Hundreds of floating ivory candles flickered in the marbled lobby of the Ministry of Magic. They illuminated the hall, making the stark black floor dazzle beneath the heeled shoes of the rich and powerful. The pompous socialites were rubbing elbows, dancing, some lingering as though they were part of a photo shoot upon the conjured white velvet chaises that served a place to rest from the never-ending tête-à-tête.
The annual Ministry Yule Gala. Each year, the same gaudy décor, the same gaudy people. At least the wine was always good.
“Try and ease up, Hermione, your displeasure is showing.” whispered a soft voice in her year.
Hermione Granger swallowed a sigh and kept herself from rolling her eyes in front of the dozen or so cameras flashing around the hall. The last thing she desired was a splashy front page photo of her grimacing at the most glamorous event of the year. With a small smile of thanks, she accepted an offered glass of wine from Ginevra Potter, wife of the Chosen One, queen of the very press core that scuttled about like unpleasant scarabs among the party goers.
“You are monologuing inside your head again, aren’t you?” Ginny whispered knowingly, shooting off her now iconic smile and encouraging another burst of blinding camera flashes.
“Why do you encourage them?” she asked her friend again, hand gripping the stem of her glass tightly.
“Anything to keep them off Harry.” her friend replied as always, turning her cheek ever slightly to give the photographers a better angle.
The Boy Who Lived was across the way from the two women, his head low as he listened to the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement department, taking advantage of the lack of attention from the press to engage in some political discourse. Although Harry always stunned at these sort of gatherings - his current set of navy wizarding robes courtesy of his fashionable wife - his taste for the limelight had never blossomed the way Witch Weekly would have hoped. Hermione’s heart ached for him; Harry had never recovered from the treatment of The Daily Prophet during their school years. Who could blame him?
What a blessing it was that Ginny had never been the focus of the press all those years ago. Not a single scandal or rumor about her before the Potter wedding photos were gracing the cover of every magical magazine the world over. The press raved not only about her clothes and her hair but also her natural grace, her efforts to help restore Hogwarts and Diagon Alley, and her talent on the Quidditch Pitch. No one had an ill word to say. Of course, the press had never heard Ginny shout and swear when Ron and Hermione had announced the end of their relationship to the entire family. They hadn’t seen her break a broom when she’d been bumped to reserves for a full season after a flying accident. To the public, Ginny was picture perfect. And what the press didn’t know served to keep Harry off of the main stage.
“One day I’ll be known as Ginny Potter’s husband, not the other way around,” he’d half-joked with Hermione at his spouse’s outrageously attended birthday party this past summer.
Ginny really was everything Harry deserved.
Hermione kept herself from taking a big gulp from her wine glass, sipping primly as she glanced over Ginny’s outfit for this evening. Not only was every strand of amber hair tucked into a neat coif, the sparkling gown she’d picked out for the evening accented every curve perfectly, even the cute little bump that was the hint of a future little hero of the wizarding world to come.
“The headline tomorrow will be ‘Potter’s Blushing Bride and Baby stun at Ministry soiree,” Hermione mentioned lightly, turning back to the rest of the gala attendees. “You really do look fantastic. Why aren’t you out there dancing?”
It was Ginny’s turn to keep from grimacing. “Other than the fact that my heels are killing me and that I look like a blimp -”
“False modesty isn’t seemly, Gin.”
“Fine, I feel like a blimp - you know how these events are. It’s schmooz fest out there. That’s the third time Byron Hamperton has pulled Harry aside tonight. Something about interdepartmental cooperation in the northern territories.” Ginny almost whined.
Hermione reached over and took the glass out of her friend’s hand. “Listen here Gin - you are pregnant with the Chosen One’s child. There is not a single person in this room who’d dare to even breathe on you, let alone speak a word of disdain if you marched over there and demanded a dance with your husband. You are allowed to be selfish every now and then. Especially tonight. Go!”
She nudged the redhead with her hip as her hands were occupied with both drinks. Ginny took a tentative glance over her shoulder at Hermione before stepping into the crowd and crossing over to her husband. He saw her before she’d even moved five yards. Hermione watched as Harry held up a hand to Hamperton and simply walked away without saying a word, catching up his lovely wife in his arms and escorting her over to the dance floor.
