Chapter 17
Hermione refreshed herself with a quick shower, changed her clothes, and was in the middle of reviewing her notes on Claritas when she heard a knock at the door. She checked the magical peephole to see who it was—one of Kingsley's assistants, a young wizard in official ministry robes.
"Miss Granger," he greeted her formally, though she noticed concern in his eyes. "The Minister requests your presence for an urgent conversation. He's in the conference suite on the sixth floor."
"Of course," she replied, grabbing her folder of documents. "Has something happened?"
"The Minister will explain everything," the assistant said, leading her toward the elevator.
The sixth floor was reserved exclusively for the most important hotel guests. The conference suite turned out to be a spacious room with a long table, at which Kingsley Shacklebolt was already seated.
"Hermione," he greeted her, indicating the seat across from him. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Minister," she nodded, sitting down. "Your assistant mentioned it was an urgent matter."
"Very urgent," Kingsley confirmed, as the young wizard left the room, closing the door behind him. "And potentially very dangerous. What exactly happened with the Portkey?"
Hermione described the incident in detail—from the moment they appeared at the ministry, through their meeting with the official who handed them the Portkey, to their landing in the Black Forest and all the difficulties associated with returning to civilization.
Kingsley listened attentively without interrupting, his face inscrutable. When she finished, he sighed heavily and rubbed his temple in a gesture of fatigue.
"I feared something like this," he said finally. "The man who issued you the Portkey was not a ministry employee."
Hermione sat up abruptly.
"But he had an identification badge! And he knew the procedures, knew where the Portkeys were..."
"All forged," Kingsley interrupted. "No one by that name works in the Department of Magical Transportation. We don't know how he got into the ministry, or how he gained access to the Portkeys. Aurors are investigating."
"It was sabotage," she said quietly, feeling a cold shiver run through her body. "Someone deliberately wanted to lose us."
"It appears so," Kingsley confirmed, his voice becoming even more serious. "But that's not all, Hermione. We found the man. Dead."
She froze.
"Dead?" she repeated, unsure if she had heard correctly.
"This morning," the minister continued. "In his apartment in London. Everything points to suicide—a poison potion beside the bed, a farewell letter. But..."
"But you don't believe it was suicide," she finished, immediately understanding the implications.
"No, I don't," he admitted. "It's all too... convenient. Especially considering what's happening around the Claritas case."
Hermione nodded. Things were forming an increasingly disturbing pattern—magical comas, sabotage of the Portkey that was supposed to take them to the Symposium where Draco was to present his research, and now the mysterious death of the man who delivered the faulty Portkey.
"You think someone tried to prevent us from reaching the Symposium?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"I'm sure of it," Kingsley replied. "The question is—who? And why was it so important to them that you not arrive in Paris on time?"
"Draco was supposed to present the results of his research on Claritas today," Hermione said, connecting the facts. "Research that might explain the cause of the coma. Someone wanted to prevent him from speaking at the Symposium."
"That's what we think," Kingsley confirmed. "The question is—who? And how far are they willing to go? Sabotaging a Portkey, planting an official, and then murder..."
"What should I do?"
"Attend Draco's presentation," Kingsley answered. "Observe the reactions of the participants. Who seems particularly concerned? Who tries to disrupt his presentation or discredit his conclusions? That person may be connected to Claritas."
"Do you think Draco might be involved in this?" she couldn't help asking.
Kingsley looked at her penetratingly.
"What do you think, Hermione?" he asked quietly. "It seems to me you know him better than any of us."
She hesitated. Images from the previous night flashed before her eyes—Draco holding her in his arms as she shook with fear; Draco telling her about his childhood, about his nightmares; Draco saying quietly "I'm sorry."
"No," she finally said firmly. "I don't think he's involved."
Kingsley nodded, not commenting on her certainty.
"I just hope nothing unexpected happens at the symposium," he said with a sigh. "We already have too many unknowns in this case."
"I'll do my best to find out more," she assured him.
"Thank you. And remember—caution above all."
After leaving the conference suite, Hermione headed straight to her room. She had little time to prepare for the presentation and banquet.
As soon as she entered the room, she immediately noticed something that hadn't been there before. A huge box tied with an elegant ribbon rested in the middle of the bed. She froze mid-step, instinctively drawing her wand.
Who could have entered her room? And what was in the box?
For a moment she stood motionless, staring at the mysterious box. Carefully, she raised her wand and uttered a series of spells to detect curses, traps, or any traces of dark magic. A bluish light surrounded the package but showed no abnormalities.
"Revelio," she whispered, making another wand movement.
Nothing happened. The box remained an ordinary box.
With a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, she approached closer, then carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
A card lay on top. Small, elegant handwriting, which she immediately recognized, formed a short message:
"I believe this dress suits a representative of the British Ministry much better than anything else. Consider it an apology for the suitcase. D.M."
Under the card, carefully arranged in soft paper, lay the azure dress—the same one she had admired so much in the shop. Next to it were matching silver stilettos and delicate sapphire earrings.
"I don't believe it," she exhaled, feeling anger spread through her body in a hot wave. "I don't believe his nerve!"
She crumpled the note in her hand and threw it across the room. How dare he? After she had clearly stated she didn't want this dress? After she had made it plain she didn't want his interference in her choices?
