To Cinders

She climbed out the window at half past nine.

"Hurry!" came an urgent voice from beneath her, though she could barely see its owner from where she was standing precariously on the edge of her second-story roof. The tiles beneath the peeling soles of her boots creaked as she shifted her body weight, gripping onto the windowsill above her tightly.

"I know, Harry!" she hissed, before letting one hand go to reach back through the window and retrieve a thin, plastic folder from the desk inside. "Here—can you please hold onto this?"

Without waiting for an answer, she carefully tossed the folder over her shoulder. She heard a quick, clapping sound of impact from below—no doubt Harry catching it with his fast football reflexes.

There was a moment of silence as she continued working her way down the side of the house, gripping onto protruding bricks and relying on the moonlight from above for visibility, before she heard the clear rustling of papers.

"What is this, 'Mione?" came Harry's incredulous voice. "Are these—are these copies of your resume?"

She focused on sliding down the pillar that connects the second floor of the house to the ground floor from the outside, her oversized jacket rubbing against the marble stone on her way down. There was a soft, muffled thump as her boots finally connected with grass, and she quickly straightened up, releasing a sigh of relief and dusting her hands off as she turned to face her friend. "Yes."

"But we're going to a gala."

Hermione plucked the folder out of Harry's hands. "You're going to a gala. I'm going to a networking event that may just change the discourse of my life." She tucked the folder into her jacket. "Now come on—I don't want to make you late."

They rushed out of the backyard, the moonlight from above gleaming down on each singular blade of grass they passed. At the front of the house, waiting on the side of the street, was a giant police car, sleek and shiny but very much un-camouflaged amongst the huge, marbled mansions of the neighborhood. Hermione didn't hesitate before throwing the backseat door open and climbing in, just as she'd done dozens of times before.

Inside, she allowed herself to catch a breath before smiling at the two occupants seated at the front of the car. "Hi, James. Sirius."

"Nice to see you, Hermione," greeted James Potter, turning around from the driver's seat to shoot her a warm smile. Harry's resemblance to him, from their messy black hair to their round-framed glasses, never failed to strike Hermione. "Lily says hi."

Next to him, Sirius Black winked at her, clean-shaven and clad in an uncharacteristically-fancy tuxedo. His long hair was slicked back with gel, though a few of the pieces were already falling loose against his forehead. "Hey, princess."

"Sirius, please stop flirting with Hermione," said Harry tiredly, climbing into the backseat after Hermione and adjusting his glasses, which were slightly askew. "Dad, do you have the clothes?"

James perked up. "Oh, yeah, they should be here somewhere—Sirius?"

"Yeah, I got them." Sirius reached down and pulled out a thick silk bag from between his feet, handing it to Hermione. "Alright, princess—the clothes should all be in there. Dress, heels, bag—Lily double-checked that everything was inside. We're going to make a quick pit stop at my place before heading over since it's close by, so you can just go on in and change in the bathroom. We'll be waiting right outside."

Hermione clutched onto the bag and gazed at the three men in the car fondly. "Thanks again for doing this for me."

'This,' of course, meant picking her up and sneaking her away from her house in the dead of night so that she could change into formalwear that Harry's mother was lending her and essentially infiltrate one of London's most high-profile events of the year.

Technically, she hadn't even had the need to infiltrate Mayor Malfoy's Annual Gala this year, seeing as she herself had received an invitation to the event. It was the first year her family has been invited to the gala—when the crisp, embellished note, sealed with the distinguishable Malfoy family crest that just about every single soul in London recognized, had been delivered to the doorstep by one of Mayor Malfoy's personal messengers, she'd been ecstatic. This was just the event she needed to secure that letter of recommendation from Mayor Malfoy that she'd been brainstorming how to get for months.

A letter of recommendation from the Mayor of London—otherwise known as the Chief Executive of the Greater London Authority—was just about the final thing Hermione needed to complete her application to Oxford University. Despite her Year 13 and university applications still officially being two months away, she'd already written her essays, sat for all her final A-Level exams early with the permission of her headmaster, and secured backup letters of recommendation from her Year 12 Science and Mathematics teachers. All she needed now was one last stellar letter of recommendation from a prominent figure—preferably in the field of politics—to bolster her own application for entry into Oxford's prestigious Political Science program.

And Lucius Malfoy was her ticket in.