As the shining couple spun in slow circles, Hermione felt her chest twinge with no small amount of envy. She had never really been one for dancing; not to say that she didn’t enjoy it, but she didn’t enjoy the formalities that were usually involved. A Ministry gala, even if this was supposed to be “just a holiday” party, was high up the list of those types of events. So far that evening, the witch had danced with not only every single Weasley male in attendance (minus Ron) but she’d also taken a turn with the Minister of Magic, Neville Longbottom, Victor Krum who was in town on delegation from Bulgaria, her boss at the Department of Mysteries, Ollivander, and several members of the Wizengamot. And not one of them had been the person she had hoped to dance with tonight.
Truly, ever since the Yule Ball at Hogwarts and the horrible end to what had been supposed to be a light hearted evening fun, Hermione didn’t like galas, balls, shindigs, basically any party that had more than twenty or so people in attendance. And she had good reason. She was part of the Golden Trio. Any place she, Harry, or Ron showed up, so did the press. And so did expectations.
Tonight was no different. Harry let Ginny dress him without complaint because he knew that he would be scrutinized, if not by the press, by those seeking his favor and support in their million little pet projects. With his beautiful wife next to him, Harry charmed the crowd. He was polite, he was patient - a far cry from the angry teenager he had been. The audience that watched from the edges of the dance floor regarded Harry with approving glances and acknowledging nods. He hated the game, but he had learned to play it well.
She wasn’t cut out for fame and glory. It was too much to hope that no one ever noticed how ill at ease the attention and non-stop favor currying made her. She’d never been popular, not before or during Hogwarts. And did this sort of rabid celebrity worship really count as popular?
Ron, on the other hand, craved the attention of the press to the point of seeking it out. Every visit to the pub had been a loud, proud photo opportunity to be seen mingling “with the regulars,” he had the gall to say to her at one point. Every free drink, every flirtatious interaction with a shop girl, encouraged her red-headed friend in his quest for admiration. No longer in the shadow of his brothers, Ron was content to finally have a following all his own. And did he have one this evening - he’d arrived solo in smart black robes and had obligingly danced with every single woman at the gala. He was easy for Hermione to spot from her corner, tall as he was - he cut a decent figure on the dance floor himself, twirling a tipsy Padma Patil as the live band started a fresh song.
A few spots over from Ron, Hermione’s gaze fell onto another tall figure in the cluster of dancers. Here was someone else who never seemed to flinch in the face of social scrutiny. In addition to a wizarding pedigree that had gifted him with an air of confidence and what had likely been a vast array of etiquette lessons, Draco Malfoy had a smile that made even old ladies swoon over like starstruck tweens. One that he was currently employing on the Minister’s wife to great effect. The handsome blonde had made rounds with even more people than Harry had tonight, proving his political savvy by buttering up the vice-chair of the Wizengamot over canapes and earlier he had transfigured one of the chaises into a plush throne for Ginny to rest on - the press had gobbled up the moment by crowding them as Malfoy had escorted their angel to her new chair.
Damn but he was dapper. His hair was glossy, neat, swept back; thank god he’d given up on whatever product he’d used that had given it that slick overcast back in the day. The crisp light grey robes he wore were a stark contrast to the dark swaths of fabric on the other party-goers.
Not for the first time tonight did Hermione feel inadequate. Ginny had helped her choose the form fitting mermaid gown she’d squeezed into for the evening. Yes, the crimson fabric brought out the warm red tones in her hair, and yes, the queen anne neckline was extremely flattering. But, Merlin’s mustache, the skirt was too tight where it tapered at the knees and she felt like a satin duck as she was forced to take smaller steps. Going to the toilet was out of the question - she should have never agreed to being charmed into this monstrosity of a dress.
Hermione fidgeted and tried to pull at the fabric around her hips surreptitiously. She quickly gave it up for a bad job as she still had a hold of two wine glasses. Out on the dance floor, Harry dipped his beautiful wife with practiced ease and the onlookers burst out into polite applause and a few admiring ah’s. She took the opportunity of the distraction to quaff down the rest of her glass, only to nearly choke on it when she realized it was Ginny’s sparkling cranberry juice.
She really hated banquets.
A waiter strolled by with a tray laden with soiled appetizer plates and Hermione quickly passed over the glasses to his charge. Once he had disappeared she immediately regretted doing so because now she was just standing in a corner with an awkward air of discomfort. If she had kept a hold of her wine she would have been able to use it as a shield against another dance invitation.