This was typical Draco tactics—ignoring her will, imposing his own, pretending generosity when in reality it was only about control. About showing that he could always have his way.
"Not this time," she said aloud, slamming the box lid shut.
She took it from the bed and threw it into the closet with such force that she heard a soft crack when the box hit the back wall. She didn't care. She wasn't going to wear that dress. She wasn't going to give Draco the satisfaction.
She went to the dresser, where the black dress delivered from the boutique was already waiting. It was elegant, professional, and exactly what Hermione wanted. A dress she had chosen herself and paid for herself.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She had more important matters than being angry at Draco—a presentation to focus on, suspicious individuals to observe, information to gather for Kingsley.
With determination, she began her preparations. She stood before the mirror, trying to tame her unruly curls. As usual when she was nervous, her hair seemed to have a life of its own. The smoothing spell worked only for a moment, after which more strands escaped control.
"Wonderful," she muttered with irritation when the third attempt to arrange them in an elegant bun ended in disaster.
After a quarter-hour of fighting with her own hairstyle, she gave up and decided to try something different. With a few deft movements of her wand, she gathered her hair into a loose, tattered bun, from which she deliberately released a few strands to frame her face. It looked less formal than she had planned, but at least it didn't appear accidental.
She kept her makeup in muted colors—just enough to accentuate her eyes and add some color to her pale cheeks. She usually didn't pay much attention to such things, but today she felt a strange need to look good. To show everyone at all costs that she was doing well.
She put on the black dress that she had chosen and purchased herself. It was elegant and simple—with a delicate neckline revealing her collarbones but leaving the rest to the imagination. The material hugged her body, emphasizing her waist, then gently flaring toward the bottom.
As she stood fully dressed before the mirror, she couldn't help thinking about the other dress—azure like the summer sky, with delicate chiffon that would ripple with every movement. About the dress that had made her eyes widen in delight when she saw it in the shop window.
"Stop it," she admonished herself, turning her gaze away from the closet where she had thrown Draco's box. "It's just a dress."
But nevertheless, as she fastened the delicate silver necklace around her neck—the only ornament she had with her—she felt a pang of regret. That azure dress would have been perfect.
She cast a final glance in the mirror, grabbed a small black clutch, and headed for the door. She had a job to do. She had a presentation to observe. She had potential suspects to identify.
And yet—she hesitated at the door.
* * *
The banquet hall of Hotel Enchantement was an impressive display of French opulence. A high ceiling adorned with frescoes depicting famous potion masters, crystal chandeliers levitating several meters above the ground scattering rainbow reflections of light, and long tables bending under the weight of exquisite dishes—all this created a picture of elegance that even Draco Malfoy couldn't deny appreciation for.
He stood by one of the marble pillars, with a glass of champagne in hand, observing the crowd of wizards and witches from various corners of the magical world. German potion masters in characteristic scarlet robes with geometric embroidery, representatives of the Salem Institute of Magic in practical but elegant attire, the Japanese delegation in traditional silk robes with subtle alchemical symbols—all mingled in a colorful, bustling crowd.
Draco hated such situations. Once, before the war, he had felt like a fish in water—a young, arrogant Malfoy heir, with a natural talent for establishing "proper" connections. Now every such occasion was like a minefield—he never knew who still remembered his role during the war, who would look at him with hidden contempt, who would seek an opportunity to drive in a subtle but painful dagger of commentary.
His gaze wandered toward Celestine, who was in her element. In an elegant silver dress that perfectly accentuated her slender figure, she moved between groups of guests with unnatural grace. She knew at least four languages and switched between them effortlessly, talking with the French minister one moment and an Italian potion master the next. She smiled, laughed at appropriate moments, lightly touched her interlocutor's arm, creating an illusion of closeness.
"A wonderful woman, your wife," a deep, slightly hoarse voice interrupted his observations.
Draco turned to see Antoine Rosier—his father-in-law—standing beside him. A tall, slim man with a perfectly trimmed gray beard and penetrating gaze of gray eyes, which always seemed to see more than Draco would wish.
"Yes, that's true," he replied, slightly raising his glass in a gesture of toast.
"She was worried about you," the older man continued, watching him carefully. "That incident with the Portkey. Very unfortunate."
"We were lucky that nothing serious happened," Draco replied in a neutral tone, feeling the muscles in his back tensing involuntarily.
He never felt comfortable in Antoine Rosier's presence. The man was an influential member of the French ministry, controlled a significant portion of magical ingredient trade in Europe, and had a reputation as someone who always achieved his goals—regardless of methods. Draco had formed an alliance with him by marrying his daughter, but never deluded himself that the older wizard regarded him with anything more than cold calculation.
"Yes, lucky," Rosier nodded, and then his gaze became even more penetrating. "I hope this incident hasn't... affected your presentation? Many people are waiting for your conclusions regarding Claritas."
"The presentation will proceed as planned," Draco assured him, maintaining a neutral expression.
"Excellent," Rosier smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I am very curious about what properties of this fascinating potion you've managed to discover."
Draco had the impression that something more lurked behind these words—some undisclosed expectation, perhaps even a warning. But before he could analyze it, Rosier's attention was drawn to another person.
"Ah, Professor Berkeley! How nice to see you," he called out, moving away toward an elderly Italian potion master.
