Silhouette



Story: Silhouette
Storylink: http://hp.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600010560
Category: Harry Potter
Genre: Het - Male/Female
Author: absumoaevum
Authorlink: http://members.adult-fanfiction.org/profile.php?no=1296797574
Last updated: 05/27/2008
Words: 20305
Rating: Adult+
Status: Unknown
Content: Chapter 1 to 10 of 10 chapters
Source: Adult-FanFiction.org

Summary: CHAPTER 10 ADDED!! Please read... The Order is at its wit's end. Can Draco and Hermione make a difference? WIP UST Please R&R! Trust me, it's not what you think. ;)

*Chapter 1*: Silhouette

She sat there, propped up against the wall, with blood oozing from her nose and a cut above her eye. Unmoving, she seemed to be waiting for something, for that moment of discovery. It was then he almost mourned her.
Silently he checked over the body, extricating her long, dark wand from a robe pocket. She hadn’t even had time to draw it. Behind him, shifting feet told him Ron was there. “Fallsworth,” Draco murmured, handing him the wand. It was simple enough, just an old wand.
“I know who it is,” said Ron, and Draco knew he was making a face behind him. Fallsworth had been an auror, a particularly good one at that, and a hopeful for the Order. No one had known her very well; after she had disappeared, it took a few days for anyone to report her missing. She did not look like the Death Eaters had treated her gently.
Draco’s eyes checked over the lifeless woman one last time, noting the blood-matted hair from the blast, then he turned away in disgust. “Come on, we need to tell someone. She’s starting to smell.” He stood and slung an arm over Ron’s shoulder, leading him away from the bloody scene. He and Ron were not friends exactly, but there had been a truce. Draco knew that Ron respected what he had done for the Order, despite the consequences of failing Voldemort. For his part, Draco respected that Ron had Hermione. There had to be something positive about the Weasel if Hermione had deigned him worthy of her love. It was that simple. So the pair walked on in the failing moonlight, cut off by thick, dusty gray clouds.
“I think Voldemort really is losing his bloody mind now. You’d think-”
Draco pulled a few leaves off of a tender branch that hung low over the sidewalk. “Yeah, I know. He’s always been bloody mad, but now… it’s like he’s killing off everyone around us, working his way in. Sparing no one, just in case. Eventually, when we’re all dead, he’ll find Harry. Really, I don‘t think it will take murdering the whole Order, just the people directly in his path.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” muttered Ron, squinting into the streetlamp-less dark of the alleys.
“But you know it will.” Draco ripped the leaves the shreds and cast them into the grass to his right. It was a nervous habit of his, to kill things when answers were hard to come by. He thought perhaps he got the idea from his father.
“I know.” A silence fell between them, unbroken by the cool night air, the summer days approaching autumn. Uninterrupted, Draco’s thoughts drummed over the night's events. During patrol, Ron and Draco had discovered Fallsworth at the dead end of a back alleyway, and immediately knew Voldemort had attacked yet another off-work ministry employee seemingly out of the blue. Why he was doing this, they did not know, but after the fifth death, they stopped attributing the murders to any decent rationality. Voldemort was simply killing off anyone with loose connections to the Order and, though he could only guess, Draco felt sure Voldemort was preparing some trap for Harry and the Order.
“She must have hit the wall ten feet up,” Ron mused.
Draco struggled to regain the stem of the conversation. Fallsworth. “Right. Yeah, there was a bit of blood on the wall pretty high up.”
“Who do you think did it? Not Voldemort, Fallsworth isn’t important enough-”
“Let’s not underestimate Fallsworth. I think you’re right, though. It wasn’t Voldemort. Whoever did it had fun. Fallsworth was like a mouse caught in a cat’s claws. If I had to guess, I’d say it was LeStrange.”
“Bellatrix or-”
Draco cut him off. “Definitely my aunt. She’s hot-blooded. It would suit her to kill like that, nice and messy. I recognize her work in several of the other murders. I think Voldemort favors her.”
Ron rubbed his fingers together and produced a smooth gray stone in the palm of his hand. He threw it into a deserted alley, listening to the echoes. He conjured another, and another, throwing them absentmindedly as Draco spoke.
“That puts her in more danger, though. If she bollixes up one attempt, it’s her body we’ll find next, mark my words. I wonder what she’s done to be allowed these murders. It’s either really good or really bad. But it doesn’t matter. Once she’s mucked up one job, she’s done for.”
“Bloody bitch, she’d deserve it.” Ron punctuated this with a particularly hard throw. The rock skipped through the street, catching on the lips of cobblestones, and rammed into a shop door. The sound boomed in the air like thunder, and the silence after it was deep.
“Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t,“ said Draco after a moment, “It was Azkaban that drove her really batty like that, and the ‘good guys’ fixed her up there to begin with.”
“No, she was always crazy.” Ron flung his rock, and it skidded to a halt under a cart. Draco stopped and turned to face Ron, who also cut short his stride and locked eyes with Draco.
“How the bloody hell would you know something like that, Ron? She’s my aunt. I knew her before Azkaban. She wasn’t a good person, no, of course not, but she wasn’t a belligerent narcissistic psychopath. She just wasn’t very thoughtful, is all.”
Ron smiled. “Not thoughtful? Bloody hell, you really did grow up Malfoy, didn’t you, if you think the worst of LeStrange is her insensitivity.”
“Well, yeah…” Then Draco smiled, too. He remembered her as he last saw her, and he supposed that from Ron’s point of view, Aunt Bellatrix would be a bit more than inconsiderate. Compared to dear daddy, however, Aunt Bellatrix is a pussycat. Draco thought of Fallsworth, blood curling through her wild hair, and her eyes wide and cloudy. He would have to remember. He would have to remember her just as dead as alive. He realized then that his family would kill him, that his aunt would murder him, if they knew where he was. Just as he recalled so clearly Fallsworth across the dining room table from him, Molly’s good cooking in front of them, so someone would remember him after he died. Or would they?
“Come on, let’s get back,” Ron said. He had a way of interrupting Draco’s thoughts, but the blond didn’t care. It was better not to tarry too long in his mind anyway.
They rounded a corner and slid quietly into the Leaky Cauldron. Lupin and Tonks sat in a dim alcove. It was a small table- only two chairs- but Lupin saw them approaching and gestured to two more chairs against the wall.
“Join us. We were just talking about-”
“Nothing,” Tonks interjected, shooting Lupin a dirty look. His mouth opened and closed, but he was silent. Draco hooked the two chairs by their backs and hoisted them over to the table. Ron sat in the chair nearest Tonks, so Draco slipped into the one by Lupin. It teetered on its uneven legs, and Draco sighed wearily.
Tom the barkeep hobbled over to them. “Two butterbeers?”
Draco shook his head. “Firewhiskey for me, Tom.”
“Make that two,” Ron added.
Lupin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. The two younger men had not seen the face he wore in several months, that fatherly smirk and cocked eyebrow, as if he knew something they didn‘t. “They sure grow up fast, don’t they Tonks?”
Taking the final gulp of her butterbeer, Tonks looked him over wryly. “Excuse me,” she said in mock-offense, “but I still consider myself one of those ‘they,’ if you please. I’m no more than a few years older than Ron and Draco.”
“I keep forgetting.” Lupin’s voice was quiet, raspy, though not laced with that poisonous despondency that it had been before Grayback had died. He seemed to be in constant vigil, keeping himself from happiness, but more in the way a man can be too tired for mirth than a man overcome with worry and despair. Draco could see why Tonks loved him. And she did love him, everyone in the Order knew it. What he couldn’t see was why Lupin was still refusing to acknowledge it. She was very beautiful today, with her straight, flowing ice-blonde hair. Her features reminded him of his mother… but he wouldn’t think of her now, he would save those thoughts for later, when he was alone.
“So,” half-whispered Lupin, “did you find anything interesting on your watch?” Lupin and Tonks were next to patrol, and reports were regular between those going off duty and their successors.
“He’s killed another one,” Draco said as Tom handed him their drinks. Draco passed Ron his whiskey as Tonks leaned into the conversation.
“Who was it this time?”
“Fallsworth,” said Ron, and downed the shot unceremoniously. “Where’s Harry?”
“We don’t really know actually,” sighed Lupin.
“The point is that he’s not here, and Voldemort obviously is,” Ron muttered, catching Tom’s attention and pointing at his empty drink.
“You know he’s looking for Horcruxes. He can’t always be around to babysit you, Ronald.”
“No one calls me Ronald but my mum and Hermione, Tonks, now shove off.” Ron stood, pushed his chair in to the table a little harder than was strictly necessary, and strode over to the bar where he took the firewhiskey from Tom. He downed it, paid and left the Leaky Cauldron in a huff.
“Talk to you later,” Draco said as he stuck his hand into his pocket and tossed some knuts on the table. He followed Ron out into the windy darkness, but his red-haired friend had already disappeared.
Draco apparated back to Grimmald Place.