And, because being famous was like a magnet for the power hungry, within a minute her worst nightmare slid down the room to her side like he had been greased with lard. Cormac McLaggen had not altered in his persona one iota. He was still the aspiring suck-up he had been back in the Slug Club and never wasted an opportunity to remind Hermione that she had once - in a moment of never ending stupidity - asked him out on a date.
“Not quite like Slughorn’s old parties, is it?” he asked her jovially, just as he had at the ministry gala the year before.
“Thankfully not,” Hermione answered, just as she had at the ministry gala the year before.
Cormac loomed over her person, his broad quidditch shoulders taking up more than their fair share of the space along the wall. If she remembered correctly, he was working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports now. Apparently being Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons had not provided enough exposure for his ambitions.
He grinned a wide grin down at her; his teeth blinded her at such a close proximity that she wondered if he’d charmed them for the party. “So, Granger, fancy a dance? We never did get a chance back in Slughorn’s office.”
She paused before answering. One, to try to think of a polite way to refuse the man, and two, because whatever cologne he was wearing reeked like moldy muskrat.
But before Hermione could give her reply, a flash went off to their left. Without asking, Cormac’s hands were around her waist and he was spinning her toward the awaiting cameraman. He bade her to smile - the gall of the man - and because of her precarious balance in the heels and the dress, Hermione was obliged to lean into the wizard to keep from falling into his arms altogether. To her ongoing horror, she felt his hand slide from her waist farther down than she desired.
“Excuse me.”
Cormac immediately pulled his hand back up to her hip and she felt him turn her from the camera to the newcomer.
Draco Malfoy was a mere meter away, one hand tucked lazily into his back pocket so that his robes were swept back to the side. This close, he cut an even more impressive figure; his height matched that of McLaggen but with a slim grace about him that the ex-quidditch player could never dream of matching. He dazzled them both with a smile that did not reach his cold and stormy eyes.
“May we help you?” asked Cormac brusquely, holding Hermione tighter to his side like some prized childhood possession.
“No, I don’t believe you can,” acknowledged Draco smoothly, “But I do believe Ms. Granger had promised me the opportunity of speaking to her regarding a research project I am considering funding. There isn’t much of the evening left and I have an excess of galleons I could do with spreading around before the gala ends.”
The blonde wizard lazily held out his free hand towards her and she reached for it with a quick apology to her would-be suitor. Behind her, Hermione could feel the disgruntled gaze of McLaggen as she was led away from the wall and the repeated sounds of clicking from the burst of camera shots.
“Thank you,” she said in earnest, relaxing as the distance between her and McLaggen increased.
“Think nothing of it,” Malfoy responded assuredly.
In a surprise move, he held her hand more tightly and twirled her gently onto the edge of the dance floor. She looked up into his face with a small amount of shock, close enough now to see flecks of blue in his grey eyes.
“Malfoy,” she whispered, trying to find the words while also trying to find her dancing feet, “I feel awful enough that the press now has a photo of you saving me from McLaggen, but a photo of us dancing is sure to trump that.”
There is no response to her concern other than to maneuver her deeper into the assembly of dancers. He grasped her hand firmly but gently as he led their dance into a slow waltz to match the tempo of the live orchestra. Malfoy provided all the benefits of an expert dance partner. In his arms, Hermione felt light on her feet and relaxed into the movements, beginning to enjoy herself for the first time that evening. She doesn’t feel smothered even when he pulls her inward on a turn.
“I hate it when you call me Malfoy.”
His voice was soft in her ear and the warmth of his breath ignited a flutter that traveled from her neck down to her stomach. Hermione indulged herself in deep breath to steady her thoughts, only to accidentally lose herself for a moment in a fresh, green pine scent that was reminiscent of a cold winter morning.
He chuckled quietly and held her tightly around the back as he dipped her effortlessly. Malfoy held her in midair for a brief second, the storm in his eyes flickering with merriment. Hermione tried not to stare at his lips as he told her, “Your aroma is heavenly this evening as well, my love.”
Hermione faltered in her next steps but Malfoy was able to put them back into the step with ease.
“You were the one who said we needed to keep this a secret,” she accused him, glad that her boyfriend had the lead as she tried to surreptitiously glance around to see if anyone else had heard him.