Draco breathed a sigh of relief, though he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He looked at his watch—fifteen minutes until the presentation. He hoped Hermione would appear. Despite her cold treatment, he needed someone who would understand the subtleties of his research, and she was one of the few people with a mind sharp enough to catch all the nuances.
He scanned the room with his eyes, looking for her characteristic silhouette, but couldn't spot her among the crowd. Instead, his gaze met Celestine, who was now conversing with a young, handsome wizard from the Norwegian delegation. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm longer than conventions required.
Draco felt a pang of something that in other circumstances he might have called jealousy. But this was a different feeling—irritation that she could interact so easily, while he stood alone, observing the hall.
Two men in elegant robes—the symposium organizers—approached him.
"Mr. Malfoy, we're ready to begin the presentation session," one of them said politely. "Do you have all your materials? Do you need anything special?"
"Everything is ready," Draco replied, finishing his champagne and handing the empty glass to a passing waiter.
He followed the organizers to the other end of the Banquet Hall, where a podium had been prepared for speakers. This part of the hall had been separated by elegant, heavy curtains that fell from the high ceiling, creating an impromptu stage. While guests were still talking and taking seats in the rows of chairs, Draco stood behind the curtain, reviewing his notes once more.
He looked at his watch—three minutes until the start. He gently pulled back the edge of the curtain, creating a narrow gap through which he could observe the gathering audience. He recognized the faces of the most important potion masters from around the world, ministry representatives, journalists specializing in alchemical topics.
Celestine took a seat in the first row, next to her father, who was still talking with Professor Zabini. He noticed several of his former Hogwarts colleagues who were also involved with potions. But that one face he was still looking for, despite everything, he couldn't spot.
Where the devil was Granger? She should be here—not only as a representative of the British ministry but as one of the few people with a mind sharp enough to fully comprehend the significance of his discoveries.
Just then, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and he saw her.
Hermione Granger entered the room, and he felt his heart pause for a moment. She was wearing that dress—the azure creation he had sent her. The light, flowing material in pastel blue enveloped her silhouette, highlighting all her assets. The corset-style top fit her figure perfectly, and the multilayered skirt rippled gently with each step she took, creating the impression that she was floating through the hall.
What surprised him most, however, was how she chose to wear the extra piece of material—tied around her neck as a kind of elegant small cape that fell softly over her shoulders and part of her back.
He felt unexpected warmth spreading through his chest. She had accepted his gift. Despite their earlier argument, despite her obvious anger—she had decided to wear the dress he had chosen for her. This gesture had meaning, though he didn't yet fully understand what.
He watched as she traversed the hall with confident steps, attracting the glances of other participants. She wasn't seductive in the way Celestine was—no, Hermione emanated a different kind of strength.
When she took her seat in the third row, perfectly opposite the podium, he let the curtain fall back. He felt a strange mixture of emotions—satisfaction that she had accepted his gesture; relief that she had decided to come; and something else, something he couldn't, or perhaps didn't want to name.
He took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the presentation. After all, he had important discoveries to present. But somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, the thought of Hermione in the azure dress still lingered, its flowing material seeming to be an extension of herself—intelligent, elegant, and far more seductive than she would ever be inclined to admit.
The organizer stepped into the middle of the hall and tapped his throat with his wand, amplifying his voice.
"Dear guests, I invite you to a special lecture. Mr. Draco Malfoy, Potions Master from Great Britain, will present the results of research on the Claritas potion."
The curtains parted smoothly, revealing Draco standing behind the podium. He looked impeccable—his elegant, dark robes with subtle silver embroidery on the cuffs, perfectly styled platinum hair, and straight posture emanated professionalism.
Before him on the podium stood a silver basin similar to a Pensieve and several vials of various sizes containing colorful substances.
"Distinguished guests," Draco began in a confident, resonant voice. "Thank you for attending this presentation concerning a potion that has recently shaken the market—Claritas."
He made a short movement with his wand, and above the silver basin appeared a three-dimensional, rotating molecular model.
"Claritas was introduced as a breakthrough potion improving concentration and mental efficiency. Officially, it consists of three main ingredients: dragon blood, unicorn horn dust, and petrified mandrake leaves."
Another movement of his wand, and individual parts of the model glowed in different colors, showing how various ingredients combined with each other.
"The combination of these ingredients was supposed to create a stable, safe potion with extraordinary cognitive properties. And indeed—initial tests showed impressive results. Users of Claritas experienced significant increases in concentration, improved memory, and analytical abilities."
Draco paused, and his face became more serious.
"However, as we all know, disturbing reports have emerged. More and more Claritas users have fallen into an unexplained comatose state, from which traditional medical methods could not awaken them."
Silence fell over the hall. He looked at Hermione, who was observing him with intense focus.
"I undertook a thorough analysis of Claritas's composition, using the latest magical scanning methods. What I discovered..."
He made a subtle movement with his wand, and the silver basin began to spin. From within, a silvery substance emerged, floating in the air.
"What you see is not unicorn horn dust, as the manufacturer declares. It is full unicorn blood, carefully magically masked to hide its true nature."
A murmur of surprise and concern passed through the hall. Draco continued, his voice becoming stronger.
