Chapter Text
Hermione concentrated on her paperwork as Ginny talked at her across the desk.
“I think you should consider it. He’s bloody fit, and if Padma’s to be believed, he’s not a bad shag, either.”
Hermione felt the path of her own annoyance as it tensed its way through her shoulders. “Ginny!”
Ginny smirked. “Come on. We both know that’s what you want. Shag Zabini. I’m about 60% sure you won’t regret it.”
Hermione closed her eyes, casting a cooling spell over her scalp to quell the migraine that was forming beneath it. She did not need a shag, and what she needed even less than that was for Ginny to organise one on her behalf.
“We are at work. I have a lot more important things to do. We are not discussing this here. Especially three offices away from his!”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “You act like I didn’t drop four charms and a silencing ward as soon as I closed the door.”
“Even so! I am not shagging someone and then having to look at them across a boardroom the following morning. Especially if they report to me, even if only temporarily. The answer is no.”
The former head, Dawlish, had had a run-in with a furniture store full of boggarts, and had transferred rather suddenly to the Department of Intoxicating Substances instead. Normally, the process for replacing a Head of Department was an agonisingly slow, perfectly bureaucratic process. But wizard on wizard crimes were at an all time high with the ten-year anniversary of the war. People were frightened of some kind of resurgence.
Tonks had insisted that the interim appointment was just for the ‘visuals’ of having Hermione Granger in charge of capturing any Dark Witches and Wizards who might be plotting. At the time, Hermione believed her. But as soon as she’d started the role, and realised how behind they were in paperwork, she realised why she’d really been hired. She’d gone through fourteen quills in three weeks, and she had a knot in her shoulders that not even a scalding hot bath and her muggle romance novels could fix. The department was in shambles.
“Oliver Wood, then. He just got named as a starter for Puddlemere United, you know you like Quidditch boys? He’s back in town for the holidays.”
“No, Ginny. Don’t you have a coven of hags to go and clear out?”
“You need this!” Ginny whined, taking her Auror boots off Hermione’s desk and leaning forward. “I haven’t seen you this tense in years. At least when you were with R—”
“Don’t—" Hermione’s hand flew up to silence her. “If I hear your brother’s name come out of your mouth, I will hex you into next century, and then I will fire you.” Hermione hissed, frustratedly.
Darn. Maybe Ginny had a point. She was a bit on edge.
“So, go and shag someone!”
“I can’t! I have so much work to do, and–” Hermione strengthened Ginny’s silencing ward, much to her chagrin. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t just go and shag some random guy, Ginny. Every man in the UK wizarding world knows my name and my face. And after what happened after my single date with Cormac, I’m quite done with everyone on the street knowing what’s going on in my love life, thank you very much.”
Ginny bit her lip, and fell silent. Hermione waited. She knew it was coming.
“McLaggen is fit, though–”
“Out!” Hermione flung the door open, smashing through Ginny’s deadbolting charm.
However, before she could bury her head in embarrassment and frustration, a wave of internal memos came rushing down the hallway. One swept into Ginny’s hand, one into Hermione’s, and they looked at each other. An all-staff, interdepartmental meeting. Called by the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
God, she did not have time for this.
~*~
“A masquerade ball?” someone shouted. “Really?!”
Tonks grinned. “Ace idea, innit? Yule’s comin’ up, and we were gonna have a party anyway. This is a good way to clear out all the bad blood , ‘scuse the pun. Everyone mixin’ with everyone. No personal history, no department politics– Kingsl— er— the Minister thinks it’s bloody brilliant .”
“That I do,” Kingley Shacklebolt stepped up beside her on the makeshift stage. He smiled warmly at Tonks. “The ten year anniversary of the war is dredging up old memories. I think a masquerade ball is just what we need. Illusion charms, glamours– No one will know anyone else’s identity. At midnight, all the charms will be dropped. You might find you share common ground with someone who was once your enemy. You might meet someone completely new, or strengthen an existing network. The only rules are: You cannot reveal your identity until midnight, and you cannot talk about work. Protections will be in place to ensure rules are followed.”
