A Good Old-Fashioned Affair
HERMIONE
A traditional wizard's ball! Hermione Granger would have balked at the idea if there wasn't so much hinging on it. As it was, she reluctantly slipped on a belted black gown she'd borrowed from Ginny's trunk. In Parvati's words, the style screamed 1862 and the entire ensemble reeked of mothballs, but that was nothing a little spellwork couldn't fix, she thought, sighing in gloomy resignation.
Sensible girl though she was (and that was far more sensible than Ginny Weasley, who actually believed in such things), she had still entertained notions of Harry Potter kissing her hand and promenading her around a ball full of glamorously accoutered (not to mention grateful) witches and warlocks. It was always a Victory Ball, in her dreams, one that heralded the end of Lord Voldemort's reign of terror over Harry's life (and hers, by default). But of all those vainglorious fantasies, none had involved her wearing a get-up quite like this.
Hermione Granger was not a vain girl, but honestly.
"The black offsets your oh-so-pale skin nicely," Lavender simpered; as Hermione had learned over the years, every compliment from Lavender was but an insult in disguise. "Oh, go on - put on the hat. If you can't tame that mop of wild hair, you might as well hide it."
"Here, take these as well," Parvati said, lobbing a pair of pinstriped stockings Hermione's way.
"Are you trying to make me look like an utter fool?" Hermione asked, frowning as she tugged on the dreadful stockings.
"We're trying to make you look traditional, Hermione," Parvati corrected airily. "But I won't say it isn't fun. Ten minutes to eight," she added, checking her wristwatch, "off with you. Harry'll be waiting."
"Wait! Before you go, don't forget to ask Loony Lovegood if you can borrow those earrings of hers!" Lavender positively shrieked with laughter. "What were they again? Kohlrabis?"
"Radishes," Hermione said darkly, and - taking one final appraising glance of herself in the mirror - she strode out of the room with Lavender's laughter ringing in her ears.
* * * * *
HARRY
"For the hundredth time, Ron, I wish you could go too, but this is the way it has to be! Your sulking around isn't doing anyone any good!" Harry was standing in front of the mirror in the boys' dormitories, carefully straightening the collar and smoothing the cuffs of his dress robes. "How do I look? Passable?"
"Fine," Ron said in a deadened sort of way. "I still don't see why you couldn't take Ginny instead."
"Ginny's not in the Slug Club anymore."
"Since when?"
"Since Slughorn caught her cheating on a Truthfulness Tonic," Harry replied. "What time is it?"
"Nearly eight."
"Best be off then, unless fashionably late would be better?"
"Nah, better go," Ron said grudgingly. "It'll look suspicious if you arrive too late, and besides, you know Hermione's thoughts on punctuality."
"Wouldn't it look equally suspicious if we're there too early? I suppose it's a no-win situation, isn't it?" He was babbling to fill the air and soothe his nerves, painfully aware of the fact that it wasn't just the prospect of trying to wheedle information out of Slughorn that was making him uneasy…
"It's certainly a no-win situation for me," Ron said blandly. He flopped back on his bedspread and made a show of reading his Potions book to cover the awkward moment when Harry - having given his dress robes a final once-over - strode from the room to fetch his "date."
* * * * *
"You look beautiful," Harry said, as soon as he and Hermione had escaped the noisy Common room and Seamus and Dean's whoops and catcalls.
Hermione blushed slightly, which - in Harry's opinion - only served to make her look all the lovelier. "I doubt it," she said disbelievingly. "These robes aren't mine, they're Ginny's, and they're a bit broad in the shoulder and patchy, but there weren't many choices, and the socks are-well-hideous-" Laughing, she lifted the hem of her dress so that Harry could see several inches of her green-and-purple-striped ankles.
He laughed as well and felt his anxiety dissipate. Merlin, it was good to laugh. "The socks are a little much -- I'll give you that! But still, you look lovely. I'm glad you're my date, if I can call you that." He cricked an eyebrow at her, gauging her reaction. She smiled and permitted him to take her hand.
