was not canceled, only postponed. Hermione believed her boss and knew that the bill would be passed into law given an appropriate political climate and marketing. But frustration, fear, and mystery were affecting her already frayed nerves. Hermione tapped her fingers on her now-empty glass. The more she thought about the situation, the more she had to actively quell the press, the more absolutely nothing happened—then the more wound-up she became. Hermione could feel her magic pulsing down her arms. She thought about blasting the tower of champagne to dust.

"I … know that," she replied, tearing her eyes away from the tower to give Malfoy a sideways glance. "The facts enrage me more than the situation itself."

"Well, do try to hold yourself together. I can't think of a single warlock on the Wizengamot who would respond well to a rambling lecture about eighteenth-century case law."

"That's not—I wouldn't," she huffed, faltering. "Even though I'm not the scion of a pureblood dynasty, that does not make me entirely naive. I've lived in this world long enough to understand its rules." She turned her head to glare. "But I won't accept situations blindly. Things will never change if we just sit and wait for the right moment. The right moment never comes."

Malfoy scoffed. "In addition to my illustrious career as a writer, I also read the Prophet, Granger. For the last month, no one has been able to turn a page without seeing your name. You have media attention flung your way incessantly, and instead of re-directing the discourse, you're just fanning the flames. Every time you make a statement about the mistreatment of werewolves, you are providing your opponents something to respond to—and the cycle continues."

"You fanned the flames," Hermione countered.

"Ah, but I don't care, Granger. That is how we differ. "

Hermione bit back another remark and contemplated his words. She had learned several things since running into Malfoy that evening. One: he had thought through the situation before, and not in a cursory way. He may not be invested in the outcome of this political battle, but he was well-informed of its details. Two: he noticed her name in the newspapers. She wondered briefly whether he sought out her name—but that was ridiculous, and she cast the thought aside. Three: a lantern shining through champagne transformed Malfoy's eyes from gray to molten silver.

Wait, what?

Hermione glanced in Malfoy's direction again. He was smirking. Ugh.

She stood straight, abandoned her empty glass on the table's edge, and plucked another champagne flute from the tower. Then, she faced Malfoy head-on and placed her left hand on her hip.

"Well, what do you suggest?" She sipped her champagne in order to hide any expression that may reveal the depth of her interest in what Malfoy had to say.

His eyes widened fractionally. He looked interested. It was so subtle that Hermione would have missed it if she had not been standing so closely.

Malfoy pushed off the wall to stand up straight as well. They were so close that Hermione wondered whether her arms could fit around his torso. He was more slender than Harry, and so despite Hermione's diminutive height, she believed they were likely to reach.

"Is there not a wayward billlywig or flobberworm in need?" he queried sarcastically, looking down at her but still smirking. "Tell the public they are better off placing their concern elsewhere until several uneventful lunar cycles have passed."

"First of all," Hermione began, realizing that she had to crane her neck to speak to him. So, she delicately inched her feet backward to ease the angle. She restarted, "First of all, I specialize in magical beings, Malfoy. As in sentient life with a magical signature. And—and that's beside the point." She lost her train of thought. Malfoy smelled like fresh parchment and cloves.

"It doesn't matter what the bloody topic is, Granger. It could be anything—tell them about the demon you made a bargain with to tame your hair tonight or the ethically sourced sequins on your dress!" He looked as if he were going to continue but abruptly drained the last of the glass, reached over her head, and replaced it with a full one.

"Ethically—what?" She repeated, dumbfounded. "The sequins aren't—that is, Lavender Weasley made this for me. She was at Hogwarts with us, you know, Lavender Brown?"

"It is sufficiently…attention-grabbing," he replied after a breath. He must have consumed half of his glass in one go. "It will be a human-interest piece. Perfect."

"Very few people are asking about my wardrobe, Malfoy. I'm not exactly a fashion icon, and I hardly think that would be enough to distract from the rampant fear of werewolves, especially on the night of a full moon." Hermione could feel herself actively blushing, and she wondered how they had not been interrupted in all the time they had been talking.

