Silhouette

Thank you all for the reviews! This chapter is dedicated to Ms.Nomdeplume and DracoHasAHotAss (again ;)) for there satisfyingly lengthy comments. I hope the sarcasm is enough, and the plot intriguing. Have fun!

The edited Chapter is dedicated to nonentity for making me laugh a good long while, and to amanda, who graciously offered to be my beta (woe is her, let me tell you.) ;) Enjoy.

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In Wiltshire, four dark silhouettes suddenly appeared in a privately owned garden gazebo. They strolled up the path, heading toward Malfoy Manor, cloaks billowing behind them, catching the silver moonlight. As they walked a few feet behind Tonks and Snape, Draco told Hermione about the Malfoys owning the land surrounding their home through a series of complicated dealings with English Heritage and National Trust. Lucius Malfoy was on the board of both of these, being a major businessman and landowner in even the Muggle world, and had persuaded them to sell him the property for insurance reasons. He kept the whole thing under the alias of these nationally renowned corporations, just in case, though, and allowed them to manage the various locations as usual.
“This site, of course, is especially unique, so my father takes a particular interest in it,” Draco said. The line of neatly cropped trees broke off to their right, and Hermione realized why such prominent preservationists would take interest in this rolling green country.
“Stonehenge,” Hermione gasped, “The Malfoys own Stonehenge?”
“We own most of Wiltshire, actually. All sorts of old Druid stuff around here. Father takes an obvious interest, you know.” Draco seemed utterly unperturbed, but Hermione knew better. He might have been showing off a bit, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. Most in the wizarding community had a healthy respect for their Druid ancestors, and the implications of the Malfoy family holding the deeds to such magical hot zones were unthinkable.
“So this whole area-”
“Busting with magical energy, yeah,” Draco nodded, avoiding her question. Ahead of them, Snape was pointing at the oddly upright rocks, half-shadowed and huge even at a distance. He must have been telling Tonks about Stonehenge, about the Malfoys, too.
Hermione let the subject drop, and she and Draco walked in silence. The wind whipped Tonks’ or Snape’s voice back to them every once-in-a-while, but never anything intelligible. Their heavy cloaks swirled up around their feet, and she struggled to walk on the sloping paved path.
Malfoy Manor was looming over them now, huge, a bit boxy, and well-lit. It had been a short walk up the driveway from where they apparated, but Hermione was already out of breath. As they approached, she surreptitiously drew her wand and murmured a few spells to clean up the bottom of her dress and calm her. Before the light from the manor touched her, she had put her wand back into her cloak, and was walking with all the grace she could muster. Draco held out his arm for her, and she took it. She saw Snape and Tonks do the same.
The game was on.
A steward came forward to take their cloaks as they stepped through the grand columned entranceway. Tonks and Hermione didn’t speak; they allowed their dates to handle the transaction for them. Draco lifted the cloak from Hermione’s shoulders, unhooking the clasp for her and handing it to waiting hands. The attendant carried her cloak, along with Tonks’, into a small coat room to the left of the entrance. Hermione could see racks of fur-lined, velvet over-cloaks shivering slightly as the man pushed them aside to make room for theirs. Draco placed his hand on the small of her back and gestured to the room at large, inviting her in. There was music, slightly mournful but pleasing nevertheless. Five huge chandeliers donimated the air above the dance floor, and across from the four of them, a long table with appetizers got a lot of attention.
Snape moved to stand beside her on her right. “We will stay together, Draco,” Snape hissed. “For now, we must make introductions.” Draco nodded, and the two men progressed as one, Hermione and Tonks elegantly draped on their arms, around the room.
“My dear Bellatrix,” said Snape with a little bow. “Surely you have met Ms. Nicoleta Ciucur and her daughter Bianca?” He motioned Hermione forward as Bellatrix nodded to Tonks. Hermione gripped hard onto Draco’s arm with her delicate fingers, her long nails jabbing him through the material of his dress robes. She curtsied a little, just enough to show acknowledgement, but not interest. She was supposed to be aloof, and she felt exactly the opposite of that around Bellatrix. She’d never been so close to her, but Hermione found that even with her hair brushed and a long, flowing black dress, the ruthless Death Eater’s deranged eyes gave away her true self, her sickness.
“And Draco, my dear nephew. ‘Ow are you, mon petit tomcat? Well, I 'ope?” She put her hand on Draco’s left cheek and kissed his right, the one nearest Hermione.
“Aunt,” Draco began, “How can I be anything but at my utmost content when I am near you?” It was an outragious thing to say, but Hermione knew these were just formalities.