Malfoy smiled and her heart nearly jumped out to strangle him around the starched collar of his dress robes. “Yes, as always, you are correct.”
“This is the Ministry. Yule. Gala.” Hermione hissed at the wizard, incensed that her confusion and worry only seemed to spur Malfoy to greater amusement. “Do you not understand that the words ‘low profile’ mean, darling?”
“You know, you may have been the top of our class at Hogwarts, but I did come in close second. I’m deeply hurt that you think so little of my intellige - ow!”
Whether her heel slipped or whether Hermione stomped on his dress shoes, she would never tell.
“I wasn’t about to let that blast-ended skrewt feel you up in plain sight, Hermione.” he growled at his witch. “Why in Merlin’s name did you not curse him into the new year?”
Hermione stiffened her shoulders defensively. “Again, we are at a ministry function. I’m the Golden Girl, it’s not as though I can go about making a scene.”
Malfoy’s eyes flashed dangerously but she knew it was for her sake rather than in anger at her. “I think that is exactly the type of thing the Golden Girl could get away with. Shacklebolt would probably even reward you for ridding him of another useless, whining bureaucrat.”
“Can we maybe not discuss this here, please, Malfoy?” she whispered, rubbing her thumb over the of his hand that is clasped in hers.
“Draco.”
Her brown eyes softened and she smiled up at her lover’s determined expression with adoration. “Draco.”
“I love you, Hermione.” His voice was deeper as he said the words she would never tire of hearing.
“And I you, dear heart.”
The song faded delicately away into nothingness and the dancers clapped politely in thanks for the musicians’ efforts. Draco had led Hermione to the middle of the platform during their waltz and now that the music had ended, they were beginning to catch the attention of the other attendees and sure enough, the rest of the press.
“So, can I take this to mean you are coming around on the thought of us going public with our relationship?” Hermione asked the wizard. He hadn’t made a move to escort her off the floor but if he was finally willing to admit that it wouldn’t tarnish her reputation to be seen with him out in wizarding society, she’d dance all evening if he asked her to. She almost regretted that the musicians were putting away their instruments.
“Well, Potter talked me around,” Draco acquiesced with a grin that just about melted her into a puddle. “Something about making an honest witch out of you.”
“Did he now?”
On the sidelines, just over the blonde wizard’s shoulder, Hermione could see her best friend and his wife watching them closely. Harry gave her an exaggerated thumbs up and she raised an inquiring eyebrow at him before turning her attention back to her lover.
“I told him that, being a Gryffindor, it wasn't as though you needed assistance with the honesty thing. However, I came to the realization that that just wouldn’t do. I will need a whole lifetime to teach you to be as devious as a Slytherin, though.”
The brunette witch shook her head quizzically at Malfoy. “What do you me-”
The entirety of the gala party gasped as one as Draco Lucious Malfoy conjured a glass box out of thin air and swept down onto a single knee before her.
“Hermione Jean Granger. Will you do me the hono-”
“Merlin’s tits, Draco, are you asking me to marry you?!”
Her astonishment rang out loud and clear in the dead silence of the Ministry lobby. Draco faltered with the glass box open in his hand; those closest to the proposal could just catch a glimpse of a wrought silver ring with a delicate sapphire twinkling in the light of the candles. Flashes burst from every corner as the press thoughtlessly pushed the rich and powerful aside to get in closer to the drama.
For a passing moment, Draco’s demeanor paled but then his undaunted smile returned and he answered, “As always, you are correct.”
Hermione burst into soundless joy and then she was in Draco’s arm, kissing him and savoring the sweet ecstasy that was his lips, his skin, his person. The din of the onlookers was deafening as they caught one another up, careless of the wolf whistles and the pleas of the cameramen to please give them a better angle.
“OY, get a room!” shouted a tall red head who was apparently displeased that his partner was wholly distracted by the moment.
Ginny Weasley chuckled as she and Harry watched the engaged couple come apart to address the congratulations coming in from all sides.
“What’s funny?” asked her husband as the Minister of Magic was one of the first to shake Hermione and Draco’s hands.
Ginny shook her head and leaned happily into Harry’s side, where she covered his hand on her bump with her own. “I’m afraid we won’t be the headline of tomorrow’s Prophet, love.”