****

“How can I just give my heart over to two things at once? I don’t know how people do it.” Hermione plowed the coffee mug back and forth in a little line between her hands. The coffee was low enough now that it didn’t spill over the sides, but it sloshed around inside like crashing black waves. “Ron can’t stop talking about ‘loving’ this and that. ‘I love quidditch, I love adventure, excitement, what have you. How can he compartmentalize his heart like that?”
“It’s just a phrase, ’Mione,” soothed Ginny.
“But why use it? Can you love more than one thing- or even one person, for that matter- at a time?”
“I think so, but only if it’s a different kind of love for each thing.”
“Don’t go Greek on me, Ginny.” The red-head’s face went blank. “Never mind-” Ron appeared at that moment with a little pop that seemed to both fill the room with sound and empty it. “Ronald! Back so soon?” Ron huffed down the hall without so much as a word of greeting.
Ginny caught Hermione’s eye and shrugged. “Who knows?”
A instant later, Draco apparated on almost the exact spot as Ron. “Where did he go?”
Ginny nodded down the hall, where the sound of Ron’s banging feet against the stairs could be heard. “He’s a drama queen, that one,” but she smiled, and the whole room seemed to relax a little. Draco must have felt her eyes on him, because he turned to Hermione and gave her his best may-I-help-you face.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Think I’ll turn in, too. ’Night, Gin.” With that, she followed Ron’s echoing footsteps up the stairs, Draco close behind her.
On the stairs she could sense his presence looming over her, feel his breath tickling the fly-aways at the nape of her neck. “He’s not himself, ‘Mione. Something’s wrong.”
“Of course something’s wrong,” she whispered, “He’s bloody mad with worry over Harry, isn’t he?”
“Will you talk to him?” There was an urgency in the closeness of their bodies, a secrecy in the hurried hushing of his voice.
Hermione closed her eyes. “Yes. But I make no promises.” Cold, drafty air replaced his body at her back, and she knew he had moved away, waited for a step for her to unknowingly create a lag between them. At the landing, his room was first on the right, and she heard the door open and shut without turning back to look. Second to last on the left, Hermione twisted the handle. The door moaned unhappily as it opened.
“He sent you, didn’t he?”
“Oh, Ronald, the whole world doesn’t revolve around you. It’s eleven and I have a watch in the morning. I came up here to sleep.” Ron nodded once, then left the room. Hermione put on her night-clothes in silence, extinguishing the lamp with a feeble “Nox.”
Much later, Ron returned to their room. He watched Hermione sleep, watched her silhouetted figure take deep, even breaths. “Tomorrow we will see what each of us is made of,” whispered Ron through the darkness, “For your sake, Hermione, I hope you’re stronger than me.”

*Chapter 2*: Shock

The kitchen was already busy and loud when Hermione rounded the corner into it. Morning light was streaming through lacy curtains at the window, and Tonks, Lupin, Draco, Ron, Mrs. Weasley, and Snape were sitting around the huge scrubbed dining room table.

“’Morning, everyone. Is there coffee?” The Weasley matriarch jumped up and grabbed the coffee pot. A flick of her wand and a particularly eager mug zipped off of its shelf and lighted itself in front of Hermione. Cream and sugar appeared in front of her. “Molly, you know I like it black.” Then she noticed Mrs. Weasley was shaking as she poured the coffee- only slightly- and the pot made little clinking noises as it struck the mug. “Ok, what’s going on?”