"Unicorn blood is a substance of extraordinary power, but it is also subject to one of the oldest curses in the magical world. As a centaur acquaintance once said: 'Slay a unicorn, and from that moment you will lead only a half-life, a cursed life.'"
Draco pointed his wand at several charts that appeared in the air.
"My research has shown that unicorn blood is responsible for the coma cases. Initially, the potion works as promised—improving cognitive functions, increasing concentration, sharpening the mind. However, after several weeks of regular use, the curse begins to take effect."
He waved his wand, and an image of a human brain appeared above the basin.
"In simplified terms—unicorn blood, combined with dragon blood, creates a strong magical bond that initially stimulates the brain areas responsible for concentration and memory. Over time, however, this same bond begins to affect deeper neurological structures, causing a gradual separation of consciousness from the body."
Another motion of his wand, and the image changed, showing dark, pulsating areas in the brain.
"Patients in comas are physically present, but their consciousness... is somewhere else. Between worlds. It's literally the 'half-life' the curse speaks of."
A tense silence fell over the hall. Draco noticed that Antoine Rosier sat motionless, his face expressing no emotion, but his fingers tightly gripping the armrests of his chair.
"The question that naturally arises—why did the manufacturer use unicorn blood instead of horn dust? The answer is simple and simultaneously disturbing. Unicorn blood gives immediate, much stronger effects. Horn dust works more slowly, more subtly. In a world where quick profit and competitive advantage count, someone decided to take shortcuts."
Draco finished his main presentation and looked around the room.
"I'll now answer your questions," he said, pointing to the raised hand of a wizard in the second row.
"James Woodbridge, British Institute of Alchemy," the man introduced himself, standing. "Mr. Malfoy, if unicorn blood is so dangerous, why have only some Claritas users fallen into comas? According to Health Ministry data, comas have affected less than five percent of consumers."
Draco nodded, as if he had expected this question.
"Excellent observation. The unicorn blood curse works on a threshold basis. In my research, I discovered that its activation depends on three factors. First, on dosage—people taking larger quantities of Claritas much more frequently fell into comas. Second, on duration of use—long-term use increases the risk of curse accumulation. And third, most interestingly—on individual magical susceptibility."
Draco waved his wand, and a new diagram appeared above the basin.
"Some wizards possess a natural resistance to curses. This is a hereditary trait, occurring in about ten percent of the magical population. The remaining ninety percent is vulnerable to the full effect of the curse, but the effects manifest gradually. In five percent we already have full-blown comas, but my research suggests that another twenty percent of users are on the verge of developing them."
Another hand rose immediately—belonging to an elegant witch with sharp features.
"Eloise Dubois, French Academy of Potions. Is it possible that it's not the unicorn blood itself, but its interaction with other ingredients causing the coma?"
"Excellent question, Madame Dubois," Draco replied. "Indeed, the interaction is key. Unicorn blood alone gives the effect of a 'half-life'—sustaining vital functions at the cost of a cursed existence. However, combined with dragon blood, it creates a magical bond that enhances cognitive functions while simultaneously increasing the power of the curse. It's like alchemical amplification—we gain a more powerful primary effect, but also more powerful side effects."
He shifted his gaze to an elderly wizard who was nervously waving his hand.
"Professor Higgs, University of Heidelberg," the man introduced himself, standing. "Mr. Malfoy, have you conducted research on possible treatment methods for people who have already fallen into comas? Is there a way to reverse the effects of the curse?"
Draco nodded, knowing this was a crucial question for many in the hall.
"Thank you for that question, Professor. This is obviously a matter of the highest importance. My staff and I have been working intensively on possible methods to counteract the effects of the curse."
He moved his wand over the silver basin, and from within emerged a golden-silvery substance that hung in the air, shimmering gently.
"The unicorn blood curse has a very specific magical nature. It is essentially stolen life force that is transferred to the one who consumes it. The key to neutralizing such a curse is finding a magical substance of opposite nature—something that represents life willingly offered, not taken by force. My research suggests it's possible to create an antidote based on phoenix tears, which are the essence of healing magic and voluntarily given life. However, the path to effective treatment is still long and requires further testing."
A middle-aged woman raised her hand from the first row.
"Healer Matthews from the Clinic for Magical Neurological Diseases. You mentioned phoenix tears, but that's an extremely rare ingredient. Will patients have to wait months for treatment?"
Draco looked at her seriously.
"You're right, it's a serious challenge. Phoenix tears are indeed difficult to obtain in sufficient quantities. However, I'm working in parallel on an alternative formula that would use more accessible ingredients with similar magical signatures. Promising results have been shown by a combination of extract from spotted mimbulus mimbletonia flowers collected at midnight during a new moon and condensate from boiling springs under the Dragon Mountains."
A young wizard with glasses raised his hand.
"Victor Sasaki, Asian Potions Consortium. Is there a way for Claritas users to check themselves if they're at risk of coma? Any early symptoms they should watch for?"
"Absolutely," Draco replied. "One should pay attention to unusual dreams featuring a sensation of separation from the body, problems with immediate memory alongside enhanced long-term memory, and a growing feeling of cold that can't be warmed by ordinary methods."
At the back of the hall, another hand was raised. It was an elderly witch with a stern face.
"Wilhelmina Barkley, International Commission for Ingredient Trade. Mr. Malfoy, do your studies allow you to determine the source of this unicorn blood? The population of these creatures is strictly monitored and protected."