"Pity Ginny couldn't join us," said Hermione suddenly, releasing his hand as swiftly as though she'd been burned.
"Yeah, er, Ron too," he replied, not meaning it at all. "Here we are." Harry opened the door for Hermione and they stepped into Slughorn's oversized office. Harry's immediate impression was that he had stepped into a jungle. Green baubles dangled from the ceiling and emerald tapestries covered every square inch of wall space. Slughorn, literally camouflaged in a heavily embroidered green velvet suit appeared out of nowhere, sipping a flute of mulled mead and spouting cigar smoke like some oversized smokestack.
"Ah, Miss Granger! And you've brought Mr. Potter along too, an admirable choice," Slughorn clapped Harry on the back, slopping mulled mead down the front of his own smoking jacket and cummerbund. "Roderick's a nice fellow, of course, and I'm not eugenicist! No, far from it - but I always do like to see a nice young couple get together-"
"You'll have to excuse the décor, I'm afraid!" Slughorn added, smiling broadly at the befuddled expression on Harry's face. "One can't blame an old Slytherin for bandying his House colors about, no? Well, come, come, Harry! No need to hesitate! There are some old friends of mine you simply must meet!"
For the next half-an-hour, Slughorn dragged them from one cluster of famous guests to another. Harry met the presiding President of the All-English Gobstones team Roland Kegg, Muggle expert Blenheim Stalk, and a bright purple warlock called Derwent Shimpling, who - as Slughorn told them behind the poor man's back - had never recovered from a comedy stunt involving a Venomous Tentacula.
"Ah, Odil, my dear friend! The man of the hour! Or the other man of the hour, shall we say, Mr. Potter? For wherever the Chosen One goes, all the others fade from the spotlight!" Slughorn's pudgy elbow jabbed Harry hard in the ribs; Harry wasn't sure if he ought to smile or apologize to the man Slughorn was introducing them to.
"Odil is splendid, Harry, simply splendid," Slughorn said ebulliently, once again ignorant of any discomfort he might have caused. "Odil, meet Harry Potter. Harry - Odil Oliphant!"
"How do you do?" Harry asked politely, preoccupied with the man's strange appearance; Odil Oliphant was a skeletally thin man dressed all in white who stood sipping champagne through pursed and painted lips.
The man bowed theatrically to Harry and made a great show of kissing Hermione's hand.
"Monsieur Oliphant is a mime," Slughorn said, by way of explanation. "And it's probably a good thing he's not in a career where verbal discourse is a must, if I may be so blunt. He only understands French…may not even understand that. It only has to sound like French, to be honest. Comprende, Odil? Comprende?"
Odil nodded dreamily, twiddling his thumbs and watching Hermione with ill-disguised interest.
"See, doesn't know the difference, sill chap. Odil Oliphant is what Muggles call a `magician' besides. He escapes from locked trunks and whatnot - all without magic! Why, Oliphant could be a Squib for all I know, but he makes better use of his talents than any ordinary wizard! Ah, and there's Barnabas Cuffe! Editor of The Daily Prophet, wouldn't you know? You'll have to excuse me, Harry, Miss Granger. Pardon, Odil."
Slughorn bustled away through the crowd to greet Cuffe and one of The Prophet photographers Harry recognized from the Weighing of the Wands ceremony three years previously.
"Well, that was awkward," Hermione said with a laugh, though she was clearly unsettled by Slughorn's boisterousness and Oliphant's hungry gaze.
"And if we don't move, it's about to get a lot worse," Harry replied, gesturing towards Slughorn, who was pointing eagerly at Harry and Hermione as he spook to Cuffe.
"Not in the mood for an exclusive interview?" Hermione asked with a smirk.
"You know, I don't think I am." Harry shoot an apprehensive glance at the photographer - now setting up his tripod in the far corner of the room and watching Pansy Parkinson dancing with Blaise Zabini. "It couldn't hurt to dance a little," he said awkwardly. "We could at least look like we're here for pleasure, not business."