Suddenly, Mrs. Weasley slammed the empty coffee pot down on the table. “I won’t abide it, Remus. It’s too dangerous. For everyone. I won’t have her go.” The kitchen erupted with talk.

“You can’t make her decision for her, mum,” said Ron.

Snape entwined his fingers, speaking calmly. “Let her hear what we propose before-”

“I will NOT hear a damn word out of YOUR mouth, Severus!” Bellowed Mrs. Weasley.

“Now, that’s not really fair, Molly-”

“What’s not fair is-”

“Oh, bollix-”

“YOU watch your mouth, young man-”

“STOP, all of you!” Hermione shouted incredulously. How could she make any kind of decision without even knowing the dilemma? The room fell silent, disgruntled and glaring murderously. “Now, what is it?” She took a gulp of her coffee, trying to ignore the burning liquid as it coated her throat and filled her stomach with fire.

Lupin stood up. “We have a plan. With Harry gone, and in the interim, something must be done about these killings. They seem totally random, so the only real way to know is spy on their plans.”

“But, Severus-” Molly began.

Snape finished for her. “Severus cannot be everywhere at once. The more people around eavesdropping, the more listening gets done.”

“Thank you, Severus. There is a ball or something going on,” Lupin shifted around uncomfortably, “and we would like to introduce a few new spies at that time. Tonks, with her shape-shifting abilities, had graciously consented, and Draco and Severus already have dealings on the other side. You see, however, Draco needs a date.”

Everyone looked nervous, but Hermione, who had been mid-sip, struggled to keep from spitting out her coffee while laughing so hard. She swallowed hard, and fixed Draco with a disbelieving gaze. “You can’t find a date, Malfoy?”

“It’s an excuse to bring another person to the inside,” sneered Draco. He hated it when she called him ‘Malfoy.’

“Has it occurred to any of you that I’m the poster girl for the good guys? There’s no way this could ever work. They’d recognize me, they’d never believe I switched sides, and besides-”

“We can get around your appearance,” said Snape.

“No Polyjuice for me. And charms can be countered.”

“Not permanent ones,” said Mrs. Weasley, and everyone turned to look at her in shock. “It was in Witch Weekly,” she added hurriedly.

“Exactly,” said Lupin.

“So, it would be like plastic surgery?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“And I’d always look like that, from then on?”

“Well, yes,” she said a bit more hesitantly.

Hermione sighed and sipped her coffee, thinking. If she did this, her face- her body, for that matter- would never be the same. She looked at Ron. His eyes pleaded. Her eyes fell on Draco, but he was unreadable, a vague mirror of her own inscrutable expression, a faint smile just barely turning up the corner of his mouth, but even that was ambiguous. Then she thought he nodded, one short tilt of the head, but he couldn’t have, he wouldn’t. She went back to Ron. He didn’t want her to do this, that was plain enough. But was that any reason to reject a good plan? Hermione closed her eyes. “I’ll do it.” The air in the room seemed to thaw. “When?” Her voice sounded hollow, and a part of her immediately regretted the decision.

“The ball is in a week. We can put the charms on you now, to give you time to get used to your new body. Molly?”

“I know a few of the charms, and Tonks can do the rest.” Mrs. Weasley stepped forward, wand out.

“Wait!” said Hermione, “Can we at least have some privacy?” Mrs. Weasley shooed everyone from the room and set to work.

The first thing to go was Hermione’s sharp nose. Mrs. Weasley molded it softer and slightly smaller, then set it. Hermione felt her eyes widen, as if she was very surprised, and knew her eyes were growing larger. Her eyelids felt heavy with the new weight of thick dark eyelashes to replace her sparse ones. Her mouth blossomed, lips suddenly full and a lovely pink, the upward curve of her mouth changed to a constant pout.

“I hope you’re not making me look like Pansy Parkinson.” The words felt strange coming out of her sultry mouth. As she spoke, Tonks aimed her wand at Hermione’s throat. Her voice became lower, deeper, effortlessly alluring. Hermione gasped, then smiled a little, appreciating the change.

“Keep smiling, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione felt her canines come to a rounded but somewhat longer point. “That’s fine.”

Chin shortened, cheeks flushed and pronounced, forehead small, and eyebrows thin and curvy, Hermione gazed in the mirror. She definitely did not look like herself. But this was herself now. She couldn’t get used to it. Her face was so… beautiful. Oh, sure, she’d been alright looking before, but now she was a supermodel, a fitting match for Draco. No, she didn’t think that…

“And now for the eyes,” murmured Tonks, who throughout had behaved much like a surgeon with a scalpel. Mrs. Weasley stepped back, her wand still twitching a little. Hermione knew she had moved on to the rest of her body, and she felt little pinches and pulls all over.

Hermione blinked over her over-large eyes, and felt like it took a great effort to close them. “Change the color?” she protested, “No, leave them brown. I like them brown. It’s the only thing I recognize about myself.”

“You prove my point so well, ‘Mione,” said Tonks. “Now, look at me.” She rapped Hermione lightly under the chin with her wand. Hermione locked eyes with Tonks. “Just keep looking in my eyes,” she said.

It was the oddest feeling Hermione had ever experienced. Her eyes both felt like they had fallen asleep, that tingling, nearly painful feeling as they woke up. Luckily, it didn’t last long, and when Hermione raised the mirror to her face again, crystal blue diamond eyes sparkled back at her.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Tonks. They’re beautiful.” Tonks smiled, but despite Hermione’s words, the brunette felt like a doll.

“Molly, what do you think about the hair?”

“Oh, I know the perfect thing.” Mrs. Weasley waved her wand flamboyantly in the air, pointing it at Hermione’s bushy, drab brown locks. At once her hair fell smoothly over her shoulders, much longer straight than curly, and ran thick black, shining like oil and just as slick.

Just then, Draco pushed open the kitchen door. “Lupin sent me to…” he stared at Hermione, and she slowly raised her new, awkward eyes to meet his. “…Wow,” he whispered, and Hermione relaxed.

“Is it ok?” she stammered.