Having been the mayor of London for the past eight years, Lucius Malfoy was the figurehead of the city and an alum of Oxford's Political Science program himself. His Annual Gala, which was hosted once a year in the Malfoy's luxurious mansion, had built a steady reputation as London's most exclusive event of the year due to how difficult it was to obtain an invitation. Invitations were only ever sent out to famous and prominent figures in British society, and the event itself was an unspeakable opportunity to mingle and make connections, whether in the political world or not.

Hermione knew that this year's gala was the only chance she'd get to obtain an Oxford-worthy letter of recommendation before university applications closed. Miraculously, next year just happened election year, and with Lucius Malfoy campaigning for a third term, there was sure to be twice as many distinguished political figures to attend this year's Annual Gala. It was just luck that Hermione somehow managed to get invited this year.

Not only that, but there were even whispers floating around that Lucius Malfoy was planning to run for Prime Minister in the near future, making his position all the more important. Even if Hermione couldn't talk to Lucius Malfoy himself, maybe she'd come across another prominent politician or two to petition her cause.

She suspected that the only reason her family even received an invite to the gala this year in the first place was because of a recently-resurfaced series of research papers written by Hermione's father that was making rounds throughout the global scientific community for its innovative and transparent finds on the field of dentistry. The papers not only bolstered her father's societal reputation, but also resulted in a surprisingly-large flow of monetary funds into the Granger household's already-overflowing bank account.

Of course, Hermione's father was also dead, so none of that really mattered.

When Richard Granger had been alive, though, he'd been a dentist. Aside from running a very successful practice that spanned multiple states, he'd also published research with King's College London's School of Dentistry on the side. The two ventures had resulted in a small fortune that Mr. Granger left in the wake of his death from polio seven years ago, meant to sustain his only daughter, then ten-year-old Hermione, when she could access it at nineteen years old.

Unfortunately, Mr. Granger had also seen fit to remarry right before his death, leaving Hermione with a sum of money that she couldn't even access as well as a stepmother and two stepsisters.

Why her father married Vinda Rosier, Hermione would never know. Maybe he'd felt sorry for Vinda, widowed from an early marriage and left with two young children—Hermione's age—and no way to take care of either of them. Maybe he'd felt as though Hermione needed a maternal figure in her life, as Hermione's real mother, Helen Granger, had died during childbirth. Maybe it was because he'd loved her, though Hermione had a hard time believing that was the case considering Vinda's absolutely horrid personality, which had begun to shine through the very day of Mr. Granger's funeral.

Hermione only ever referred to Vinda and her two daughters from her previous marriage, Druella and Violetta, as her 'family' for practical means only. From the moment Vinda seized control of the Granger's bank account, Hermione's life had been hell. The three former Rosiers had settled into lavish life with Richard Granger's money momentously fast following his passing, completely redecorating the entire mansion Hermione had grown up in and scattering so much money towards countless luxury brands, vacations, and nameless expenses throughout the years that Hermione was sure even the top 1% of billionaires in Britain would've been to shame.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Hermione's stepmother and stepsisters hadn't also taken to treating her like a servant. Suddenly, her childhood had shifted from privileged affluence that she was always grateful for and happy, playful memories with her father to isolation, belittlement, and exclusion from the fortune that Hermione's father had left her. Suddenly, Hermione's bushy hair and lack of interest in anything fashion or beauty became objects of criticism; her love for reading and learning had become subjects of taunting directed towards her by her stepmother and stepsisters.

Hermione had become a fly on the wall in her own home, irrelevant and bothersome.

As the years passed and she got older, Hermione was handed more tasks to accomplish and more insults to swallow by her stepmother and stepsisters. Vinda forced her to file the family's taxes, deal with insurance, and work chores in the house. Druella and Violetta made fun of her looks, mocked her over her intellect, and made her complete their school homework, all while Vinda looked on coldly and never interfered.

Luckily, Hermione had always had a strong sense of self, and she'd always credited that characteristic as to why she hadn't gone completely insane throughout the years.

Don't let others tell you how you should think about yourself, Hermione, her father had told her once.

And she hadn't. Instead, Hermione tried to see the bright side of things. She honestly didn't mind filing out taxes, dealing with insurance, and completing extra homework (although she'd never tell her stepmother or stepsisters that)—they were learning opportunities anyway, and Hermione thrived on learning.

School was and had always been Hermione's escape. She had a strong support system at school, seeing as she attended a local public school while Vinda sent Druella and Violetta to a private school. School was a reprieve for Hermione, where she had a solid friend circle, established social life, and strong academic success. She had two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and she was set to become valedictorian of her class this upcoming academic year. All she really had to do was graduate and go on to attend a good university, and she'd finally be far away from her terrible home environment.