Draco's face hardened. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Antoine Rosier sat motionless, but his eyes never left the speaker.
"That's a key question, Ms. Barkley. My research suggests the blood comes from the Black Forests of Transylvania—the last place in Europe where unicorns live in the wild, without direct reserve protection. The amount of blood needed for current Claritas production indicates systematic hunting."
A murmur of outrage passed through the hall. Draco continued, his voice becoming more assertive.
"I am cooperating with Romanian magical creature protection services to locate the exact site of these hunts."
Hermione raised her hand, and Draco nodded in her direction. He noticed how the azure dress rippled gently as she stood.
"Hermione Granger, British Ministry of Magic," she said in a confident voice. "You indicated that the antidote requires phoenix tears. Have you considered the possibility of utilizing international phoenix reserves to help produce the medication? The British Ministry could establish cooperation with other countries on this issue."
Draco smiled slightly.
"Miss Granger asks, as usual, an extremely pertinent question. Yes, this will require international cooperation. The Ministry has already had preliminary discussions with curators of major reserves in Egypt and Peru. Phoenixes must voluntarily offer their tears, so the process will be slow, but with coordinated efforts, we can significantly increase treatment availability."
Antoine Rosier unexpectedly stood up.
"May I ask a question?" he said loudly, not waiting for permission. His voice sounded calm, but Draco noticed tension in his posture.
"Of course, Mr. Rosier," he replied, feeling the atmosphere in the hall shift.
"How can you be certain that it was the manufacturer who added unicorn blood to the potion? Isn't it possible that sabotage or contamination occurred in the supply chain?"
Draco looked his father-in-law straight in the eyes.
"I examined samples from different batches, obtained from various sources and regions of England. All contained unicorn blood in identical proportions. The probability that each of these batches was subjected to identical sabotage is practically zero. Furthermore," Draco paused here, "the method of magically masking this ingredient indicates deliberate action at the production stage, not later interference."
Rosier remained standing, regarding Draco with a cold look.
"I understand. And have the results of these studies been verified by an independent laboratory? Or are we to take only your word as evidence?"
Draco felt irritation rising within him, but maintained a professional tone.
"Complete documentation of the research has been submitted to the International Commission for Standardization of Potions. Control samples are available to any qualified potions master who would like to repeat the tests. I am absolutely certain of my results."
Rosier finally sat down, but the atmosphere in the hall remained tense. Draco took a few more technical questions, after which the organizer announced the end of the session. As the curtains began to close, Draco noticed that Hermione was still observing him, her face expressing something that could be taken as approval.
He waited until most guests had moved away from the podium and approached Celestine, gently but firmly taking her by the elbow, pulling her a few steps away.
"What is your father doing?" he asked quietly, but with clear tension in his voice. "He himself wanted to finance this investigation, insisted that I present the results at the symposium, and now he publicly questions my words? Is this some kind of joke?"
Celestine looked at him with her watchful eyes. She smiled slightly, in that characteristic way of hers that always left doubt whether she was amused or irritated.
"Draco, darling," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "It was a deliberate move. Father wanted to give you an opportunity to prove yourself."
"Prove myself?" he repeated in disbelief. "By publicly questioning my research methodology?"
"Exactly," she nodded. "Think about it—if everyone simply nodded along, accepted your conclusions without questions, how would it look to the public? Like a staged performance. But now?" her smile broadened, "Now everyone saw how confident you are in your discoveries, how you can defend your research even against someone as influential as my father."
Draco looked at her, irritated.
"You could have warned me about this little strategy," he said coldly.
"And ruin the authenticity of your reaction?" Celestine laughed softly. "Believe me, dear, you came across much better thanks to not knowing. Your surprise, and then confidence—priceless. Do you think I didn't notice how everyone looked at you with admiration when you responded to my father?"
"Next time I'd prefer to be informed about such... tactical maneuvers."
Celestine tilted her head, studying his face with interest.
"Of course, if that's what you prefer," she replied lightly. "Nevertheless, you should be pleased. Your presentation made a tremendous impression. I've already heard people saying it's the most important discovery in the field of potions in years."
At that moment, one of the organizers stepped into the center of the hall and tapped his throat with his wand, amplifying his voice.
"Distinguished guests! In accordance with the tradition of the International Potions Symposium, we invite everyone to the official ball, which will begin in ten minutes in the Hall of Mirrors. The ball will open with the traditional dance of national delegations—we ask that official representatives of each country prepare for the ceremonial dance!"
Draco looked at Celestine in disbelief.
"A dance? A ball?" he asked, barely containing his indignation. "I've just announced that a popular potion contains an illegal substance that puts people into comas, and they're organizing a ball? People are lying unconscious in hospitals, and we're supposed to dance?"
Celestine sighed lightly, as if dealing with a child who didn't understand obvious things.
"Draco, this is a tradition dating back to the seventeenth century," she said, adjusting one of the diamond pins in her hair. "France has... a different approach to such matters than England. Here, protocol, ceremony, maintaining appearances are important."
"Appearances?" Draco repeated, not hiding his irritation. "People are dying, and they care about appearances?"
