Silhouette

So, It's about 12:16 am where I am, and I just finished writing this. I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to post it, but then I couldn't because I'm excited to see what you all think of how the story is progressing. Please let me know.



I’m sorry these chapters are quite short, but I’m kinda making this up as I go along (literally), and short chapters give me time to think, so they will probably all hover at around this length.



And I need a beta, if anyone's interested. :)





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Hermione spent the next few days learning to be Slytherin with Draco as her teacher. She memorized her ancestry, learned every step in every dance Draco threw at her, and studied wizard etiquette. Manners were a very hazy science to purebloods. The point, as far as Hermione could see, was to be as rude as possible with as few people realizing it as possible, and then to catch on to other’s rudeness and exploit them for it. It was a tricky game with many traps, not one easily learned in just four days, but Draco made it practical, speaking to her with as much thinly-veiled disdain as he could muster and expecting realistic responses.

“No, no, you’re thinking like a Gryffindor,“ Draco had said. “Don’t be brave, be smart. Pride is only useful if you can back it up. Try again.”

They danced elegantly around the table in the kitchen. Blindfolded. They ate one third the amount of everyone else, and twice as slowly. They played wizard’s chess. They made nasty comments about people as they entered or left the room. Hermione apologized and assured them she was just practicing, but she felt herself slipping into this lifestyle. She heard Draco’s vicious commentary on nearly everyone in the house, and part of her agreed. She dismissed this, of course; she was just in character. But she couldn’t help but notice how freeing this new outlook was.

“Do you actually believe the things you say about people?” she had asked him on the third day.

He didn’t hesitate. “Part of you must believe it, otherwise why would you say it?” He had a habit of this, cryptic speech. Hermione couldn’t stand it. This pureblood nonsense was a lot harder than she had anticipated.

And to top it all off, Ron wouldn’t look at her. He’d taken up residence in one of the empty guest rooms and left Hermione to sleep alone with her ghostly, frightening new body. Ginny told her that he was just freaked out that Hermione could have changed so much. “He just needs time to get used to it. He needs to remember that the real Hermione is still in there.” But this black-haired, cruelly beautiful body was Hermione now. The real Hermione is on the outside, too, she thought. Now and forever, this is me. When she mentioned this to Ginny, her friend had pinked in the face. “I’m sorry,” she had said, “I didn’t realize…”

Tonks needed almost as much help as Hermione, and when Lupin instructed everyone to start calling them Bianca and Nicoleta, both women were at their wit’s end. Hermione counted herself lucky. If Draco was running her ragged, she couldn’t imagine was Snape was doing to Tonks. She’d choose Draco over Snape any day.

The morning they were to leave, Hermione heard the door to her room open and close softly. She rolled over in bed to find Ron standing over her.

“I’ve been stupid.”

“Yeah, you have.” Ron smiled his most sheepish, hopeful grin. He lifted his hand and took hers in it. Her fingers were loose in his, and somehow it felt awkward. These were not her hands, and yet they were. She couldn’t get used to it. But Ron seemed bent on his mission.

“Do you forgive me, Hermione?”

“Will you let me?” She had fallen back on her training from the past few days. Be cryptic, give no ground, but don’t take any either, not unless it directly benefits you.

Ron thought about it. “Is that a yes?” All of Hermione’s preparation melted from her and, for the moment, she was just Hermione and the man in front of her was just Ron. She sat up in bed, not letting go of his hand, and he sat down to level with her.

“It’s a yes.” He threw his arms around her and held her for a full minute before he realized she wasn’t hugging back.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked, pulling back and holding the gaze of some other woman’s eyes that were her eyes. He shivered a little, unable to look away from the dazzlingly crisp blue, like the blue of thinning ice over the coldest ocean waters. She was becoming like them, cool and distant, not like herself. He understood, then. “So, this is a singles dance, I take it?”

“Ronald…” she started, but there was nothing to finish.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. We’ll be friends again, like we were.” She nodded, tears slipping charmingly down her cheeks. She was beautiful now, after all, and everything she did was a reflection of that. He kissed her cheek. They never needed theatrics, just simplicity, each other’s company. And now she had been deprived of that. What had she gotten herself into?

A knock on the door. Draco’s head appeared in the doorway. “Are you ready? We’re all going to apparate over to Spinner’s End in about thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said in her most authoritative voice. “Just give us a minute.”

Draco took in the scene with new eyes. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” He shut the door.

“No, I should get out of here, let you pack.” Ron stood up, looking as if he hadn‘t thought past that action.

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, too. Her silvery, slinky nightdress fell softy over her legs, cool as water. “Ronald…”

“Don’t, Hermione, ok? Just… don’t. Leave it alone. It’s done.” He wouldn’t look at her anymore. His hair almost completely blocked his face from view, and his shoulders were slumped with half-hidden anguish. He crossed to the door, but turned back as he opened it. She watched him, watched him glimpse her one more time. “I’m here if you ever… need me.” Then he was gone.

Friends. Hermione wondered if the person she was now could maintain friendships like the bushy-haired know-it-all who had grown up in the presence of everyone in this house. She thought so, but she would have to bury that side of herself, that small part that was unchanged by the events of the past week. She would hide it from Draco and all those dancing, two-faced Death Eaters at the ball. She would even hide it from the part of herself that was Bianca, because Bianca was cruel and calculating and vain. Draco had done his job too well; there was hardly any Hermione left in her.

After packing the rest of her things in several small posh trunks (Ginny was truly the guru of the fashion world), Hermione put on a light blue strapless sundress with a wide pale gold belt. Her research and Ginny’s nose for vogue told her that only the most old-fashioned witches in America wore traditional robes. Even the purebloods had integrated muggle attire into their wardrobes. So she slipped on her matching robin’s egg blue sling-backs, scooped up an antique gold clutch purse, and hoped she could remember to breath.