A wave of protests flew about the crowd, but Tonks put her hands up. “Oi!” she said, barely needing the Sonorus spell she’d cast. “Attendance at the ball is mandatory !” She turned to Shacklebolt, frowning. “Blimey, it’s like they don’t realise they’re gettin’paid to get drunk.”
She’d forgotten to lower her voice. That did help raise the opinion of the crowd, somewhat.
Hermione was near the back, scribbling onto a form approving Ron’s mostly-accidental decapitation of a dark wizard in Inverness. She had long since developed the ability to do multiple things at once, so huffed her disapproval at Tonks’s announcement as she continued writing. But her arm was tugged down from the wall she was writing on, and quickly flung about with excitement.
“Did you hear that!” Ginny squeaked. “A ball. A bloody ball. We haven’t been to a ball since–”
“I’m not going,” Hermione said, decisively. “I have far too much to do. I’ll be asking the Minister for an exemption.”
She went to return to her office, but Ginny caught her arm. “Hermione, you have to go. This is a perfect opportunity for you!”
Hermione sighed. “What? How?”
Ginny looked around, pulling her into an alcove, and grinning the firework-laden smile that all the Weasley children seemed to have. “One night. Fancy dress. No one will know who you are. No faces, no names, no ‘hey, aren’t you on a chocolate frog card ?’” Ginny’s face was positively impish. “You could get royally and thoroughly shagged and guarantee that you would never have to see them again.”
Hermione took pause for a moment. Casual relationships weren’t her thing, really. Well, when it came down to it, actual relationships weren’t really her thing either. Her number was so low that you could count to it on one hand after a run-in with a doxy. Shit, the doxies. She’d meant to talk to the Magical Creatures department about the ones in the lavatories. Another thing to add to her to-do list.
“Ginny, I simply do not have time.”
“Granger!”
She turned, finding Shacklebolt waiting patiently for them to step out of the alcove.
“Minister?”
He walked alongside her with his slow, considered gait, ignoring the wash of staff who flowed around him at near shoulder height. “I can see you drafting an exemption request in your head, and I will let you know in advance I will not be approving it.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. Shacklebolt had been her mentor for years, but he hadn’t pulled her aside like this in a very, very long time. He lowered his voice, looking her meaningfully in the eye.
“With the exception of Potter, you are the most recognisable face of the entire war. Tensions…” He took a deep breath, and leaned in closer. “Tensions are high . People are remembering how angry they used to be.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” she said, sharply. “I’m the one who was dragged away from overseeing the Office for House Elf Relocation to play poster girl for–”
“I know. I know.” Kingsley took another deep, considered breath. “And believe me, I appreciate what you’re doing. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
She followed his breathing, nodding slowly.
Kingsley gave her a knowing look. “The anniversary is coming. If you don’t attend, it will be seen as divisive. And if you’re at all interested in taking the role of Head of the Auror Headquarters on a permanent basis–”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “I– what?”
“I know you haven’t been in the field in a long time. But you’re more than qualified. There’s more to heading up a department than outstanding fieldwork.”
She couldn’t help but blush. On an interim basis, it was rather tedious; playing catchup with paperwork and allocating assignments by region. But long-term … She supposed, if she thought hard, she could see the appeal. She could make the forms more efficient. Hire extra administrative staff. Give assignments based on skillsets instead of location. Open up applications and collaborations with magical beings. A werewolf as an Auror? Developing a network of house-elf spies? Imagine the knowledge they could gain. The research she could do.
The look on certain people's faces.
She was getting ahead of herself. She didn’t have the job. At least, not yet . But a spark of ambition and competitiveness lit in her gut, and, based on the knowing smile that curled on Shacklebolt's face, it had lit in her eyes as well.
“This is a significant networking opportunity disguised as a social event. Discussions for who’ll be the ongoing department head will be happening after the holidays, and I don't think I need to remind you that this is a coveted position...”
He was right. And she knew exactly who he was talking about.
When she’d been announced as the interim head of the Auror headquarters, Malfoy had looked about ready to implode . Shacklebolt’s office door had silently shaken for an hour afterwards, but Malfoy’s silencing charm had clearly held, so she couldn’t hear a single one of the expletives that had likely been thrown around in there. She understood. In terms of field skills, she wasn’t half the Auror that Malfoy was, but she had leadership and division head experience, and he did not.