“Yeah, well… yes. Molly, Tonks, she looks…”

“That good, huh?” Tonks cocked her head and grinned.


*Chapter 3*: Revealed

This Chapter is for DracoHasAHotAss, even though your name kinda scares me. I realize it’s not much, but at least I’m still writing. Thank you for that review. It was lovely, just what I needed. I’ll update again soon, and it’s all your fault.

Also, I’d like to thank Azurelle at DeviantArt for unwittingly setting an entire fan fiction story into motion with a single stunning masterpiece. Even though you will never read this, you inspire me.

***********
“Everyone’s waiting to see you in the parlor,” Draco said when at last he regained his Malfoy composure. She told herself that this mask that was now her face, this elaborate scheme that was her voice and skin and hair and hands, this was the Malfoy ideal. She was Pansy Parkinson after all. Only prettier, Hermione thought maliciously.
“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Weasley looked concerned. She had tucked her wand back into her robes and was fussing with Hermione’s hair. “You really do look very pretty, Hermione, dear.”
“Well, what can you compare it to, really…?” Hermione shot Draco a dark look. She was used to his jibes, but this was not the time to goad Mrs. Weasley. She seemed restless, nervous. Hermione thought that the plump red-haired woman before her had surprised herself with how fast she had changed her mind about the plan. One moment she was raving to anyone who would listen, causing quite a scene, and the next she was a giggling schoolgirl practicing glamour charms on her friend. This time, however, the girlish glamours didn’t wear off, her face and body had been molded and siphoned and tugged to the extreme, into permanency.
Hermione took Mrs. Weasley’s hand and squeezed it kindly, noticing her markedly longer nails and graceful, thin-knuckled fingers. “It’s great, really. You did a wonderful job.” Mrs. Weasley looked as though she felt much better. Hermione glanced over her shoulder expecting to see Tonks, but she, apparently, had left the room.
“Tonks’ll be ‘round in a minute, now come on,” and Mrs. Weasley started toward the door.
Hermione let go of her hand and stayed where she was. “Is there a mirror, a full-length one, anywhere in the house? I’d like to see myself.”
“There’s one in the parlor. Hagrid moved it there from an upstairs bedroom,” said Draco obligingly. “Now come on, ‘Mione. Pretend like we’re members of a highly secret, very busy society of concerned citizens and hurry the bloody hell up.” He turned on his heel and strode through the door. She could hear his footsteps down the hallway and the soft murmur of many voices coming from the open door at its end.
Mrs. Weasley jumped a little, then took out her wand again. “Sit down, dear, if you’re not going to go just yet. You’re making me nervous standing there like that.”
Hermione thought that was an odd thing to say, then realize she was swaying dangerously. She looked down. Her feet were smaller than they had been, and her body more curvaceous. Was she really so ugly before? She sat, feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. No, she told herself, she wasn’t ugly. But she wasn’t turning heads, either. Then a tiny voice whispered from somewhere dark and far away: There’s only one head you want to turn, and you know it.
While Hermione argued with herself, Mrs. Weasley had prepared tea and pasties. “I’ll just take these in. You come when you’re ready, Hermione,” and then as she passed Hermione towards the door, her hands full with a tray, she added, “Those Death Eaters won’t know what hit them.” She smiled warmly and was gone.
Hermione emerged into the once-drab parlor a moment later to gaping mouths and wide eyes. The mirror was certainly there, right in front of her between Ron and Snape. Gazing at herself, she felt suddenly naked, like a child who’s lost her mother in the grocery store, alone.
But she wasn’t alone. Tonks stepped forward into the room to stand beside her. “Whatchoo think? Family resemblance?” Hermione turned to Tonks in the mirror and gasped in shock. She was used to Tonks changing her hair or playing games with her nose, (though she did not do this so much anymore) but this was so different that it took Hermione completely by surprise.
Hermione realized that Tonks was her spitting image, or perhaps Hermione was the replica of Tonks, since the metamorphmagus seemed to have aged herself a bit for the part. Hermione supposed Tonks was posing as her mother, and it wasn’t hard believe. They had the same sleek black hair, only Tonks’ was up in a knot. They shared identical noses and cheekbones. Their body type matched perfectly, and their eyes had the same flicker, like blue-hot fire. Tonks had fashioned herself to be in her late 30’s or early 40’s, but she was still gorgeous. Her new persona didn’t seem like it belong in Tonks’ clothes, or even in this plain room.
Hermione realized that she did not look quite right in the brightly-lit, homey yet homely parlor either. She turned to Lupin, who looked absolutely decrepit compared to…Compared to what?
Her and her “mother,” Hermione thought.
She put the idea from her head, as a thousand questions leapt to the foreground of her mind. “Lupin, what is our story? Obviously, we’re mother and daughter, but-”
“But people will be suspicious of two completely newcomers, right?” Hermione nodded. “Well, Snape had made a recent visit to America for the Death Eaters, and our story is that he met Tonks and yourself while there. You two showed an interest in an introduction to British pureblood society, and so here you are, staying with Severus at his home. You are in town for just a few weeks, specifically for the ball, then you will be returning to America. Those are the basics. Be sure that we’ll drill you on all the specifics later,” Lupin finished.
“Are our bloodlines-”
“Secured, all the way back to the 1200’s. You are of Romanian decent.”
“It was surprisingly easy to fabricate a lineage like yours. It is completely fail-safe,” Snape added, calming all of Hermione’s doubts. If Snape thought it was believable, then she did; he was the biggest cynic she knew.
“What about our accents?” Hermione asked.
“Hermione, you don’t have an English accent anymore, I got rid of it when I changed your voice. Don’t worry, that particular charm isn’t permanent. I wouldn’t force an American accent on my worst enemy. And I can get rid of mine if I want.” She swallowed hard. “There, see?” She sounded American to Hermione.
“Names?”
“I did tha’ research meself,” said Hagrid, clearing his throat. Hermione supposed she knew why Hagrid had volunteered to go to Romania: The world’s biggest dragon reserve was located there. Hagrid fished a piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. He fumbled for a second and went red in the face, but Tonks saved him.
“I went with him,” she said. “I’m Nicoleta Roxana Pavlovna Ciucur, and you‘re Bianca Luminita Ivanovna Ciucur. That sound alright?”
“Nice to meet you, Nicoleta,” said Hermione, beaming her unfamiliar smile and extending her hand. Tonks took it and shook it once and firmly, giggling. That was reassuring somehow, that Tonks hadn’t lost herself in her disguise, but then she changed her appearance all the time. Hermione felt foreign and false.
“Right,” said Lupin, “well, I think the two of you should start studying your lineage and personal history. Draco and Mrs. Weasley are at your disposal-”
“-Thanks boss,” interrupted Draco impassively, but Mrs. Weasley only nodded.
“-Should you need them to run over information with you. Draco can be especially helpful with pureblood snobbery, which you’ll have to master as well as the dances and decorum. Ron, you will be covering for Hermione on her watch today. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Lupin stood, gave a short bow to everyone, then left the room.
Ron followed Lupin out in a huff, his red hair clashing brilliantly with his angry, flushed face.
“This should be fun,” said Draco smugly as he watched Ron leave.
“The only way this could possibly be fun, Malfoy, is if you were absent,” hissed Hermione. Draco mimed being shot in the side with a particularly nasty spell and stumbled backward.
This might work after all.

