Dinner
Hermione shut the door of the closet behind her and expelled all the air from her lungs, pushing it out into the small space into which she had just crammed herself.
She pushed coathangers to one side and sank down onto the floor, her back pressed against the closet wall and her face level with rows and rows of coats stored by the guests of the world’s most awkward dinner party.
Actually, it would be a lie to call it a dinner party. Theo had said as much when he’d opened the door to his family’s Mayfair townhouse.
“Sorry,” he whispered into her ear, almost conspiratorially, as Hermione entered the threshold of the three storey terrace house. Behind the sound of classical music, sounds of conversation drifted into the hallway from the other rooms.
“Are there other people here?” she asked, a little startled. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. “You said it was a dinner, just the three of us–you, me, and your dad.”
“I thought so too,” said Theo, reaching for her coat, “but dad decided to turn it into a cocktail party at the last minute.”
He eyed her dress as he took her coat—a silky black high-neck number that wrapped around Hermione’s throat, secured with a neat bow at the top of her spine. Although the front was conservative enough, her back was entirely exposed: the present beneath the bow. She hadn’t been sure of the appropriateness of the dress—what did one wear to meet the father of someone who was not your boyfriend, anyway?—but had been emboldened by another customer at the store, who had seen her twist and turn in the large shared mirror of the dressing room and insisted that the dress was made for you, darling.
Her hair, usually a bushy, frizzy mess, had been tamed into shiny curls and slicked back into a bun, with a few wavy strands framing her face. Her makeup was minimal; her accessories even more so.
“You look fantastic,” Theo said, and something in his voice told Hermione that he was telling her the truth.
“Not a problem, about the dinner party,” she said, smiling a small smile. “I can’t wait to meet everyone.”
~
And meet everyone she did. Former cabinet members, current members of Parliament, academics, philanthropists, and business leaders—all friends of Cantankerus Nott Jnr.
Hermione had read so much about him, had heard his name passed through lips daily when he had been Britain’s Prime Minister. For 6 years Hermione had seen his face grace the front page of The Daily Prophet. Even in print, the man was formidable—shoulders set straight, dark hair combed back, face serious as he delivered yet another statement about fiscal responsibility and economic prudence. His eyes were clear and intelligent even in the newspaper’s grainy, blown up photographs.
When Theo had first invited her to meet him, she’d panicked. She prepared for the meeting like a job interview, rehearsing questions and answers until she had them all but memorised. She couldn’t fumble making a good impression on Theo’s dad; meeting a man such as Cantankerus Nott Jnr, in such an intimate setting, was not an opportunity that one came across everyday.
She expected to be grilled. Surely the man would be curious to see who his son was taking to the Soiree? Their meeting, however, was more like a run-in at the market. He had simply shook her hand, asked a few polite questions about how she was finding Godric’s Hollow Grammar, and then turned back to his conversation with an ex-colleague.
Even Theo looked a little taken aback. He stood frozen for a second before recovering.
“Let’s go meet Professor Williams,” he said, putting his hand on her back and steering her towards a corner on the opposite side of the living room, where a huddle of people were deep in conversation. “He used to tutor me as a kid. I think you’ll really like him.”
~
For the next hour and a half Hermione felt like she was treading water, just enough to stay afloat. She trailed Theo around his house like a well-trained puppy as he made his way around the cocktail party, making his rounds and charming whoever he encountered on his path.
To his credit, he always introduced Hermione, brought her out into the front. And Hermione stood her ground, shook hands with a firm grip, tried her best to feel as though she belonged there. But as time dragged on she realised how out of her depth she was.
She tried speaking to the guests, asking intelligent questions about their line of work, their policies, their research, but all she got were polite answers, delivered as if to simply appease her; as if they were throwing a stick to a dog. At first, she thought it might have been her age—at 18, her and Theo were easily the youngest people there. But then she noticed the way that people treated Theo.
She saw the way they brightened up when they saw him, the way they asked him questions—did he know what university he wanted to attend yet? What courses did he want to study? Maybe international relations? He’d always been so politically-minded, like his father…
Maybe, she thought, he had met them previously, had established prior relationships. But Hermione knew, deep down, that he was treated the way he was because he was Nott Jnr’s son.
Her questions weren’t enough; her curiosity wasn’t a good reason for them to engage with her fully. A conversation was a trade of sorts and she had nothing to give, no reason for why they would spend their time talking to her—a nobody in a sea of somebodies.
After a while, Hermione could feel her shoulders stooping, her social battery draining. She was about to bid goodbye to Theo and the Professor, with whom they’d been stuck in conversation with for the last 20 minutes, when she spotted them entering the living room.
A tall man with long, light coloured hair, sporting an onyx cane with a silver snake head handle, and a statuesque woman with white and raven hair by his side.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. It had to be.
Lucius’ resemblance to Malfoy was striking; she had never seen someone sport hair that colour before—a blonde so platinum that it looked almost unnatural. But even if there was no physical resemblance, she would have recognised them by the way they carried themselves: noses pointed up, eyes looking down. Completely self-assured and at ease with their place in the world.