She was the obvious choice. Malfoy would just have to get over it.
“I don’t think I need to tell you that Head of the Auror Headquarters often leads to Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Which is a proven pathway to... other roles.” Hermione’s eyes widened. Minister for Magic. Shacklebolt held her gaze as she thought, but his sternness didn’t waver. “Show up, Granger.”
Hermione’s throat knotted. She swallowed hard. “Of course, Minister.”
Shacklebolt smiled, patting her approvingly on the shoulder. “Looking forward to seeing who you end up chatting to.”
“As am I,” she whispered, a little annoyed that she’d just been thwarted. The Minister for Magic himself had told her to attend. Now, she couldn’t even fake a bit of Black Cat Flu so she could finish the forms from Theodore Nott’s densaugeo incident. She had to go.
Ginny appeared at her side. “You got told.”
“I did.”
Ginny smirked like Crookshanks with a garden gnome in his mouth.
“Guess we’d better find you a dress.”
~*~
The ball was all anyone would talk about. Plans for glamours, or different appearance-based charms. Illusions. Transfiguration. Potions.
“I’ve always wanted to be a redhead,” Parvati said, admiring herself in a conjured mirror. “I think I’d look so lovely as a redhead.”
Ginny barely lifted her wand, and Parvati’s hair fell into a dark crimson. “Ooooooh!” She grinned. “Thanks Gin, that’s gorgeous. God, you’re so lucky.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Everyone wants the hair. No one ever asks for the transparent skin or the freckles.”
“Make my hair like Hermione’s,” Padma grinned. “I want curls for days. Maybe not as puffy. Or frizzy.”
Hermione shot her a disapproving look. Padma giggled, and Ginny flicked her wand in Padma’s direction. She smiled excitedly, and started pulling it up into a pretty updo. “Oh, I’m definitely wearing it like this.”
“What about me?” Lavender said, pulling her hair up. “When I was little, I used to wish I was part Veela. I wonder if–”
Padma swept Lavender’s hair from her shoulders, swirling her wand gently around the curls, and Lavender squeaked as her hair suddenly caught fire. “Oh, shit! Sorry! I–”
Hermione doused it, flicking her wand and sending Lavender’s hair into a sleek, ice-blonde ponytail. She gasped, grinning at Hermione. “Maybe I should tell Ron I’m sick, but show up anyway and see if he hits on me like this.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I recommend against using charms to test the strength of your relationship, Lavender.” Hermione smiled tightly at her.
“You don’t think it’d be awfully romantic if he recognised me when I looked so different?”
“I’m sure it would,” Hermione smiled, tiredly. “But can someone please explain to me again why you’re all trying out hairstyles in my office ?”
“Yours is the biggest!” Parvati grinned. The red hair really did suit her.
“Yes, because I also probably have the most work to do!” Hermione pleaded.
“Come on, ‘Mione,” Ginny whined. “You don’t think it would be a little bit fun to get all dressed up and watch half the room drool over you?”
“I highly doubt–”
Ginny cleared her throat, looking expectantly at Lavender.
Lavender rolled her eyes. “Last summer, when we all went to the seaside. You didn’t see the boys’ faces when you went into the water. Pure drool. All of them, plus Potter. Ron and I had a fight about it later that night.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open, and she blushed terribly crimson. “That’s awfully kind of you to say, but I don’t think–”
Ginny stood, and rounded the desk, tapping the underside of Hermione’s chin to lift her face. Hermione looked up at her, and Ginny flicked her wand about. There was a soft heat around her head, a heaviness on her eyes, and suddenly, her skin felt a bit sticky. Hermione conjured a mirror. Ginny had thrown the tiniest amount of makeup on her, and tamed her hair just a little. Hermione’s eyes widened.
She… she looked quite pretty.
“If you want to be my boss permanently, you can make it happen with just your brain and your work ethic,” Ginny smirked. “But if Shacklebolt wants us to ‘go all out’, why not show you’re a team player? Show a little skin. Draw some… attention … to the cause. Happy side effect, you potentially get laid.”
Hermione huffed. “I don’t want my colleagues thinking of my tits when they should be listening to my presentation on custody law.”