“I did not know it was possible to have such a charming nephew.” Bellatrix smiled, a action that struck Hermione as unbearably freakish and made the woman before her look even more frenetic. Bellatrix drew Draco away from Hermione’s side to speak more privately, leaving her alone. Ahead of her, Snape and Tonks had greeted another couple, and Tonks was laughing graciously at what Hermione could only assume was a joke from the waif-thin woman who had spoken last.
A sinewy young man sidled up to her just as she made to join Snape and the rest. “May I have a dance?” Hermione must have looked dumbstruck, because the man smiled smartly and offered his hand. “I don’t bite.” He was acting so contrary to all of her training that Hermione couldn’t think what to do. She thought she recognized him from Hogwarts, but she never paid much attention to the Slytherin boys.
“I-” she stammered.
A moment later, Draco was at her side again, and cut her off. “Nott!” They shook hands. “Stealing my date, are you?” the blond accused, laughing quite naturally.
“She’s with you? Introduce me, then, you git. I can’t afford not to know this one.” There was that familiar flattery. Hermione felt herself relax, and a thin smile curved her lips prettily.
“I am Bianca,” she said, speaking at almost a whisper so that the man called Nott had to lean in a little to catch it, “and I can introduce myself.” Her demeanor was courteous as she held out a hand for him to kiss, but her words were scornful, condescending. He took it, and brushed his lips against the silk of her glove, but it was clear now that she would not be a piece of art for them to discuss and sell and buy with sycophancy. Catching Hermione’s eye, Draco gave her the tinniest of winks.
“So, where’s your date, Nott?” Draco made a show of looking around.
“I wasn’t aware I needed one, not when yours will dance with me.”
“Who said I would dance with you?” Hermione’s smile was so pleasantly disdainful Nott almost took her seriously.
“She’s a good match for you, Malfoy.” Nott said simply. He was avoiding Hermione’s jibes directly; he was backing down, showing her deference. Why?
“Draco is by no means a match for me. As it is, I barely tolerate him.” She laughed a little, a sweet girlish giggle, testing. Nott would have to choose a side now.
“Well then you had better dance with me, Bianca. It’s the only way to get away from him,” Nott said, laughing with her. He had chosen her. Interesting.
Draco feigned offense. “Go on, then. I’ll tell your mother where you are.”
Nott took Hermione’s hand in his and led her to the middle of the dance floor. Marble clicked and thudded under their feet as they danced, whirling around with expert grace to the complicated dance steps, making sure not to come too close to other dancers. Like a waltz, they moved in wide circles over the smooth stone floor, and he dipped and spun her so her dress swept up and danced on its own. Now he is testing me, she thought.
The song ended, and they were on entirely the wrong side of the ballroom. “Come on,” He said, pulling her hand as he walked toward a group of people nearby, “I have some friends I want you to meet.”
Luckily, Draco had made his way over to the group in question, foreseeing Nott’s plan, and was there to take Hermione back onto his arm when the pair reached the cluster of young men and women standing snobbishly next to the hors d’overies. Former Slytherins, every one of them, she thought. Hermione recognized Pansy Parkinson immediately. They loathed each other, but at the present Pansy was eying her with poorly-masked curiosity. Goyle, who had slimmed down a little, stood off to the side. Blaise Zabini, tall and haughty even among Slytherins, was looking bored beside Pansy. The last two people Hermione saw she did not know, but she thought she had seen the young man on the Slytherin quidditch team.
Draco introduced her. “Well, I think we’ve had enough of Nott, but his first name‘s Theodore,” he said, and Nott smiled at her, still a bit out of breath. “This is Pansy Parkinson, and her fiancé Blaise Zabini.” Hermione greeted each in turn. She smiled at Pansy, and they had a silent contest to see who's curtsy was the slightest. Blaise left a lingering kiss on her hand, his black skin in stark contrast the ivory of her glove. “Gregory Goyle.” Hermione extended her hand, but instead of kissing it, Goyle shook it rather roughly, and Hermione had to wrench her away with as much poise as possible. “And these two are Daphne Greengrass and Adrian Pucey,” Draco finished. Hermione bowed her head in salutation. Pucey had been a chaser on the Slytherin team. He’d seemed like a decent guy. “My friends and acquaintances, this is Bianca Ciucur."
Once the introductions were done with, the questions started pouring in. Pansy wanted to know where she was from, and then what it was like in America. Blaise questioned her on her bloodline, and did she know anyone in Great Britain. (Hermione said she’d heard of his mother, and he seemed pleased). Daphne asked her about the boys in America, her house, the fashion. She answered all of their questions, always appearing to be only mildly interested in the conversation.