*Chapter 4*: Vogue

So, It's about 12:16 am where I am, and I just finished writing this. I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to post it, but then I couldn't because I'm excited to see what you all think of how the story is progressing. Please let me know.



I’m sorry these chapters are quite short, but I’m kinda making this up as I go along (literally), and short chapters give me time to think, so they will probably all hover at around this length.



And I need a beta, if anyone's interested. :)





*************



Hermione spent the next few days learning to be Slytherin with Draco as her teacher. She memorized her ancestry, learned every step in every dance Draco threw at her, and studied wizard etiquette. Manners were a very hazy science to purebloods. The point, as far as Hermione could see, was to be as rude as possible with as few people realizing it as possible, and then to catch on to other’s rudeness and exploit them for it. It was a tricky game with many traps, not one easily learned in just four days, but Draco made it practical, speaking to her with as much thinly-veiled disdain as he could muster and expecting realistic responses.

“No, no, you’re thinking like a Gryffindor,“ Draco had said. “Don’t be brave, be smart. Pride is only useful if you can back it up. Try again.”

They danced elegantly around the table in the kitchen. Blindfolded. They ate one third the amount of everyone else, and twice as slowly. They played wizard’s chess. They made nasty comments about people as they entered or left the room. Hermione apologized and assured them she was just practicing, but she felt herself slipping into this lifestyle. She heard Draco’s vicious commentary on nearly everyone in the house, and part of her agreed. She dismissed this, of course; she was just in character. But she couldn’t help but notice how freeing this new outlook was.

“Do you actually believe the things you say about people?” she had asked him on the third day.

He didn’t hesitate. “Part of you must believe it, otherwise why would you say it?” He had a habit of this, cryptic speech. Hermione couldn’t stand it. This pureblood nonsense was a lot harder than she had anticipated.

And to top it all off, Ron wouldn’t look at her. He’d taken up residence in one of the empty guest rooms and left Hermione to sleep alone with her ghostly, frightening new body. Ginny told her that he was just freaked out that Hermione could have changed so much. “He just needs time to get used to it. He needs to remember that the real Hermione is still in there.” But this black-haired, cruelly beautiful body was Hermione now. The real Hermione is on the outside, too, she thought. Now and forever, this is me. When she mentioned this to Ginny, her friend had pinked in the face. “I’m sorry,” she had said, “I didn’t realize…”

Tonks needed almost as much help as Hermione, and when Lupin instructed everyone to start calling them Bianca and Nicoleta, both women were at their wit’s end. Hermione counted herself lucky. If Draco was running her ragged, she couldn’t imagine was Snape was doing to Tonks. She’d choose Draco over Snape any day.

The morning they were to leave, Hermione heard the door to her room open and close softly. She rolled over in bed to find Ron standing over her.

“I’ve been stupid.”

“Yeah, you have.” Ron smiled his most sheepish, hopeful grin. He lifted his hand and took hers in it. Her fingers were loose in his, and somehow it felt awkward. These were not her hands, and yet they were. She couldn’t get used to it. But Ron seemed bent on his mission.

“Do you forgive me, Hermione?”

“Will you let me?” She had fallen back on her training from the past few days. Be cryptic, give no ground, but don’t take any either, not unless it directly benefits you.

Ron thought about it. “Is that a yes?” All of Hermione’s preparation melted from her and, for the moment, she was just Hermione and the man in front of her was just Ron. She sat up in bed, not letting go of his hand, and he sat down to level with her.

“It’s a yes.” He threw his arms around her and held her for a full minute before he realized she wasn’t hugging back.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked, pulling back and holding the gaze of some other woman’s eyes that were her eyes. He shivered a little, unable to look away from the dazzlingly crisp blue, like the blue of thinning ice over the coldest ocean waters. She was becoming like them, cool and distant, not like herself. He understood, then. “So, this is a singles dance, I take it?”

“Ronald…” she started, but there was nothing to finish.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. We’ll be friends again, like we were.” She nodded, tears slipping charmingly down her cheeks. She was beautiful now, after all, and everything she did was a reflection of that. He kissed her cheek. They never needed theatrics, just simplicity, each other’s company. And now she had been deprived of that. What had she gotten herself into?

A knock on the door. Draco’s head appeared in the doorway. “Are you ready? We’re all going to apparate over to Spinner’s End in about thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said in her most authoritative voice. “Just give us a minute.”

Draco took in the scene with new eyes. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” He shut the door.

“No, I should get out of here, let you pack.” Ron stood up, looking as if he hadn‘t thought past that action.

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, too. Her silvery, slinky nightdress fell softy over her legs, cool as water. “Ronald…”

“Don’t, Hermione, ok? Just… don’t. Leave it alone. It’s done.” He wouldn’t look at her anymore. His hair almost completely blocked his face from view, and his shoulders were slumped with half-hidden anguish. He crossed to the door, but turned back as he opened it. She watched him, watched him glimpse her one more time. “I’m here if you ever… need me.” Then he was gone.