"Nobody is dying—they're in comas, and you've just announced that you have an antidote," Celestine replied with a slight smile. "Besides, do you really think canceling the ball would help the patients in any way? On the contrary—it's during such informal meetings that the most important decisions are made. Ministers talk, potion masters exchange ideas, connections are formed that could accelerate the production of your antidote."
He shook his head.
"I understand politics, Celestine," he said more quietly. "But sometimes I wonder whether, under all these conventions and traditions, ordinary human decency gets lost."
"Oh, Draco," she laughed lightly. "You're still so... British. Here, decency is expressed precisely through adherence to protocol. Nobody expects you to enjoy yourself—just show up, dance the official dance as a representative of your country, have a few strategic conversations, and you can return to your research."
He opened his mouth to protest, but his wife placed a finger on his lips.
"And before you say something you'll regret—remember that your father-in-law is one of the main sponsors of this symposium. How do you think your absence would be received?"
Draco sighed, knowing he had lost this skirmish.
The Hall of Mirrors dazzled with opulence. Hundreds of mirrored panels covered the walls, reflecting the light of crystal chandeliers and creating the illusion of infinite space. The ceiling had been enchanted to resemble a starry sky, with constellations slowly changing positions. The marble floor had been polished to such perfect shine that it appeared almost transparent.
Draco entered the hall, immediately surrounded by a cacophony of sounds, colors, and scents. An orchestra comprised of self-playing instruments occupied a platform at the side of the hall, tuning up before the official polonaise. Couples from various national delegations began gathering on the dance floor, dressed in traditional costumes or elegant evening robes.
Celestine appeared at his side, as if emerging from nowhere. Her silver gown perfectly complemented the hall's decor, giving the impression that she was an integral part of it.
"We'll stand there, behind the Italian couple," she whispered to him, leading him toward the dance floor. "Remember—three steps forward, bow, turn left, offer the right hand, then the left. The French observe technique, so please, make an effort."
Draco mechanically followed her directions, but his attention was elsewhere. He scanned the room, looking for a familiar face. Finally, he saw her—she stood by one of the tall marble columns, away from the crowd.
Hermione, in her azure dress, looked like a creation from another place and time. With sleeves tied beneath her neck, forming a delicate cape, there was something of a fairy-tale princess about her. But her expression contradicted the fairy-tale idyll—she seemed lonely, out of place, as if she didn't belong among this glittering company.
She held a glass of champagne in her hand, which she had barely touched, and observed the preparations for the dance with an expression of quiet resignation. Several witches passed by her, whispering something among themselves and glancing in her direction. Draco noticed how her shoulders tensed slightly, how she gripped the stem of her glass more tightly.
"Draco, are you listening to me?" Celestine tugged slightly at his sleeve. "Let's go."
She took Draco's arm, gently but firmly guiding him toward the dance floor. He stopped, however, his gaze still fixed on Hermione, solitary by the column. Her azure dress with sleeves tied beneath her neck looked like a fragment of sky captured in the marble hall. But her eyes... her eyes were too sad for someone so beautiful.
"To hell with this," he muttered, pulling his arm from his wife's grip.
"What are you doing?" Celestine hissed, trying to stop him with a discreet but strong jerk of his sleeve. "Draco! You can't leave now, it's tradition!"
But he had already turned away, crossing the hall with long, confident strides. He felt the gazes of other guests upon him, heard whispers, but he didn't care. His attention was completely focused on the woman who now observed his approach with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.
He stopped before her, suddenly aware of how impulsive this gesture was. How many rules he had just broken. How many bridges he had burned. And how little that bothered him.
"Hermione," he said quietly, so quietly that only she could hear.
"Draco?" she responded questioningly, her eyes sliding over his shoulder, noticing the furious Celestine on the dance floor. "Is something wrong?"
He smiled slightly, finding unexpected courage in her surprise.
"I realized I've never danced with you," he said. "And that seems to be a serious oversight."
Her eyebrows rose in astonishment.
"You... want to dance? With me?" she asked, and a strange glint appeared in her eyes. "What about your wife? She's watching us."
"You're the one representing the British Ministry, not her," he replied, a note of firmness entering his voice. "Celestine is here at most as... an elegant addition to the decor. Beautiful, yes, but without official status."
Hermione looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.
"I'm sure your wife would appreciate that comparison," she said with slight irony.
"My wife knows her role perfectly well," he replied, not taking his eyes off her. "And her worth. Believe me, no one overestimates her more than she herself does."
She hesitated, her gaze shifting between his outstretched hand and Celestine standing on the dance floor.
"Draco, this will... complicate things," she said quietly. "We shouldn't..."
"Probably not," he agreed, but did not lower his hand. "But I've just announced to the world that a popular potion contains illegal unicorn blood. I think one unexpected dance more won't make much difference."
A shadow of a smile appeared on her face—delicate, uncertain, but genuine.
"You were always good at causing scandals," she said, her voice softening.
"It's a gift," he replied with feigned modesty, then added more seriously: "Dance with me. Not because of protocol, not because of diplomacy. Just... dance with me."
Something in his words, in the way he looked at her, must have reached her. Her hand, slightly trembling, rose and rested in his outstretched one.
"I hope I don't step on your toes," she said quietly. "It's been a while since I danced."
Draco smiled, feeling an unexpected wave of warmth spreading in his chest. His gaze fell on her sleeves tied beneath her neck, forming a delicate cape. He hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand to her neck.
