Hermione

Help me if I've put in any blatant Americanisms...

*

The temperature dropped sharply that evening. By the time Hermione emerged from the bowels of the Ministry at 5 p.m., the darkness was as smothering as the cold was piercing. She Apparated at once to her flat. She would have to wait until she could be reasonably sure the Malfoys were asleep before exploring the subterranean passages in the mansion. Dumbledore’s gifts made it clear that he expected nothing less from her. Maybe he had sent Harry other gifts. Hermione pulled on dark clothes again and waited. She had a plan.

When the moon was high and sharp, a glowing disk in the watery black sky, Hermione Apparated to just below the hill on which Malfoy Mansion stood. Hermione knew that Muggles couldn’t see the house—they only saw what appeared to be a softly sloping hill densely covered with brambles. But Hermione could see the manor’s pale stone walls with their dark windows rising smoothly from the immaculate lawn. She thought she could see a figure with Fenrir’s loping gait prowling the perimeter of the grounds.

She knew what she was about to do violated wizard protocol. Etiquette strictly forbade Apparating onto the grounds of a witch or wizard’s home. She also knew that no one would think of her Apparating onto the Malfoys’ roof. Taking a deep breath, she turned in place—and slammed backward into the ground. Her breath came out in a rush and for several minutes, she could only gasp, trying to breathe again. She had been expected, again. And so had her method. When she finally was able to stand, she yanked out her necklace and fumbled at the clasp. The clasp refused to budge. A low, furious buzzing filled Hermione’s head. She Apparated back to her flat, fuming.

On Christmas Day just before noon, she Apparated into Hogsmeade. Her robes, accessories, nightclothes, toiletries, a change of clothes, and Dumbledore’s two squares were packed into a tiny purse, which she had stuffed in her sock. She took a booth in The Three Broomsticks to await Ginny and Harry. The pair came in, glowing. Hermione glanced at Ginny’s hand at once. Yes, no question about it. On the fourth finger of her left hand Ginny was sporting a large emerald surrounding by glittering stones. Hermione had known Harry was rich, but seeing the evidence thus displayed still took her breath away.

She grinned at them and waited. Harry cleared his throat. “Hermione, erm, Ginny and I are, er, engaged.”

Hermione made the expected exclamations and oohed and ahed over Ginny’s ring. It was even more beautiful up close. They ordered a round of fire whiskey in celebration. While the fiery shot forged a burning path through her insides, Hermione told Harry about Dumbledore’s letter. His smile vanished. “Can I see it?”

“You have your cloak?” Hermione murmured.

Harry pulled it out of an inside coat pocket and quickly threw it over his and Ginny’s heads. Now Hermione appeared to be alone at the table. She pulled her purse out of her sock, shook the contents until she found the white square, then handed it surreptitiously to Harry.

After a few minutes, something pushed the square back into her hand. Then Harry and Ginny reappeared. Some Hogwarts pupils in the next booth did a double take. Harry looked grim. “He doesn’t want me to go.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. Their food arrived, and they spent the rest of the meal talking softly about what the gold square might be. Hermione promised to do some reading.

Afterward, they walked around Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, killing time. They ate an early dinner, and after the sun had set, they headed toward Hogwarts. McGonagall had told them they might lodge in the Gryffindor guest wing, an area of the castle whose only staircase floated into contact with the floor as needed. Once inside her room, Hermione began to get ready for the ball.

Her first inkling that something was amiss came when she pulled on her robes. Her back felt much too chilled. She craned her neck around and couldn’t stop herself from blinking. The back of the forest green robes, so high in Madam Malkin’s shop, now plunged nearly to her buttocks. And the front—Hermione clapped her hands over it. More than a little cleft was showing. The chain of her necklace disappeared into that cleft. Hermione pulled the necklace wide, so that the chain went to the outside of each plumped-up breast, before disappearing into the dress. The fit of the robes had changed, too. Once so loose and flowing, they now hugged her hips and thighs, allowing her to walk only in small, swaying steps. The sleeves were long, as before, nearly to the floor and lined in white. The low buzz of fury, on hold since her aborted trip to Malfoy Mansion, now hummed in her ears again.

She pulled her tights out of her purse, took them out of their package, and found to further astonishment that they were not tights. The package was clearly parked: Tights. But what fell from the package were two thigh-high stockings. When she put them on, she found that they extended in silky film up her legs to a point just below each buttock. Hermione stared at this new development with further consternation and anger. She looked at her knickers, the usual dingy white schoolgirl affair. She could never wear such a thing now. She would have to go without. She slung on her shoes, but they had changed, too. Gone were the low heels and sensible closed toes. What sparkled on each foot had peep toes, high heels, and discreet gemettes.