Friends. Hermione wondered if the person she was now could maintain friendships like the bushy-haired know-it-all who had grown up in the presence of everyone in this house. She thought so, but she would have to bury that side of herself, that small part that was unchanged by the events of the past week. She would hide it from Draco and all those dancing, two-faced Death Eaters at the ball. She would even hide it from the part of herself that was Bianca, because Bianca was cruel and calculating and vain. Draco had done his job too well; there was hardly any Hermione left in her.

After packing the rest of her things in several small posh trunks (Ginny was truly the guru of the fashion world), Hermione put on a light blue strapless sundress with a wide pale gold belt. Her research and Ginny’s nose for vogue told her that only the most old-fashioned witches in America wore traditional robes. Even the purebloods had integrated muggle attire into their wardrobes. So she slipped on her matching robin’s egg blue sling-backs, scooped up an antique gold clutch purse, and hoped she could remember to breath.

*Chapter 5*: End

For your reading comprehension:
Feldgrau is a black-gray-green color patroned by the German Army. It is utilitarian, but still fashionable. Feldgrau means “field gray,” an interesting mix between nature and industry. J

Also, many of you just finished the last chapter still wondering what “gnomic” meant. Gnomic is a particularly cryptic phrase or the philosophy of never saying plainly what one truly means.

*************

Spinner’s End turned out to be a muggle neighborhood, though none too fashionable or even well-kept. Coke cans and fast-food wrappers littered the sidewalk, and every tree seemed depressed and lonely. Snape’s home was exactly like those around it, square and bare-faced, with dull brick walls and a small, leaf-strewn terrace. People were calling out of their windows to kids on their shabby bikes and passers-by, but no one greeted Snape or his visitors. Indeed, no one even seemed to notice them as they walked hurriedly through his gate and up his stairs. A man sat lazily on a splintering, unpainted rocking chair on his porch next door. He was drinking something dark brown from a plastic kiddy-cup and smoking a cigarette. Hermione could see its long strand of ash from the front door of Snape’s house. Needless to say, privacy was out of the question outside, and Hermione was thankful for the heavy drapes hanging in Snape’s windows to keeping prying neighbors’ eyes from what she was sure would be a most shocking interior.
Snape’s front door was locked by more than just a key, obviously. A moment later, however, the four of them, Draco, Snape, Tonks, and Hermione, had entered into a disheveled, rather oppressive sitting room. Once they were all inside, Snape reactivated his safety measures and locked his bolts. All Hermione could see now were four walls of leather-bound books and the front door. This was not very promising. Where would they all sleep? It was a silly question, she knew, but she couldn’t see any other doors.
“Patience, Ms. Ciucur,” Snape said with a snide sneer, “the doors are there if one knows how to get to them.” More gnomic nonsense from the Death Eater wannabes, thought Hermione. “Not nonsense, intellectualism.” She practiced the other thing that she had been taught over the past week: Occlumency. Snape had, of course, been testing her mind for weakness, and he had found it. She would have to try harder to fortify her thoughts against legilimency; a dozen people or more would try to read her mind at the ball, try to learn her secrets. She had read about it, and caught on quickly, but was it fast enough? “Aparecium,” Snape murmured, pointing his wand at the wall adjacent them. Hermione’s eyes widened as a door swung inward to reveal a spindly, narrow staircase. “See there, Ms. Ciucur, fiction becomes fact.”
“If it was always there, then it was always fact, Mr. Snape,” Hermione shot back. She understood the need for she and Tonks to get used to their names, but she couldn’t abide his sarcastic use of them in private. Apart from that, the Order had decided that Tonks and Snape would be on a first-name basis, but that Hermione should remain respectful to her former professor despite her supposed American ethnocentricity. It all made sense, but that Slytherin subtlety mutated efficiency into exasperating little barbs.
“So up there, then?” cut in Tonks, not wanting Hermione and Snape to argue.
“Those stairs lead to the bedrooms. This door,” as he said this, he waved his wand toward the wall to their right, and another door opened, “leads to the kitchen and dining room. Draco, you’ll be taking your usual room, I assume?”
“If possible.”
“Fine. Show Bianca and Nicoleta their rooms. I’ll be gone for a while. Be ready for the ball when I return.”
“When are you coming back?” asked Hermione, wondering how they could be ready by his arrival if they didn’t know when exactly that would be, but Snape had already disaparated. “Great.”
“Come on, I'll take you up,” said Draco. Tonks and Hermione followed Draco up the constricting staircase, which had no pictures on its walls. The bare and musty hallway wasn’t much better. He gestured at the first door on the right. “This is Snape’s room,” he pointed out, and kept walking. Hermione wondered what sort of room it was. Probably dark and full of rot and dust, she thought. The next door came quickly and on the left. “This is your room,” he said to Tonks. “I think Bianca would be better off in my room. This one’s kind of cramped.” Tonks opened the door and sputtered a cough as dust billowed up from the ground. Her trunk and a duffle bag were placed at the foot of the bed, the grime around them undisturbed. They must have been apparated there, but Hermione noticed one other thing: her suitcases were nowhere to be found. Draco had intended for her to stay in his room all along. She refused to let that thought concern her, for now.
“Scourgify,” shouted Tonks, and the floor scrubbed itself clean. She aimed her wand at the bed and it remade itself, mothball-free and without the acrid smell of mildew. The drawers opened and closed, the dirt in them lifting itself up and vanishing in little puffs. The tiny window above the bed soaped up and shined, allowing sunlight where there had been none before. Tonks gave out a tiny, final cough as she pointed her wand at her trunk and said “Unpack.” It popped open, clothing soaring around the room, shoes clicking and bucking in the air. A fine forest green dress draped itself over the bedspread. Feldgrau-colored shoes, made of a slightly glistening, translucent fabric propped themselves up on the floor beside the bedpost. Long, slender ivory gloves that matched the pale, lucent lace of the gown’s sleeves folded neatly on the delicately patterned green satin. The dress’ thin collar matched the decorative sleeves. It was a confection, and Hermione envied its simplicity.
“Well, shall we?” Draco moved from the doorway of Tonks’ room and walked a little further down the hall. The last door on the right opened for him and he went inside without her.
“Give me five minutes. I’ll be right back, ok?” Hermione said, waving to Tonks, who was smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in the fabric of her gown. Backing out of the room, Hermione walked down the hall, her heels making echoing, punctuated clicks on the uncarpeted hardwood floors. The room she entered was monkish, but clean. There were two beds of the same size and plain bedding, and two dressers. Hermione’s bed had been covered with what looked like icing-made-fabric. She had never seen the dress before, Mrs. Weasley hadn’t gotten it from Madame Malkin’s before they left, so it must have only just arrived. Hermione’s things, she noticed, were put away, all except for the gown and accessories.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Draco said, emerging from the bathroom. He was in dress robes similar to the ones he had worn to the Yule Ball years before. Draco straightened his tie, watching Hermione watch him. “It would be best to get ready is quickly as possible. Guests will begin arriving to my father’s house in about an hour. We intend on being, of course, fashionably late, but that still doesn’t give us much time.” He left, shutting the door behind him.
Hermione went to her bed and picked up the dress to have a better look. It was the finest thing she’d ever laid hands on; silky and light and brilliantly white, the fabric seemed to grace her fingers with their touch. She put it on, using magic to fasten the length of buttons down the back. The bodice was gathered from two strips of deep red on either side of her bust and drew scarlet lines down to the top of her hips. The two sections of garnered fabric connected along a thin line that began at her cleavage with a gold pendant and ended just below her belly button. The dress was gathered a little so it rippled when she moved, and the layer of matching crimson fabric just under the opaque white silk showed when she walked. Her gloves were gathered along the seams to match her gown, and her shoes were ruby-red satin. Soft tulle beneath the red layer of cloth allowed the dress to swish and sway beautifully.
Hermione looked for a mirror and found one in the bathroom. She admired herself, how her hair fell softly over her bare shoulders, how shapely and slender she looked. A knock on the door made her jump. “Come in.” It was Tonks in her dress, as well, and looking just as lovely.
“Wotcher, ‘Mione,” she said, and did a little twirl. Her dress picked up a little around her, but on the whole, she looked as stately and snobbish as any of the Order could have hoped. This was, until she changed her nose into a pig’s. Hermione giggled and spun around for Tonks, too. When she looked back at her “mother,” her nose was its normal dignified self. “You look just… beautiful, ‘Mione.”
Hermione smiled. “Thanks. So do you.”
They spent the next hour or so with make-up and hair, with Tonks magiking Hermione’s long black ebony locks into a wispy, elegant up-do. Tonks tied her hair back into a simple French braid and was done. When they were finished, they looked their parts: snooty, high-class, and stunning.
Hermione and Tonks found Draco reading in the sitting room. Snape was with him, wearing simple black dress robes. “Fine,” said Snape without so much as a glance their way, “Let’s go. We’ll do side-along aparation to get there. Draco, you take Ms. Bianca.”
Hermione felt Draco’s arm slide under hers. She gripped his hand, and they were gone.