Hermione felt her hand catch in Draco’s. “Sorry, ladies and gents, but Bianca owes me a dance.” He took her waist and escorted her away. “Always leave them wanting more,” he whispered in her ear.
They didn’t get far, however. A blond woman with an angelic face emerged from the many-layered, rustling gowns and rigidly standing men between the couple and the dance floor.
“Draco, dear,” she declared, clapping her elegantly-gloved hands together like a child who just receive a much-wanted birthday present. “How are you?”
“I am well, mother,” Draco replied, kissing her outstretched hand. He took it into his own, holding it for just a moment, then Hermione watched as it fell gracefully back to her side. It was a rather cold greeting, she thought, but, considering the source, appropriate.
Draco’s mother was tall and lithe and, though not his build per se, the relation was obvious. She wore a myrtle green and peach-colored gown, lacy but tasteful, with tiny rosebuds at intervals. Tresses trapped up in a ribboned confection, she did not seem prissy so much as perceptive. Consequently, the older woman’s sharp gray eyes raked over Draco with unending scrupulousness, finally flitting to his hair with a slight scowl that did not mar her pretty features. Then she noticed Hermione, and one of her impeccably manicured eyebrows raised curiously. “Who is this?”
“Oh, forgive me, mother. This is Bianca Ciucur. Bianca, this is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy.” The two women curtsied, and Hermione again played the game of the most negligible bow.
Deepening her own curtsy as to allow Narcissa to win the contest, Hermione smiled as warmly as she could. She knew she was in Narcissa’s territory now, in her home and on the arm of her only son. “It is my pleasure to have finally met you, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa eyes betrayed her mild disconcertion at this graciousness. “It is I who am most pleased, my dear Bianca, to at last see my son with so worthy a young woman.” Hermione privately hoped Pansy Parkinson was out of earshot. “You may call me Narcissa, if you like.”
“As you wish,” and with that, Hermione bowed her head once more, though only a little.
There was a short pause before Narcissa spoke again, and the music wafted through the silence like the smell of roses. Hermione wondered at how different these strangers were to her as a pure-blood. They were comfortable among their fellows, their presumed equals, in a way they could never be with people like Hermione and the Weasleys. Narcissa had been spiteful and rude to the girl Hermione had been, and the Slytherins had tortured her during her time at Hogwarts, but here, as Bianca, she saw them through new eyes. They were swans; they were lissome as cats and proud like hippogriffs. They gave the impression that nothing could phase them. Hermione admired them for it, especially the beautiful woman before her, who epitomized grace and passion.
“Where are you staying, Bianca?”
Snapping out of her thoughts, Hermione answered smoothly, “With Severus Snape. I’m sure you know him. Draco tells me your husband and he are great friends.”
Narcissa nodded. “Yes, I know him very well. His is a friend of mine, too. I assume Draco is staying there with you? Severus is, after all, Draco’s mentor, his godfather.”
“Mother,” Draco said in a warning voice, and Narcissa turned her gaze on him coolly.
“Bianca has a right to know-”
“-what I tell her she is allowed to know,” Draco finished for her. “Excuse me, Bianca, but my mother seems to have taken such a liking to you that she has forgotten her place.”
Narcissa looked as Hermione had never seen her. Her beauty appeared deflated somehow, and Hermione suddenly remembered who these people were. They were beautiful, yes, but under the pretense, under manners and expensive things, lurked decay and wickedness Hermione could never imagine.
Looking as if she might cry or scream, Narcissa was excused from saying or doing anything by the appearance of Tonks, Snape, and surprisingly, Lucius. The Malfoy patriarch had bought his way out of Azkaban months ago, and with the new Minister of Magic in his pocket, had managed to extricate several other key Death Eaters along with him.
“Bianca,” Tonks greeted regally as Snape smiled viciously (as only he could) at her side. “We thought we’d lost you, didn’t we Severus?”
“Indeed,” Snape replied, his voice nasal but suave. He was in his element, and Hermione could tell he was really enjoying himself. “I felt sure that Draco had stolen you away from us for the whole evening.” At this, he glared pointedly at Draco, who gave him the minutest of shrugs. Hermione recognized that Snape had been covertly chastising Draco for allowing them to separate, but the blond didn’t seem to think it was important.
Lucius chose this slight lull in the conversation to speak up, apparently unable to be ignored any longer. “Bianca, is it?” Hermione curtsied, suppressing a smile. “I have just met your mother. I hope that you are as charming as she, though I see now that you acquired her good looks.” He grinned rather mischievously, popping his cane into the air like an exclamation point. It vanished on its way back with a sound like snapping fingers, then he turned his shining silver eyes to hers. She felt him trying to penetrate her mind, and formed a mental blockade. She allowed herself to smile then, courteously, as if politely embarrassed for him at his brazen behavior. “Would you like to dance, Bianca?”