Parvati grinned. “You can earn their admiration and respect once you’ve got your perfectly pedicured foot in the door.”
Well. Parvati was Assistant Head of Magical Law Enforcement, maybe Hermione should be listening.
“I… I’m not sleeping my way into this job.”
“Is that what you think I did?!” Parvati said.
Hermione panicked. “Oh– God, Parvati, no , I’m sorry, I just meant–”
Parvati brushed it off, flicking her hair back to its usual jet black. “You’re too terrifyingly brilliant to have to resort to that,” she winked. “But why not make them scared and horny?”
The other girls burst into a flurry of wicked giggles. Hermione swallowed, closed her eyes, mentally blocked them out, and turned back to her paperwork.
~*~
The excitement for the ball was… palpable, to say the least. And she couldn’t lie, it was a rather nice change from the recent animosity.
Hermione had a stack of scrolls and paperwork for the Obliviator headquarters, and she knew she didn’t have time to walk them downstairs. But her legs were aching to be stretched, so she relented. She’d just need to be quick. Multitask on the way. As she made her way down the halls of Level 3, she found herself wondering about her look for the ball.
How far should she go? Was it more sporting to just alter her hairstyle and apply some makeup? Most people probably wouldn’t recognise her without ink on her face and a mess of hair around her shoulders. Or… were the girls right? Should she go all out? Transfiguration was something she practiced quite extensively these days, and she was rather good at it. Malfoy might’ve been able to creep across a booby-trapped floor like a cat, but she could transfigure a gum wrapper into a footbridge. It would be the main point working against her in the discussions for department head. That she hadn’t done fieldwork in a long time.
It wouldn’t hurt to demonstrate that she still had ‘it’. She was still Hermione Granger.
She waited for the lift so she could go down to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Perhaps she could straighten her hair. Perhaps she’d make it bigger , no one would be expecting that. Perhaps she could… well, if she was thinking of making things bigger... She glanced down at the front of her blouse. No. No, that would be silly. And exceptionally vain. She took out a loose bit of parchment, and started working on a list. Hair. Dress. Body? She crossed that one out. Ridiculous. Back to hair. Dark. Straight. Blonde and wavy? Maybe icy, like Lavender had tried. Or a little creamier. Like one of the Barbie dolls she’d played with as a girl, building a desk out of Lego and making her sit mock bar exams. She didn’t fancy herself a redhead though. Hit a little too close to home, what with how close she’d been to ending up a Granger-Weasley.
Ugh.
Perhaps she could do something fun with it. Pink or blue or something Tonks would smile at. She laughed to herself. Hermione Granger with pink hair. A scandal, for certain.
The lift arrived, and she squeezed in amongst the others, all of whom seemed equally distracted and excitable. Two witches were giggling in the corner and reading a book on transfiguring noses. A wizard was hiding a pamphlet on the logistics of charming oneself to appear taller, but hiding it between pages of the Daily Prophet. Hermione pursed her lips. Should she do that? Maybe it would mean she didn’t have to wear heels. Suddenly, the lift lurched, and she felt a wetness at her shoulder. She froze, her mouth opening as everyone in the list gasped and tutted sympathetically.
“Damn!” the wizard exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Miss– oh. Oh! Auror Granger, please accept my deepest apologies.”
“Please tell me that was coffee and not something destined for Magical Creatures,” she closed her eyes.
The wizard faltered. “Uh… it’s–”
“No. No, don’t tell me. For the love of God, please don’t tell me.”
The lift stopped. She didn’t want to know. She’d just drop off these scrolls and go to the ladies to clean up. She shook her head, and took a step out of the lift. This day was just getting worse and w–
Oof.
Parchment and scrolls went flying everywhere, and Hermione ended up flat on her arse as she walked practically headlong into a large, solid object. She had to stop herself from bursting into a fireball of frustration. And then, she looked up. Silver eyes glared at her, perfectly symmetrical brows furrowed. Angular jaw clenched. Lips pursed. Not a single, ice-blonde hair out of place from the collision. Dressed in black from neck to ankle, and smelling like cedarwood.
The solid, impeccable, disgustingly good-looking mass of Draco Malfoy.