"You stand out," Malfoy spoke in the softest tone she had yet heard from him. "You have power. You can make people interested in whatever the fuck you want." He leaned forward slightly. They were a hair's breadth from touching. "Just not werewolves for at least a couple of months." He smirked again, and Hermione was close enough now to appreciate the delicate lines of his mouth and the sharp dip of the cupid's bow on his upper lip.

Hermione licked her own lips.

Hermione's skirt heated up and vibrated. She yelped and jumped—suddenly, Malfoy's arms wrapped around her like a vice and spun her around, pushing her back into the wall.

"The fuck, Granger? You almost toppled that thing on top of us!" he hissed. She ignored the firm pressure of one of his hands on her shoulder blade and glanced behind him to notice the liquid in several glasses of the tower swaying in disturbance. That would not have been good. She huffed.

"You're vibrating," Malfoy's voice caught her attention again, and she realized that something in her pocket was creating the vibration.

"Shit," she hissed, wiggling to dislodge Malfoy's grip. The blond quickly moved back and to the side, putting a meter of space between them.

Hermione shoved her half-empty glass at Malfoy. "Hold this," she demanded, and he obliged, grabbing her glass with his empty hand and placing both their drinks on the table's edge.

She thrust her arm into her right pocket and pulled out her beaded bag. Hermione swung the bag's strap over her head and across her chest and opened the drawstring to glance inside. She reached her arm into the opening, and it sank to her shoulder. She pulled out the offending object.

Her stomach lurched. It was her reserve auror's galleon, distinguishable by the DMLE crest embossed in its center. It only heated up in emergencies. If they were summoning her, all available on- and off-duty aurors were insufficient for the current situation. She read the message on the coin's surface and gasped.

Uncontrolled werewolf activity. Emergency backup requested. Hogsmeade village.

"Shit!" She whipped her head around. Malfoy was gazing at her, visibly confused. "I have to go," she stated, mind whirling. She closed her eyes and breathed, calming her rapidly beating heart. Then, she sprung into action.

She tightened the strap of her bag around her torso and dropped the galleon back into its depths. Looking down, she realized that she could not fight with the volume of her skirt obstructing her movement and could not waste time changing. Thanking herself for insisting that Lavender add trousers underneath the layers of tulle, Hermione pulled out her wand.

She pinched the fabric at her waist and used a weak cutting spell to slice through the seam.

"What are you doing?"

Malfoy's voice sounded horrified, and Hermione peaked up at him. She did not reply until she finished ripping the seam of the skirt and stepping out of the fabric.

With a wince, Hermione briefly mourned the sound of golden beads hitting the floor. She turned her attention back to Malfoy, who was looking at her as if she had grown a second head.

"Message from the DMLE," she said. "There's a—there's werewolves in Hogsmeade."

Malfoy immediately stilled at the seriousness of her words. Hermione gulped at the dryness in her throat from the alcohol, thankful she had only had a glass and a half. When the thought struck her, she opened the flap of her bag, waved her wand over it, and nonverbally summoned her holster of silver knives. They were not goblin-wrought, but they would do in a pinch. The leather brace slid onto her right forearm and shrunk to size. She nodded, glanced at Malfoy again, and said, "Goodbye."

"Granger—the fuck—Granger! You're not an auror," Malfoy protested, reaching out to catch her left elbow as she turned away.

Hermione wrenched her arm away and rounded around the champagne tower. She could sense Malfoy following behind, and she replied in a furious whisper so as not to disturb the couples on the dance floor. "I'm a reserve auror, Malfoy, and if they call me, it means the situation is bad."

"Fine, then—go be a bloody Gryffindor," Malfoy snapped.

"I will!"

The fastest way to the apparition point was through the dance floor, and so Hermione marched purposefully across, not meeting anyone's eye.

She did not look back at Malfoy.

Up Next: Draco is reeling.