Hermione smiled her assent and grasped his hands. "It's already a great deal more pleasurable than the last Slug Club function, with McLaggen…"
"I still can't believe you did that," Harry replied, battling amusement over her choice of a date.
"Ron had Lavender, I had McLaggen," she said simply. "And besides, I'd like to think that my tastes have evolved."
"Uh oh, he's coming this way," Harry said, steering Hermione away from the prowling cameraman.
"Camera shy, Potter?"
Zacharias Smith was slouched against the wall, watching Harry and Hermione dance with great distaste.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked incredulously, for Smith, unlike Harry and Hermione, had neither fame nor brains to catch Slughorn's eye.
"Funny you should mention that, Potter," Smith drawled, helping himself to a cherry syrup and soda from the buffet table and slurping it noisily before he answered. "Some things have `come to light' about my family lineage."
"Oh? You've got a famous Quidditch-playing ogre for an uncle, then?"
"Founder's blood, Potter," Smith corrected. "With Helga Hufflepuff's blood coursing through my veins, I don't need an unsightly scar on my forehead to join Slughorn's little club."
"Ignore him," Hermione said loftily, pivoting gracefully on the spot so that Harry's back was to Smith. Harry was about to say something about Smith the Supreme Git but as his eyes met hers, he quite forgot what he had wanted to say.
As the dancing portion of the evening began to wind down, the ensemble in the corner struck up a familiar tune, a shoddily-done cover for the Weird Sisters.
Dance your final dance,
This is your final chance,
To hold the one you love,
You know you've waited long enough -
Left, behind, left, spin - Hermione twirled under his arm, curly hair and black gown alike fanning out around her -
Mesmerized, he wasn't thinking properly. Whatever it was intoxicated him more thoroughly than any wine of fine spirits. He was as a drunkard, acting out the motions of normalcy while the room spun around him.
Right, behind, right, whisk -
Weave to the left, whisk to the right -
So believe that magic works,
Don't be afraid, I'll be in hurt,
Don't let this magic die,
The answer's there - just look in her eyes-
And then it struck him.
He liked - he loved - for this was love if anything was - Hermione. How hadn't he seen it before? He wondered vaguely how long it had been there, waiting to be discovered.
And make, your final move,
Don't be scared; she
wants you to,
Yeah, it's hard, you must be brave
Don't let this moment slip away
Ball-heel, ball-toe -
Presently, he was forced to consider whether there had been anything "wrong" with Ginny and Cho at all. Was it simply the fact that they weren't Hermione? It was a damnable conclusion to reach, for the last time he'd checked Hermione Granger was very much attached to one Ronald Weasley…or was she? It was hard to say these days. They'd barely spoken a word to each other since the birthday debacle the previous week…
As though through a haze, he saw her watching him, smiling, eyes sparkling. He forced himself to look away. Hermione is Hermione, he reminded himself. Hermione is your best friend. Nothing more. It wasn't working. As far as matters of the heart were concerned, Hermione was untouchable. There were the guys and there were girls - dateable ones - and there was Hermione, on a pedestal all her own and he couldn't-mustn't-upset that balance. Hermione is Ron's girl, the only thing Ron's ever had, really. You won't take that away from him. You won't.
So dance, your final dance,
`Cause this is, your final chance-
All too quickly, the dance was over, the five-piece orchestra was disbanding: slipping violins and violas back into their cases, lugging away the overlarge cello with strings plated in pure gold.
"Harry?"
She was smiling at him in an odd sort of way, as though she'd been reading his thoughts. "Shall we sit for awhile?" Hermione gestured towards three rows of green chintz armchairs, all facing a small lit stage.
"Ron would get quite a kick out of this," Hermione observed, as they watched Oliphant undo a series of sturdy locks without magic.