Hermione was taken aback at this. Dance? With him? “If your wife-”
“Oh, she won’t mind,” Lucius cut in, taking her gloved hand in his and practically dragging her to the middle of the hall. She heard Draco ask his mother for a dance, then saw Tonks roll her eyes and tug Snape’s hand discreetly toward the dance floor, then she lost sight of them. The three pairs spun in circles then like falling flowers, keeping time in their complicated dance steps.
Lucius had danced Hermione conveniently out of earshot of the others, steering her away from more couples who joined them. “So,” Hermione began, attempting to make conversation, remember steps, and maintain the wall in her mind all at that same time, “what is it that you do for a living?”
Seemingly at ease, Lucius looked over her head, scanning the crowd lazily before answering her question. After a while, he said “A little of this, a little of that. Real estate, business, you know. Boring stuff.”
“I do not think it is possible for you to bore me, sir.” She smiled sweetly, but meant every word.
“Oh, no. You don’t want to hear about that,” Lucius insisted haughtily, and Hermione pressed her advantage. His guard was down; he thought she was just some prudish bonbon for him to use. Then, quickly, so fast she wasn’t sure she’d actually done it, she probed his mind as he’d done hers. A flash of white light mingling with a silver something sprang to her mind, but it was gone almost before she could see it. She spent the next few moments building up her barrier so he could not retaliate. In fact, he was so shocked at her actions his simpering attitude had completely disappeared.
“I think it is unwise for us to underestimate each other, sir,” Hermione whispered, holding his gaze. For several more long seconds they simply danced, then Lucius’ mouth broke into a wide grin and his piercing eyes softened with laughter.
“You are a fascinating little creature, aren’t you?” he chortled, “I can see why Draco likes you.” They continued their whirling and rhythm, Hermione letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “But, my dear Bianca, you should know that legilimency is not a toy, and some minds are worth more than others.”
“How much is your mind worth, Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione asked in her most roguish voice.
Lucius only leered at her, and Hermione finished the song with a pretty pirouette. They bowed to each other, and Lucius found his way to Narcissa, passing Draco coming toward her as he went.
“Care to dance?” Draco snaked his arm around her, and whirled her off around the floor again. They danced the whole song, until they were both practically gasping for air. Hermione felt a hundred eyes on her, and basked in the glory of her victory. She had done superbly on her own; everyone was very impressed by her good breeding, her sharp wit and cool intellectualism. Draco decoded for her all the nuances in his friends’ words and actions (“Yes, Goyle’s a git, but the rest were watching to see how you’d react, and you did beautifully”) and expressed concern then praise for her when she told him of her encounter with Lucius. Draco reminded her to focus on Pansy’s crowd, as Lucius was not likely to simply invite her to a Death Eater meeting.
It was good then, that the young people were impressed by her. Through them she would meet their parents and slip into British pureblood society as easily as a snake into a henhouse. She would hear their troubles, learn their secrets, prove herself to them a hundred times over. And all with Draco by her side. It was possible; she could do this. All the fright had drained from her to be replaced by calm control.
Then the song ended with a flourish and Draco dipped her back. She felt the muscles in his arm tighten against her back as he held her, and his free hand found the soft skin of her shoulder, then her neck. And then he kissed her right there on the dance floor. It was feather-light and razor-soft, the purest emotion to ever brush against her lips, and a wave of shock rippled through her though she did not stop him.
She was upright and being led toward the crowd around the peripheral of the dance hall before she knew what was happening. She couldn’t breath or speak. She nodded to those around her, a part of her still conscious of her duty as Bianca be discreet and amiable. He guided her through, making introductions where necessary or stopping briefly to speak, but continued on until they were behind the throng. Ahead was a pair of French doors, which opened onto a veranda as they neared them, then closed once they’d gone through, leaving them in semi-darkness. Draco turned to face her, worry etched into his handsome features.
“Bianca,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her gently. “Bianca, are you ok?” Hermione understood now his concern. She heard her ragged breathing, became aware of how dizzy she was, how unsteady.
“I think the dancing-” she began, but the room was reeling. She felt cold sweat seeping through the skin on her forehead and her chest. She was fainting, losing herself.
“Stop it. Listen to my voice, and stay with me. Can you hear me? Bianca?” Hermione nodded weakly, slipping. “Hermione,” he whispered, but she had blacked out.