And trailing behind them was Malfoy himself. She almost didn’t recognise him, so different was his demeanour to the one he employed at school. Although he was as tall as his father, he looked almost stooped walking behind him—shoulders slightly hunched instead of pushed back; chin to the ground instead of pointed up.
When he finally looked up, his eyes almost instantly collided with Hermione’s. Malfoy’s eyes widened at the sight of her and Hermione’s heart stuttered, skipping a beat.
What was he doing here?
“Excuse me,” she said, extricating herself from the conversation with the Professor. Theo cast her a look of betrayal over the Professor’s shoulder, who kept on droning on about medieval feudalism, not even acknowledging her departure.
“Sorry!” she mouthed, gesturing that she’d be back soon, that she was just getting another drink.
She quickly traversed the huddles of bodies on her way to the kitchen. She had almost made her way out of the living room when she tripped over the curved, decorative leg of an antique side table. She stumbled, her legs giving way beneath her.
She gasped as she started to fall, then felt someone catch her arm.
“Careful, Granger.”
She looked up, her face burning. He seemed to have recovered from the shock of seeing her there; his face was blank, his eyes carefully guarded.
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, unsure of what to say, how to speak to him. She seemed to both know him intimately, and not at all.
Malfoy eased his grip as she righted herself but didn’t let go of her arm. His eyes trailed down, raking over her dress as he continued to hold her up. When his eyes eventually made their way back to her face, it was even redder than before. He held her gaze and the sound of conversation and music around them lulled in her ears. Hermione felt hypnotised as she stared into that sea-coloured abyss.
Suddenly, his eyes shifted slightly. He frowned and leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers, his eyes narrowing on the faded, almost invisible remnants of the bruise on her cheekbone.
Hermione stayed rooted to the spot, frozen.
He let go of her arm and slowly, carefully, raised his hand to her cheekbone, lightly brushing it with one of his knuckles, barely touching her skin.
She felt hot, too hot.
Needing a break, she tore her eyes away from Malfoy and looked across the room.
No one else at the party seemed to be paying them any attention. No one except Narcissa Malfoy, her eagle-like eyes following every move made by her son.
Malfoy, too, spotted Narcissa. He cleared his throat and dropped his hand, straightening his spine as he backed away from Hermione. “You should probably watch where you’re walking,” he said to her in a voice devoid of emotion, before turning and disappearing into the sea of guests.
~
“I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting young Miss Greengrass, Miss Granger—I believe you’re in the same year at Godric’s Hollow. She’s an absolutely outstanding young woman. So poised, and so talented at dressage. We glanced in at one of her competitions earlier this year—she’s friends with my granddaughter, you see. Actually, you might know of her too, she’s only a couple of years below you—”
Hermione had no idea how she’d gotten into a conversation with the old woman who now held her verbally hostage, but she knew that she desperately needed to get out of it before she said something rash.
Daphne? Poised?
Hermione had an image of her sour face when Malfoy had ignored her during their dinner at the King’s Hearth, of her sly smirk when handing Hermione the sangria at Pansy’s party. Yes , thought Hermione bitterly. Very poised indeed.
“You’re right, Majorie. We do need more young women like Miss Greengrass,” agreed someone right behind her.
Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, both hands folded over his cane. Framed by the doorframe, his stance regal, he looked just like the life-size paintings of other Malfoys in his home. “Personally, I think Miss Parkinson could take a leaf out of her book. Pansy’s been quite a handful for Andrew in the last few years.”
Hermione gripped her wine glass tightly in her hand, fighting the urge to say something in Pansy’s defence. The fact that he thought Pansy—Pansy who had offered for Hermione to stay with her; Pansy who, beneath her snark and sarcasm, showed a kindness and depth that Hermione had not encountered from anyone at Godric's Hollow except for Malfoy—should take a leaf out of Daphne’s book…
“Come on, Lucius. You’re being harsh.” Narcissa came up behind her husband and put her hand on his shoulder. It was almost imperceptible, the way that Lucius softened under her touch. If Hermione had blinked she would have missed the way he looked at his wife—all love and fierce adoration. “Pansy’s a wonderful girl,” continued Narcissa, addressing the old woman. “She’s just been dealing with a lot these past few years. We’re very close with her family,” she added. “My son and Miss Parkinson practically grew up together.”
The Malfoys approached them, unhurried. Lucius bent down and kissed the hand of the old lady and held his hand out to Hermione.
“Lucius Malfoy,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Hermione Granger.”
“Ahh…Miss Granger. Yes, I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” he said, giving her a once-over. “You must be quite an intelligent young woman. So few attend Godric’s Hollow on a scholarship.”
Hermione bristled at the compliment-slash-insult: a speciality of the Malfoys. She forced a smile to her lips and stood straight. She could just ignore the insult part, after all.
“Thank you,” she said and waited for him to drop her hand.