Ron. The cincher. One of the two people Harry had blissfully blanked from his mind for the past hour-and-a-half. All of a sudden, he felt embarrassed, color creeping into his cheeks. He tried to focus on Odil Oliphant (now freeing himself from a magical "jail" with theatrical flair), but the frequent eruptions of laughter from his fellow partygoers kept distracting him. And she was much too close, much too distracting. Hermione turned around in her seat to watch Slughorn pour himself another foaming tankard of mead as he bade farewell to Barnabas Cuffe and the photographer.
"This is our chance," Hermione whispered urgently and Harry turned towards her blindly, wondering stupidly if she was thinking what he was thinking.
She wasn't.
She nodded at Slughorn and seized Harry's hand, guiding him through the throngs of dewy-eyed revelers to the place where Slughorn stood.
"Professor?"
"Oho, Harry Potter and Miss Granger! Not leaving, I hope?" He was clearly drunk.We might get lucky after all, Harry thought smugly, as he watched Slughorn drain the rest of his mead.
"No, not yet, sir. Hermione and I just wanted to commend you on cobbling together such an enjoyable event." Flattery. Careful flattery, he told himself.
"You're quite welcome, Harry. It's been my pleasure." He patted his plump stomach and belched loudly. "Dear me, perhaps I've had a bit too much to drink tonight." He winked at Harry and Hermione.
"Professor, there's just one more thing that would make this occasion all the more worthwhile for Hermione and I…" Harry pointedly locked his green eyes with Slughorn's pouchy gray ones.
"So like Lily, you are." Slughorn murmured distractedly, unable to look away from Harry's blazing green eyes. "For you and Miss Granger, anything."
"It's nothing much," Harry said, carefully weighing each syllable. "We were wondering if you could tell us anything about Regulus Black?"
Slughorn tittered nervously. "Regulus Black? Yes, yes, of course…had him in my House, not his brother though. Like I said last year, I'd have liked to have had the set." He began rummaging through the stores of liquor, rattling the bottles together with unnecessary gusto.
"Is that all, Professor?" Harry asked politely.
Slughorn dabbed his sweating forehead with the sleeve of his smoking jacket. He gulped and nodded. "Must have drunk a bit too much tonight-"
"Well, if you can't say anything else about Regulus Black, perhaps you can tell us something about this." Harry reached into the pocket of his dress robes and pulled out the locket. He swung it before Slughorn's eyes, and the older man watched its course, mesmerized.
"Professor?" Hermione ventured.
Slughorn turned away abruptly. "No! Nothing!"
"Professor, please," Harry said, trying to scale down the conversation. He was losing control. Look into
my eyes, Lily's eyes. "How did you--"
"I know nothing!"
"We know you were involved, Professor--"
"It is destroyed - isn't that good enough?!"
"We need more information, sir."
"TIME FOR BED! OFF YOU GO!" he shouted over Harry and Hermione's heads to the dancing and dozing students.
"But Professor!"
"NO MORE!" Slughorn shunted Harry and Hermione out the door. "OUT! OUT!"
"Well, that was a pleasant little chat," Hermione said conversationally, as a stream of students sprinted from the room.
Harry slumped against the wall; he was sorely tempted to reenter, pin Slughorn to the floor and pour a vial of Veritaserum down his throat. "Why won't he tell us? What can it hurt now? Voldemort's back in the open - anyone who knew Dumbledore or knows me is a target anyway!"
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it?"
Hermione bit her lip. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many condolences she longed to offer. "Nothing too bad has happened to us yet… I mean, Ginny was taken down into the Chamber of Secrets…and Ron almost got poisoned - kudos to you, by the way, saving his life…"
"And Ron's dad was attacked by a giant venomous snake…and you…that Death Eater Dolohov tried to kill you!"
"Nearly succeeded, too," Hermione admitted.
"See what happens to the people I love?" Harry demanded. He gave Slughorn's now-closed office door a final sharp kick and, when that elicited no response, he and Hermione set off for the distant Gryffindor Common room in silence.
* * * * *
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