“Granger.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, because of course it would be her who would deign to run into him. He frowned as he looked down at her, as if he’d only just remembered she’d qualified to exist in his presence. She couldn’t stop herself from glaring.
“Malfoy,” she said, a lot more coldly than she intended.
“Oh dear, everyone alright here?” She recognised the voice. Lupin jogged over, his plum-coloured robes emblazoned with the glittering W.
Wizengamot.
“I’m alright, Lupin, thank you,” Hermione smiled warmly at her friend.
Malfoy spotted the W, and immediately, his attitude changed. “I hope you weren’t harmed, Auror Granger? Collision was my fault entirely.”
Lupin turned his head, smiling approvingly at Malfoy. “I’d offer to help you with all this but I cannot express in how enormous of a rush I’m in.”
“I’d be happy to help,” Malfoy smiled, almost convincingly.
Lupin clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Lovely to see you, Hermione! Catch up soon, gotta run!”
She smiled. “Bye, Lupin!”
As soon as the lift doors closed, Hermione turned back to Malfoy.
“Auror Granger?” she said. “Since when do you refer to me by my actual title.”
“Since there are important people around who happen to be friends of yours.” He smirked.
She huffed angrily, and dropped to her knees to begin picking up scrolls. Malfoy lingered for a moment, before sighing and flicking his wand to collect all the tiny bits of parchment and scroll she’d dropped. Oh. Right. She still did sometimes forget she could do that.
And now she was on her knees in front of Malfoy. The implication painted her face dark crimson.
She got to her feet, and he handed her the stack of paperwork, before his eyes fell to the single sheet on the top of the pile. Her eyes widened, but before she could obliterate it, Malfoy whipped it away. The smirk. Oh, God, the smirk. It was like being eleven again. A good-looking boy making fun of her. She started flicking through spellbooks in her head to see if there was one that would rip a hole in the floor she could crawl into.
“Plans, Granger? Fascinating.”
She said nothing, just plotted the hole her route deeper into the centre of the earth. Maybe she’d use Malfoy as a human shield through the magma.
“And what’s this? Body?” He peered condescendingly over the parchment. “Oh, but it’s crossed out?”
The laugh in his voice sent fury scorching through her, her hand quivering at her hip to curse ‘smug fucking wanker’ onto his face. She snatched the parchment back, standing up to her full height (barely at his shoulders), and glared.
“Yes. Minister Shacklebolt encouraged me personally to wholeheartedly commit to the idea. And as your direct supervisor, I expect you to make a serious attempt to conceal your identity as well.”
“Why on earth would I want to conceal myself?”
“Well, you must certainly try, because there isn’t a charm for a new personality.”
Malfoy’s eyebrow twitched with amusement, but Hermione didn’t wait for a response. She crumpled up the parchment and shoved it into her pocket, glaring at him.
“Did you get my report on the poachers up north?” he asked, still smirking with his eyes as if changing the subject was a mark of his victory.
“Yes.”
“And was it to your standard this time?”
Hermione frowned. Malfoy’s reports were always up to standard. Malfoy’s reports were frustratingly flawless . Everything neat and tidy, precisely the right amount of detail, boxes crossed without a single drop of ink outside the lines. A report filed by Malfoy was a bureaucrat’s wet dream. Even the penmanship was drool-worthy. It was getting harder and harder to find reasons to send them back. And this time, she had absolutely none.
“It was… perfect,” she said, begrudgingly. “Well done.”
“Excellent. I do so yearn for your approval.”
“Don’t be smart with me, Malfoy.”
“No, you’re smart enough for the whole floor, aren’t you, Granger?”
Hermione seethed, trying her best not to outright dismiss him. “Show up to the ball. Make at least some effort to not look like you.”
“Why?” he smirked. “I refuse to believe you don’t want to look at me.”
“Because I am your direct supervisor, and I am giving you an instruction. The Minister has given an order. If I recognise you at the ball, there will be consequences.”
“Ooh, and if I recognise you first, do I get a prize?”
Hermione stopped herself from outright spluttering at his fucking audacity. “No– I– absolutely not. But you’d better–”
Without another word, he turned toward the lift he’d been intending to take all along. “Oh, by the way, Granger?”
She turned to face him, annoyed.