So Hermione worked hard and kept her head down for the most part at home. If she really wanted to attend a university like Oxford, which was prestigious and—thus—extremely expensive, she needed her stepmother to fork out the tuition money for her first year.

At seventeen, almost eighteen, Hermione was less than two years away from nineteen. Because her father had set his bank account up for Hermione to only be able to access it when she turned nineteen when he'd died, the ownership had been temporarily transferred to Vinda, Hermione's only living guardian then, a factor that Hermione was useless in changing.

It really hadn't been that big of a problem—with Hermione demurely obeying her stepmother's commands like she'd become so used to doing and biding her time until she needed money to pay that first tuition payment—until the invitation for Mayor Malfoy's Annual Gala this year had come, and Vinda had forbade Hermione to go, and Hermione had been put in a dilemma.

She needed this.

She had to go—not that Vinda, Druella, or Violetta understood or cared. Hermione thought bitterly back to the conversation she'd had with them the night the invitation had arrived, pleading with Vinda to let her go with them.

"Why would Mayor Malfoy talk to you?" Vinda asked, while Druella and Violetta snickered in the back and eyed Hermione with unveiled mockery.

"I told you," Hermione said, as patiently as she could without letting her desperation shine through. "I just need one chance to talk to him. I promise I won't bother any of you at all during the gala—I'll even come back early and finish cleaning up the kitchen at the end of the night."

"What makes you think Lucius Malfoy is going to talk to a random 17-year-old with bushy hair and Adam-Sandler-fitting shirts for clothes? Violetta cackled, as if the ends of her own hair weren't dry and brittle from a million passes with her beloved flat iron and she wasn't wearing an eye-sore of a dress at the moment.

Hermione ignored her stepsister, focusing on her stepmother with bated breath. There was a pause of silence in which Vinda seemed to be genuinely pondering the preposition, and Hermione felt her hopes soar slightly.

Then, Vinda sniffed. "You can't go. Those taxes still need filing, don't they?"

Hermione's mouth fell open. "But—why?" she cried. "I can finish those taxes in two hours! I'm a part of this household just as much as you all are—you can't forbid me from going to the gala!"

"I can, and I will." Vinda's eyes gleamed as she seemed to descend upon Hermione, the glare of the giant diamond necklace on the base of her throat shining harsh light into Hermione's eyes. "I think you forget just who exactly provides your monetary support."

It took all of Hermione's self-control to stop herself from somehow physically harming her stepmother in that moment.

"Imagine her walking next to us in the mayor's home, Mother!" exclaimed Druella, cackling. "With her ugly hair and unfashionable clothes, she'd scare away anyone we come across! She'd ruin our reputation!"

"Oh my god, as if!" screeched Violetta, glaring at Hermione. "You'd ruin this for us! I need Prince Charming to notice me—if you came along, he'd take one look at us and go blind with horror!"

Then, Druella and Violetta had gone on a squealing tangent over their delusional fantasies of somehow bagging the mayor's son (otherwise known as Prince Charming by London society), while Vinda had looked on with approval, and Hermione had slinked back into the shadows, vibrating with bitterness and ruminating over the already half-formed plan of escape in her mind.

That was two weeks ago, and now Hermione was sitting in the back of the Chief of Police's police car, about to enter the Assistant Chief of Police's home and change so that she could sneak her own way into the mayor's gala.

Lucky for her, Harry just happened to be the son of London's Chief of Police, James Potter. Although Hermione simply knew him as James from all her years of friendship with Harry, to London society, James was the highest-ranking official in the chain of command in London's police department. This status had always resulted in the Potter family being automatically invited to Mayor Malfoy's galas every year, though that probably also could be partly attributed to the Potters' close ties with Sirius Black—a cousin of the Malfoys by blood, London's Assistant Chief of Police, and Harry's uncle by everything but blood.

"Sure thing, Hermione," Harry had said in a commiserating tone when she'd asked him for help sneaking into the gala (of course, after offering for the nth time for his family to help pay her tuition, to which she refused for the nth time), and that had been that.

So a plan had been set. Harry's family had the clothes she needed to wear to the gala and the invitation she needed to get in. She just needed to blend in at the door, and she'd be in. Plus, to Hermione's advantage, the gala itself was one of the largest events in London society, and the invitee list wasn't short. As long as Hermione camouflaged in the crowd and avoided her stepmother and stepsisters, keeping out of their line of sight, she could duck in, get what she wanted, and leave undetected. It was basically a foolproof plan.