"May I?" he asked softly.
She nodded, not quite understanding. His fingers gently found the knot beneath her neck and slowly untied it. The material loosened, and the extra sleeves fell, flowing softly over her shoulders and revealing the delicate line of her neck and collarbones.
"Now we can go," he said, his voice lower, softer than he had intended.
As he led her to the dance floor, he felt all eyes turning in their direction. Celestine stood at the edge of the floor, her face a mask of cold fury. Antoine Rosier straightened up, his eyes narrowing dangerously. But all this seemed unimportant, distant, as if it belonged to another world.
At this moment, all that mattered was the warmth of her hand in his and that strange, unexpected feeling of peace that came over him as they stood together among the other couples, ready to begin the dance.
The orchestra played the first measures—a stately, ceremonial dance, full of bows and precise steps. Couples began moving across the floor in an organized sequence, creating an elegant pattern on the polished floor.
He led Hermione, feeling how tense she was under his touch. Her body was rigid, her movements mechanical, as if recreating steps from memory, without any joy or freedom. Her eyes constantly darted toward other couples, checking if she was performing the dance correctly.
"Breathe," he whispered, gently squeezing her hand. "It's just a dance."
"Easy for you to say," she replied just as quietly. "You were taught all these distinguished dances since childhood."
"And you are Hermione Granger," he reminded her with a slight smile. "The woman who aced every exam at Hogwarts, survived a war, and runs an entire department at the ministry. Is an ordinary dance really a greater challenge?"
She looked at him in surprise, and then her lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile.
"When you put it that way..." she murmured.
The dance led them across the hall, passing other couples, performing prescribed bows and turns. With each measure of music, Hermione seemed to relax a little more. Her movements became more fluid, less forced. When their hands met again, he noticed that her grip was no longer so desperately tight.
The music accelerated, entering a more energetic section. Couples began performing more complex figures, separating and rejoining. Seeing that Hermione felt more confident with the basic steps, he decided to take a bit more risk.
"Will you trust me?" he asked, looking directly into her eyes.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. Draco immediately changed their course, leading her into a more intricate pattern, going somewhat beyond the formal structure of the polonaise. When the music reached a crescendo, he held her more firmly at the waist and executed an unexpected, dramatic turn.
Hermione gave a soft cry of surprise, and then—to his astonishment—she laughed. It wasn't that restrained, controlled laugh he sometimes heard from her at the ministry. It was a full, genuine burst of joy, pure as the sound of a silver bell, resonating above the music.
Draco almost stumbled, so surprised was he by this sound. Throughout his life, he had heard Hermione Granger speaking in many voices—reciting answers in class, issuing commands, arguing at the ministry, sobbing in pain, shouting in fear, whispering in darkness. But never, ever had he heard her laughing like this—completely, without reservations, without control.
That laughter... it flowed through him like a wave of warmth, melting something he didn't even know was frozen. It was a sound so beautiful, so unexpected, that for a moment he forgot everything else—the hall full of people, Celestine watching them with fury, the consequences that would surely come.
"What happened?" Hermione asked, noticing how he had momentarily gone still.
He blinked, returning to reality. He wanted to tell her how extraordinary the sound of her laughter was, how much it surprised him with its purity and authenticity. But something held him back—some intuition that naming it aloud might destroy the fragile magic of the moment, make her self-conscious again, restrained.
"Nothing," he replied, executing another fluid turn. "I just didn't expect Hermione Granger could dance like this."
"Neither did I," she admitted, and her eyes sparkled with a joy he had never seen in her before. "I guess I never had the right partner."
Her words, probably spoken without deeper thought, struck him harder than he expected. He saw a shadow passing across her face—a memory of past dances, past partners, perhaps Weasley. But before she could sink into these thoughts, Draco deliberately quickened the pace, performing a series of rapid, swirling steps.
Hermione instinctively adapted to his lead, her dress unfurling around them like an azure wave. As the music accelerated again, he risked a bolder move—half turn, half dip, which caused her hair to brush the marble floor.
She laughed again, this time louder, more freely, and that sound seemed to resonate above the music, drawing glances from other couples. Draco felt her body yielding to his guidance with increasing trust, how tension left her shoulders, her movements becoming more fluid, more natural.
The music changed subtly, entering a slower, more solemn part. Draco adjusted their movements, returning to a more classical form of the polonaise. Now that the dance had become less intense, more ceremonial, they became aware again of the world around them.
Hermione raised her gaze above his shoulder, looking at the enchanted ceiling of the hall. Thousands of stars twinkled above them, arranging themselves into slowly shifting constellations. Gold and silver rays of light danced among the stars, creating the illusion of a cosmic ballet.
"This hall is truly beautiful," she said with admiration, her voice soft, almost dreamy. "It looks like a fragment of the universe enclosed under a glass dome."
"Yes," Draco replied. "Very beautiful."
But his eyes did not follow her gaze. He wasn't looking at the ceiling, nor at the twinkling stars, nor at the mirrored walls reflecting light into infinity. He was looking at her—at the delicate arch of her neck as she tilted her head back, at the reflections of light in her eyes, at the soft smile that appeared on her lips as she admired the magical spectacle above them.