“You’ve got Runespoor egg yolk in your hair, do you know that?”
The wizard in the lift. Oh, God, she was going to track him down and murder him.
“Thank you, Malfoy, I did know that,” she lied.
There was a glimmer of delight in his eyes, and the tiniest curl of his upper lip. “If you say so.”
The lift doors closed, and Hermione felt her hair crackling with so much fury that she was sure the Runespoor egg would fry and fall right out. She stormed to the Obliviator headquarters, dumped the scrolls down, and wrangled the damn egg out of hair with such force she left sparks all over the women’s bathroom on the third floor. Malfoy. Goddamn Malfoy. There was no other person on earth who could so quickly make her blood boil. He was vile. He was ghastly, he was– God, he was such a bully. And if she messed this up, he was going to end up her boss.
She could not let that happen.
By the time she made it back to her office, the other girls were almost finished with their lunch break. The door crashed against the wall as she flung it open, seething and heaving and grinding her teeth together. There was a silence in the room as she stomped her way over to her desk, clearing a space and ripping the parchment in her urgency to draw a picture. The quillpoint was almost ripping through the paper.
“Hermione?” Ginny asked, cautiously. “Are you–”
She slammed the paper in front of Ginny, pointing at it. “Can you find me something like this?”
Ginny’s eyes widened as she looked down at what Hermione had drawn. A dress. One that covered the parts of her she was a little self-concious about, but drew what she hoped to be a lot of attention towards her best… ass-ets. Ginny kicked her feet with such excitement she knocked Hermione’s desk a foot to the left, and the other girls started hollering as if they were a pack of dying Jobberknolls, but Ginny would not let them see what she had drawn.
Malfoy was not taking her job. And she would use every tool in her arse-nal to make damn sure of that.
~*~
The week leading up to the ball was like the week leading up to the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The air was crackling with static magic; excitement and anticipation and sneaky glances at other witches and wizards in the halls. Who might one end up in a conversation with? Who might one end up sharing a drink with? Those who were single seemed particularly excited.
Groups of wizards gossiped like teenage witches in hallways; how they were going to be on the pull, how many witches they’d be able to shag in one night– it was pathetic really. Just some kind of posturing over who did the best charms. Even those in relationships weren’t immune to it. Hermione heard Harry and Ron joking around about just disguising themselves as each other, until they realised that there was a risk of Ron being kissed by his own sister. They shut that down pretty quickly. Besides, they had other things to do.
The Auror office was even busier than they had been. A few witches and wizards had taken it upon themselves to try and brew complicated beauty potions with illegal ingredients. Veela feathers. Merfolk scales. It was one of the busiest weeks of her life trying to talk the magical creatures down from full-scale war. But it didn’t stop her from being nervous.
Three days before the ball, there was a gentle knock at her door. Hermione jumped so hard she hit her knee on the underside of her desk.
“Come in,” Hermione called. Ginny stuck her head in.
“It’s here.”
Hermione’s heart jumped into her throat, and her pulse began to race. “It– is it? Oh, okay, uh–”
“Come in, Flora,” Ginny held the door open a little, and a free-elf in a flawlessly tailored suit entered.
“Miss Granger is having ordered a dress!” the elf smiled broadly. “It is an honour to make a dress for Miss Granger to be wearing to the ball!”
Hermione couldn’t stop her face from breaking out into a wide smile. She looked up at Ginny, adoration in her eyes. Using a free-elf instead of an indentured one. Despite their obvious differences, there was a reason they were best friends.
Ginny closed the door behind her.
~*~
“It fits you like a glove,” Ginny said, her mouth open.
Hermione shook her head slowly, her eyes wide. “I don’t have any gloves that fit like this.”
She’d never worn a dress like this before. Her dress for the Yule ball in school had been pretty; designed for and draped over the body of a teenage girl. But this one–
She didn’t realise how much shape her body had now.
Black. Floor-length. Sparkling like Flora had woven the night sky itself into the fabric. The constellations caught and shimmered with every curve of her body. It made her waist look tiny. It even made her breasts look a teeny bit bigger. It complimented her everywhere the fabric touched her. Except her back. Because, well, there was no fabric there. The back of her neck, all the way down her spine, almost to the top of her arse– completely bare.