I wonder, Hermione thought detachedly as she quickly entered Sirius's home, sprinting quickly through the darkened hallways and slipping into the nearest bathroom, what I would've done if I wasn't friends with Harry. She turned on the lights before peeling off her jacket and reaching down into the bag of clothes Sirius had handed her in the car. Maybe I could've somehow duplicated the ticket. She pulled out a dress, a small bag of jewelry, and a pair of heels. Or snuck into the mayor's home by blending in with the servants. She wiggled out of her jeans and stripped out of her ratty t-shirt. Or something.

Five minutes later, Hermione stood facing the full-length mirror in the corner of the bathroom, a little dazed. The reflection that looked back at her wasn't one she knew—instead of seeing a seventeen-year-old girl in an old jacket and oversized jeans, Hermione was staring at a young woman in a stunning floor-length dress of velvet crimson that draped across her body and hugged every curve. Gleaming silver heels peeked out from beneath the dress. Ribbons of silk ran below the cinched bodice, while little strings of pearls embellished the neckline, accentuating the silk detailing. Matching pearl earrings hung from her earlobes, and a thick, lavish necklace of pearls stretched across the bottom of her collarbone. Her hair, usually unruly and frizzy, seemed to flow across her shoulders in a manner that could only be described as wild and carefree.

Hermione blinked. She looked . . . pretty.

"Whew!" Sirius whistled loudly when Hermione climbed back into the car, having quickly exited the house and ran to the driveaway after shaking herself out of her daze in the bathroom. "What do we have here? Do my eyes deceive me, or did a real-life princess just enter this vehicle?"

"'Mione, you look amazing," said Harry earnestly, while James gave a big thumbs up from the driver's seat, already pulling out of the driveaway.

"Oh, stop," said Hermione, though she couldn't stop herself from grinning widely. "Thank you, Harry, Sirius. James, please give Lily my thanks for the clothes—they fit perfectly."

"I can tell," came Sirius's playful voice. There was a slapping sound from the front as James hit his friend on the arm. "OW—fuck!"

The car ride to the mayor's house was relatively short itself, but Hermione couldn't stop her nerves from ballooning as the GPS's estimated time of arrival for them grew shorter and shorter. The excitement she'd felt from earlier had quickly faded into a dull ache of anxiety. She felt her left knee start to bounce, a telltale characteristic of nervousness for her, and her heartbeat began to resound in her eardrums, echoing loudly like a gong. The dark blur of the passing trees beyond the car window was suddenly giving her vertigo.

Why in the world had she thought she could do this?

Naturally, Harry noticed that something was wrong. He shot her a meaningful look and placed a hand on her bouncing knee. "Hermione, stop doubting yourself. I can see it written all over your face."

Hermione bit her lip, but she couldn't stop her stream of consciousness from pouring out of her mouth. "Oh god, Harry, why did I think I could do this? Who said the mayor's even going to glance at me? Next year's election year—his house is going to be packed with important political figures who he's going to be conversing with all night! How am I supposed to somehow find an opening to talk to him about a measly recommendation letter?"

"Wha—" Harry looked dumbfounded, shaking his head. "Don't think like that, Hermione. Believe in yourself. I believe in you.

"But—"

"You know, my mum was telling me right before we left to warn Mayor Malfoy about your tenacity and determination." Harry raised his voice into a poor imitation of Lily Potter's voice. "'Tell the mayor that he better clear some time on his schedule tonight, because Hermione Granger is sneaking into his house and staying until she gets that letter from him.'"

James was nodding from the front seat. "Our Hermione is the most strong willed person I know. If there's anyone who can corner Lucius Malfoy into writing a recommendation letter for them, it's her." He turned to Sirius. "Do you know anyone who'd hatch an escape plan to infiltrate the mayor of London's home for a recommendation letter to Oxford?"

Sirius shrugged. "Hell if I know." He turned around to face Hermione. "You got this, princess. Trust me, I know 'ol Lucius—he may seem like an oily slick of a politician at first when you talk to him, but he'll hear you out. He was once you, you know—vying for a spot at Oxford's Political Science program and working as hard as he could to get it."

He was once you, you know.

The phrase was inexplicably calming. Hermione found herself taking a deep breath and straightening in the back of the car.

She was going to get that recommendation letter whether Lucius Malfoy wanted to give it to her or not.