*Chapter 6*: Lies

Thank you all for the reviews! This chapter is dedicated to Ms.Nomdeplume and DracoHasAHotAss (again ;)) for there satisfyingly lengthy comments. I hope the sarcasm is enough, and the plot intriguing. Have fun!

The edited Chapter is dedicated to nonentity for making me laugh a good long while, and to amanda, who graciously offered to be my beta (woe is her, let me tell you.) ;) Enjoy.

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In Wiltshire, four dark silhouettes suddenly appeared in a privately owned garden gazebo. They strolled up the path, heading toward Malfoy Manor, cloaks billowing behind them, catching the silver moonlight. As they walked a few feet behind Tonks and Snape, Draco told Hermione about the Malfoys owning the land surrounding their home through a series of complicated dealings with English Heritage and National Trust. Lucius Malfoy was on the board of both of these, being a major businessman and landowner in even the Muggle world, and had persuaded them to sell him the property for insurance reasons. He kept the whole thing under the alias of these nationally renowned corporations, just in case, though, and allowed them to manage the various locations as usual.
“This site, of course, is especially unique, so my father takes a particular interest in it,” Draco said. The line of neatly cropped trees broke off to their right, and Hermione realized why such prominent preservationists would take interest in this rolling green country.
“Stonehenge,” Hermione gasped, “The Malfoys own Stonehenge?”
“We own most of Wiltshire, actually. All sorts of old Druid stuff around here. Father takes an obvious interest, you know.” Draco seemed utterly unperturbed, but Hermione knew better. He might have been showing off a bit, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. Most in the wizarding community had a healthy respect for their Druid ancestors, and the implications of the Malfoy family holding the deeds to such magical hot zones were unthinkable.
“So this whole area-”
“Busting with magical energy, yeah,” Draco nodded, avoiding her question. Ahead of them, Snape was pointing at the oddly upright rocks, half-shadowed and huge even at a distance. He must have been telling Tonks about Stonehenge, about the Malfoys, too.
Hermione let the subject drop, and she and Draco walked in silence. The wind whipped Tonks’ or Snape’s voice back to them every once-in-a-while, but never anything intelligible. Their heavy cloaks swirled up around their feet, and she struggled to walk on the sloping paved path.
Malfoy Manor was looming over them now, huge, a bit boxy, and well-lit. It had been a short walk up the driveway from where they apparated, but Hermione was already out of breath. As they approached, she surreptitiously drew her wand and murmured a few spells to clean up the bottom of her dress and calm her. Before the light from the manor touched her, she had put her wand back into her cloak, and was walking with all the grace she could muster. Draco held out his arm for her, and she took it. She saw Snape and Tonks do the same.
The game was on.
A steward came forward to take their cloaks as they stepped through the grand columned entranceway. Tonks and Hermione didn’t speak; they allowed their dates to handle the transaction for them. Draco lifted the cloak from Hermione’s shoulders, unhooking the clasp for her and handing it to waiting hands. The attendant carried her cloak, along with Tonks’, into a small coat room to the left of the entrance. Hermione could see racks of fur-lined, velvet over-cloaks shivering slightly as the man pushed them aside to make room for theirs. Draco placed his hand on the small of her back and gestured to the room at large, inviting her in. There was music, slightly mournful but pleasing nevertheless. Five huge chandeliers donimated the air above the dance floor, and across from the four of them, a long table with appetizers got a lot of attention.
Snape moved to stand beside her on her right. “We will stay together, Draco,” Snape hissed. “For now, we must make introductions.” Draco nodded, and the two men progressed as one, Hermione and Tonks elegantly draped on their arms, around the room.
“My dear Bellatrix,” said Snape with a little bow. “Surely you have met Ms. Nicoleta Ciucur and her daughter Bianca?” He motioned Hermione forward as Bellatrix nodded to Tonks. Hermione gripped hard onto Draco’s arm with her delicate fingers, her long nails jabbing him through the material of his dress robes. She curtsied a little, just enough to show acknowledgement, but not interest. She was supposed to be aloof, and she felt exactly the opposite of that around Bellatrix. She’d never been so close to her, but Hermione found that even with her hair brushed and a long, flowing black dress, the ruthless Death Eater’s deranged eyes gave away her true self, her sickness.
“And Draco, my dear nephew. ‘Ow are you, mon petit tomcat? Well, I 'ope?” She put her hand on Draco’s left cheek and kissed his right, the one nearest Hermione.
“Aunt,” Draco began, “How can I be anything but at my utmost content when I am near you?” It was an outragious thing to say, but Hermione knew these were just formalities.