Hermione’s hands were shaking as she applied liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s hair potion. She was so angry, she had to twirl her hair three times around her wand before she got it right and could pin it in place.

She took one last look in her purse and came out with a long, forest green shawl, lined in white. She drew a sigh of relief. At least there had been some mercy. With the shawl on, the back of the gown was concealed. And, if she clutched the shawl with one hand at her chest, the revealing front was hidden, too. Hermione wished fruitlessly for a pin of some sort to hold the careful folds together.

She dithered in her room until Harry and Ginny knocked at her door. She couldn’t put the moment off any longer. She would have to face both Snape and Ron, and she dreaded both meetings. The trio descended into the Great Hall. Ginny was wearing rich brown velvet, with transparent sleeves and embroidery on the front. Harry was wearing typical black dress robes. It looked as though they were the same robes Mrs. Weasley had helped him buy six years before only longer.

The Great Hall was already filled when they reached it, walking a bit more slowly than usual to accommodate Hermione’s slower pace.

“The Weasley wasn’t good enough, Potter, so you had to get another date?” came a sneering voice. It was Draco Malfoy, wearing deep green robes with silver lining. Pansy Parkinson sniggered at his side, wearing a diamond as large as her knuckle on the fourth finger of her left hand and a frilly affair in an unflattering shade of coral. Hermione met Draco’s eye, then coolly put her nose in the air. After a pause, Ginny followed suit, and Harry managed to flash a smile full of teeth before they moved on. Hermione was gratified to see Draco’s gape of amazement. He hadn’t recognized her in a dress—again.

Unfortunately, her gaze then collided with Ron Weasley’s. Hermione became so flustered at that point that she didn’t hear Harry and Ginny urging him and Luna to join them. Then there was a long silence. Hermione looked around and saw that Ginny, Harry, and Luna were glaring at Ron. At last Ron, red from his collar to his hairline, said, “Er, Hermione, I’m, er, I said some things I didn’t mean. Before. I would never—“ Then his words tumbled out—“I’d never tell the blokes anything like, er, like what I said I would. You were right. I knew things weren’t going the way they, er, should have. I was just—“

“You don’t have to say it,” Hermione cut in awkwardly.

“Er,” Ron stuck out his hand, “mates?”

Hermione took the proffered hand, and they shook clumsily.

“Isn’t that Professor Snape?” Luna broke in vaguely.

Hermione did her best not to whip her head around. It was Snape. He was holding a ruler in his hand and breaking apart a clinging couple with a bit more gusto than usual. Hermione looked away.

The evening proceeded much as Hermione remembered her last Yule Ball. Dumbledore introduced the band, Polly Juice and the Potions. The band came out—a woman with long purple-black hair and lips, and a white face, fronting three spotty, gangly youths. As the three broke into an insane jam, the woman let out a trilling scream and launched into a song both freezing and scorching at the same time. Many couples went out on the floor to dance. Ginny dragged out Harry, and Luna, with considerably more trouble, forced Ron onto t he dance floor. Hermione grabbed a shot of fire whiskey from a passing tray and sipped it in generous swallows as she watched. Neville Longbottom then asked her to dance. She saw his own date, a shy but pretty witch, standing approvingly on the sidelines and guessed that Neville was asking her out of gallantry. She danced a bit with Neville, though she found her robes made true dancing impossible, and since she had to clutch her shawl, all she could really do was sway to the music. Luckily, the lights dimmed somewhere halfway through the song.

Hermione thanked Neville and secured another fire whiskey as Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Luna stayed on the dance floor for a slower number. Dumbledore was now dancing with the mannish Pomona Sprout, and Hermione had her first hunch that both of them were using this dance to disguise something, though she wasn’t sure yet exactly what.

Then a low voice said, “So.”

She didn’t turn around. Anger and desire mixed painfully inside her, and she felt certain she would never be able to consume anything but fire whiskey. “Yes?” she said.

There was a slight pause. No doubt Snape was taking in the fact that she wasn’t turning around. “Here is not the time or place,” he said. “My office. After.”

She seethed at his casual order that they meet on his turf, but nowhere else would do. “All right,” she said.

She heard him start to sweep away. Then he said, “Your robes become you.”

She could have smacked his face. “You ought to like them,” she said between clenched teeth. “They’re cut to your specifications.”

There was another pause behind her. Then Snape’s voice came low and cold, “My office. After.”