"These constellations," she said, not noticing that her partner wasn't looking up at all. "Do they change according to the actual arrangement of stars, or are they just random patterns?"
"They mirror the real sky above Paris," he answered automatically, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "It's a spell similar to the one used in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but with additional elements."
Hermione lowered her gaze, meeting his. Something in the intensity of his observation must have surprised her, because she blushed slightly.
"You're not looking at the stars," she noted quietly.
"No," he admitted simply, not trying to invent an excuse.
She looked away, but couldn't completely hide the smile that appeared on her lips. The dance carried them further, among other couples, under a sky full of stars that neither of them was observing anymore.
"Celestine is watching us," she said after a moment, noticing his wife's cold gaze from the opposite end of the hall.
"Let her watch," he replied, just as before. "She's not the first person to observe me with disapproval, and certainly not the last."
"Draco..." she began, a note of warning in her voice. "What are we actually doing?"
Good question. He wasn't sure himself. He only knew that at this moment, holding her in his arms, leading her through the dance, he felt more himself than ever before. As if the entire past—all the mistakes, all the dark choices, all the masks he had worn—suddenly lost meaning.
"We're dancing," he answered finally, unable to put into words what he truly felt. "For now, we're just dancing."
Hermione looked at him as if trying to read something more from his face, from his eyes. For a moment it seemed she wanted to say something important, something that would change everything. But then the music changed again, entering the final part of the composition, and the moment passed.
Draco led her through the concluding figures of the dance, each movement now filled with the awareness that this would soon end. That they would return to their separate worlds, to the roles they played, to the lives they led apart.
"Thank you," she said quietly as the music neared its end. "For the dance."
"It is I who should thank you," he replied, his voice resonating with a sincerity that surprised even himself.
The final measures of music sounded, and Draco ended the dance with a classical bow. When he straightened, their gazes met again, full of questions for which neither had answers.
Around them, polite applause broke out, and couples began to disperse. Time to return to reality, to consequences, to the explanations their companions would certainly demand. But despite the approaching difficulties, he regretted nothing.
Because for those few minutes dancing with Hermione Granger under an enchanted sky full of stars, Draco Malfoy had felt truly free.
Suddenly Celestine appeared beside them, spoiling the moment. Her silver gown gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers, but her face was icy.
"Draco, a word," she said, grasping his arm with a strength that contradicted the elegant smile affixed to her lips. Without waiting for a response, she pulled him toward one of the numerous alcoves at the edges of the hall.
Draco managed only to throw Hermione an apologetic glance before his wife literally dragged him behind one of the marble columns, where they were partially hidden from the guests' view but still visible enough to cause a scandal.
"What was that supposed to be?" she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot of others. Her voice was quiet but filled with fury. "You left me in the middle of the dance floor, in front of all the most important wizards in the potions world, to dance with another woman? With that... British clerk? With that Mudblood?"
Draco looked at her coldly, withdrawing his arm from her grip.
"It was supposed to be a dance of representatives from each country, if I'm not mistaken. I didn't know that during my one-day absence you had taken a job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
Celestine narrowed her eyes.
"Don't be ridiculous. I am your wife. I should be the one dancing with you!"
"And Hermione Granger is the official representative of the British Ministry at this symposium," he replied, adjusting his robe's cuff with one fluid motion. "If we are to observe protocol, I should be dancing with her. Weren't you the one insisting we respect French traditions?"
Celestine raised a delicate eyebrow, measuring him with a cold gaze.
"Protocol? Really?" she sighed with theatrical weariness. "Draco, if you continue looking at her like that during a dance, people will start thinking you're having an affair with her."
Her tone was light, almost playful, but her eyes remained vigilant, probing, as if trying to read every microscopic change in his facial expression.
"An affair? With Granger?" Draco snorted, trying to make his laugh sound natural. "Never in my life. That's absurd."
Celestine didn't respond immediately, playing with the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
"I hope so," she said finally.
Draco knew he should say something more, something that would dispel her doubts, restore the balance of their carefully constructed marriage. He swallowed hard, feeling as if the words he was about to speak were sharp pieces of glass in his throat.
"Celestine," he began, forcing himself to look her straight in the eyes. "You are the best wife I could have imagined."
These words, though spoken before during official occasions, had never been more difficult to articulate. At this moment, just minutes after dancing with Hermione, each syllable seemed like a distasteful lie—despite being true in a sense. Celestine indeed was the perfect wife for a man like him—ambitious, intelligent, beautiful, perfectly understanding the rules of their world.
"Oh, Draco," she smiled, her face softening somewhat. "You can be truly charming when you want to be."
She placed her hand on his shoulder, and her touch, though light, felt heavy as lead.
"Just remember that we are a team, you and I," she added, more seriously now. "Together we will achieve everything we've planned. Provided we don't... distract ourselves with unnecessary complications."
Draco nodded, no longer trusting his own words. Part of his mind wondered whether Celestine really believed his assurances, or was just pretending, just as he was pretending that their marriage was something more than just a business contract.
"Now smile and let's return to our guests," she said, slipping her arm under his. "Your father-in-law wants to talk to you about certain... investments that could accelerate the production of your antidote."
Draco allowed himself to be led back to the main part of the hall, but his thoughts remained with the woman in the azure dress and the sound of her laughter, which still rang in his ears like the most beautiful music he had ever heard.