Narcissa was next in line. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Granger,” she said, not unkindly. Up close, Hermione realised that she’d been wrong. Malfoy didn’t look like Lucius at all; he’d only inherited his father’s colouring. His face was all Narcissa—high cheekbones, plump lips, and her eyes…Malfoy definitely had his mother’s eyes. While Lucius’ were a striking, unmistakable blue, Narcissa’s were that indeterminable shade of light blue-gray, shifting from one to the other or both, depending on the light. The only feature that wasn’t his mother’s was his nose—long and aristocratic, with a slight bump.
She appraised Hermione while she shook her hand. Her eyes, much like her son's, had that hypnotising effect, that way of locking you in.
“In any case, I completely agree with you, Marjorie,” continued Lucius. As if out of thin air, Malfoy appeared in the kitchen and stood at his father’s elbow, his eyes downcast.
“Daphne is a wonderful young woman. In fact,” said Lucius, bringing Malfoy to the front, “I can’t think of a more fitting date for Draco to take to the Soiree.” He gripped his son’s shoulder so tightly that his knuckles stood stark white against his already pale skin.
“Excuse me,” Hermione breathed, then pushed her way past Malfoy, her shoulder bumping into his as she exited the kitchen.
She hurriedly made her way past guests, rubbing shoulders with people that, a few months ago, she would have done anything to meet but now couldn’t wait to escape the company of.
~
Hermione sighed, grateful for the dark, the quiet. She let her head hang back, let it hit the closet wall.
Suddenly, the closet door opened. A tall figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. He stood for a second before closing the door, encasing them in darkness.
She heard a rustle of clothing as Malfoy folded his tall frame to fit into the small space. Her eyes adjusted to the dark again and she saw that he had sat right across from her, his legs brought up to his chest.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” she asked quietly. She was so, so tired.
“Father is…a fan of Daphne.”
“Well, she is a wonderful girl. Very poised young woman,” she couldn’t help the bitter sarcasm that dripped from every word. She grimaced, her mouth full of fake sweetness.
She could sense Malfoy staring at her.
“Mother doesn’t like her,” said Malfoy suddenly. “She can’t stand her, actually,” he said, his voice also quiet. Mellow.
“Really?” asked Hermione, trying to hide the pleasure in her voice.
“Dinners with our families are a nightmare. Mother and Daphne always end up getting into it.”
“What does your dad think?”
“About Daphne? He wouldn’t care if Daphne was personally responsible for the murder of 1000 puppies as long as she was a ‘viable match’ for me. Come to think of it, I don’t think he likes Daphne, either. He just likes her last name.”
A contemplative silence fell over the closet.
“I can’t stand these things,” Malfoy admitted after a while. “We have them all the time at the Manor. Poncy fucks sipping our wine and trying to sound smarter, more interesting than they are.”
“You’re a poncy fuck,” Hermione pointed out bluntly.
“Yes, but I’m a Malfoy. That’s a given. It’s been handed down to me, like my big, fat inheritance and my father’s titles.”
Hermione balked at the words—the exact same ones that she had thrown at him in detention all those weeks ago.
She sat straighter, stubborn. “I don’t take that back.”
She could hear the smirk in his voice. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
She fell back against the wall, sighing. “I hate these things, too. I thought I’d like them, but I don’t. No one gives me the time of day. Even standing beside Theo. Except for that mad old woman, that is.”
Hermione sensed Malfoy turning cold. “Did you think they would? Is that why you’re going to the ball with him?”
“I-” stammered Hermione, “I don’t know, maybe.” She sighed. “If you want to call me a social climber again, go ahead. I don’t care. I’m doing what I need to do,” she said defensively, crossing her arms.
The letters they’d exchanged suddenly seemed meaningless. She didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t know anything about her.
“So you don’t…actually like Theo?” he asked, tentatively.
“I do like him. He’s nice. We’re friends.”
“Right, but you don’t–” Malfoy shook his head, stopping himself. “Nevermind,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t matter.”
More silence.
“Speaking of, where is he?” Malfoy asked.
“Theo? I’m not sure.” She played with the hem of her dress, which was bunched around her thighs.
“Your parents would probably have a heart attack if they knew you were in here with me. Daphne, too.”
“Maybe. I don’t imagine Nott would be too happy either, Granger.”
In the darkness, the toes of their shoes touched.
Hermione’s lungs constricted. The space suddenly felt too small, far too small.
“Did Pansy tell you why I was staying at the Old Oak Inn?” The words she had been dying to ask him all evening burst out of her mouth.
“No, she just mentioned that you were staying there.”
Hermione exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I should probably go,” she said, starting to get up. “I need a drink of water.”
Malfoy caught her hand as she started to get up.
“I never apologised. For what I said during Astronomy.” Hermione heard him swallow in the darkness. “I…am sorry. It wasn’t true at all, what I said.”
“It wasn’t…?” she whispered.
Malfoy didn’t say anything. Hermione was aware that there was less and less oxygen in the closet with every passing second; she was already beginning to feel lightheaded.
She looked down at him, her face a little taller than his. In the darkness, she could only make out the outline of his features. Their faces were so close together their noses almost brushed. She could feel him underneath her, feel his body heat radiating out, reaching outside of his body and warming the small space.
“No,” he breathed, his breath ghosting over her face. “It wasn’t true at all.”