She suddenly felt rather exposed.
“Is this too much?” Hermione said to Ginny.
Ginny’s mouth was open, and she was shaking her head silently from side to side. “Lavender’s going to bombarda the wall when Ron sees you.”
Hermione barked out an involuntary laugh, grinning at Ginny in the mirror’s reflection. “What are you wearing?”
“Something far sluttier. I’m trying to get pregnant.”
“Are you really?” Hermione smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“Mmm. Harry promised he’d give himself Aidan Lynch’s hair again.”
“Ew,” Hermione laughed. “I don’t need to know your husband dresses up as famous Quidditch players in the bedroom for you. Not exciting enough that you’re shagging the most famous wizard in the world?”
“Nothing’s ever exciting enough for me, you should know that by now.” Ginny winked. She stood from her seat, and came to stand beside Hermione. She curled her arms around Hermione’s waist, and rested her head on her shoulder. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
Hermione smiled. “Not meant to look beautiful. I’m meant to look like a slap in the face.”
“In whose face?”
Hermione watched her own eyes narrow, and her lips curl into a smirk. “The face of anyone in that room who’s ever called me a scrawny, mousy swot behind my back.”
Ginny could barely contain herself, grinning a mile wide as Hermione glared at her reflection.
“This job is mine. And I’m not letting Malfoy take it from me.”
~*~
Hermione found herself trying the dress on a few times at home, just to see it. Just to– well, she didn’t know– make sure it still looked as good as it had the day before. And the day before that. It did. In fact, every time she tried it on, it almost looked better.
She had a plan for her hair. She had a plan for her makeup. She’d read a few pamphlets about proper eyeshadow application, and she was pretty sure she had the hang of it. Lavender and Parvati were very pleased with her efforts when she’d shown them. She always made sure to take it off at work, though. She couldn’t give away the game. And she certainly didn’t want any of the men in her office thinking she was trying to impress them. She just had to focus on her work, keep her head down, and forget about the ball.
But now, it was Friday afternoon. And there was no forgetting about the ball.
People had been skivving off early all day. Mysterious ‘appointments’, catching up on paperwork in a locked office with the lights off, working ‘offsite’- people were taking hours off to go and get ready, and it was making Hermione a bit nervous. She didn’t usually finish work until six, and the ball started at seven. She wanted to get home and have a bath beforehand, and then with her hair, and her makeup–
Shit.
She was going to have to leave work early to go and get dressed up for a party. Teenage Hermione Granger sobbed about her priorities inside her soul somewhere.
“Harry,” Hermione ducked her head into his office around four o’clock. “I’m… heading home.”
“Are you alright?” Harry stood from his desk, striding across the room and casting diagnostic spells on her. “It’s four o’clock, are you unwell?”
“I need to go and get ready. Are you going to be here long?”
“Another hour or so.”
“Can you send me a patronus if anything urgent comes up? I suppose I could always duck back here if I–”
He shook his head. “Go. I can handle it. Malfoy’s still here too, if I need help I’ll ask him.”
Since when did Harry get along with Malfoy? She raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead, she just nodded, and she made her way home.
~*~
The bath was hot to the point of scalding, taking the edge off the evening as she took a sip of the pinot grigio she’d poured herself. Her sea salt and wood sage candle burned on the counter a few metres away. When she’d scrubbed her skin within an inch of raw, washed her face, washed her hair, dried it, styled it for when the charms fell away, she started on her makeup. She had to actually do it, not just charm her way through, knowing that when midnight fell, she still had to look like a lovelier version of Hermione Granger. That was when the real networking would begin. Satisfied, she began her transformation.
The point was to look nothing like Hermione Granger. To look nothing like the mousy, bookish, slightly dishevelled witch who had her nose buried in parchment and ink stains on her sleeves. Sleek. Elegant. Put together and perfectly opulent. Jewellery. Eyeliner. Painted red lips.
Blonde.
She’d always quite fancied being a blonde, but never thought she’d have the confidence to pull it off. Blondes had more fun. Blondes did unexpected things. But this was all for the job. She was doing it for the job, she reminded herself.
God, she was going to be so late.