“I did not know it was possible to have such a charming nephew.” Bellatrix smiled, a action that struck Hermione as unbearably freakish and made the woman before her look even more frenetic. Bellatrix drew Draco away from Hermione’s side to speak more privately, leaving her alone. Ahead of her, Snape and Tonks had greeted another couple, and Tonks was laughing graciously at what Hermione could only assume was a joke from the waif-thin woman who had spoken last.
A sinewy young man sidled up to her just as she made to join Snape and the rest. “May I have a dance?” Hermione must have looked dumbstruck, because the man smiled smartly and offered his hand. “I don’t bite.” He was acting so contrary to all of her training that Hermione couldn’t think what to do. She thought she recognized him from Hogwarts, but she never paid much attention to the Slytherin boys.
“I-” she stammered.
A moment later, Draco was at her side again, and cut her off. “Nott!” They shook hands. “Stealing my date, are you?” the blond accused, laughing quite naturally.
“She’s with you? Introduce me, then, you git. I can’t afford not to know this one.” There was that familiar flattery. Hermione felt herself relax, and a thin smile curved her lips prettily.
“I am Bianca,” she said, speaking at almost a whisper so that the man called Nott had to lean in a little to catch it, “and I can introduce myself.” Her demeanor was courteous as she held out a hand for him to kiss, but her words were scornful, condescending. He took it, and brushed his lips against the silk of her glove, but it was clear now that she would not be a piece of art for them to discuss and sell and buy with sycophancy. Catching Hermione’s eye, Draco gave her the tinniest of winks.
“So, where’s your date, Nott?” Draco made a show of looking around.
“I wasn’t aware I needed one, not when yours will dance with me.”
“Who said I would dance with you?” Hermione’s smile was so pleasantly disdainful Nott almost took her seriously.
“She’s a good match for you, Malfoy.” Nott said simply. He was avoiding Hermione’s jibes directly; he was backing down, showing her deference. Why?
“Draco is by no means a match for me. As it is, I barely tolerate him.” She laughed a little, a sweet girlish giggle, testing. Nott would have to choose a side now.
“Well then you had better dance with me, Bianca. It’s the only way to get away from him,” Nott said, laughing with her. He had chosen her. Interesting.
Draco feigned offense. “Go on, then. I’ll tell your mother where you are.”
Nott took Hermione’s hand in his and led her to the middle of the dance floor. Marble clicked and thudded under their feet as they danced, whirling around with expert grace to the complicated dance steps, making sure not to come too close to other dancers. Like a waltz, they moved in wide circles over the smooth stone floor, and he dipped and spun her so her dress swept up and danced on its own. Now he is testing me, she thought.
The song ended, and they were on entirely the wrong side of the ballroom. “Come on,” He said, pulling her hand as he walked toward a group of people nearby, “I have some friends I want you to meet.”
Luckily, Draco had made his way over to the group in question, foreseeing Nott’s plan, and was there to take Hermione back onto his arm when the pair reached the cluster of young men and women standing snobbishly next to the hors d’overies. Former Slytherins, every one of them, she thought. Hermione recognized Pansy Parkinson immediately. They loathed each other, but at the present Pansy was eying her with poorly-masked curiosity. Goyle, who had slimmed down a little, stood off to the side. Blaise Zabini, tall and haughty even among Slytherins, was looking bored beside Pansy. The last two people Hermione saw she did not know, but she thought she had seen the young man on the Slytherin quidditch team.
Draco introduced her. “Well, I think we’ve had enough of Nott, but his first name‘s Theodore,” he said, and Nott smiled at her, still a bit out of breath. “This is Pansy Parkinson, and her fiancé Blaise Zabini.” Hermione greeted each in turn. She smiled at Pansy, and they had a silent contest to see who's curtsy was the slightest. Blaise left a lingering kiss on her hand, his black skin in stark contrast the ivory of her glove. “Gregory Goyle.” Hermione extended her hand, but instead of kissing it, Goyle shook it rather roughly, and Hermione had to wrench her away with as much poise as possible. “And these two are Daphne Greengrass and Adrian Pucey,” Draco finished. Hermione bowed her head in salutation. Pucey had been a chaser on the Slytherin team. He’d seemed like a decent guy. “My friends and acquaintances, this is Bianca Ciucur."
Once the introductions were done with, the questions started pouring in. Pansy wanted to know where she was from, and then what it was like in America. Blaise questioned her on her bloodline, and did she know anyone in Great Britain. (Hermione said she’d heard of his mother, and he seemed pleased). Daphne asked her about the boys in America, her house, the fashion. She answered all of their questions, always appearing to be only mildly interested in the conversation.
Hermione felt her hand catch in Draco’s. “Sorry, ladies and gents, but Bianca owes me a dance.” He took her waist and escorted her away. “Always leave them wanting more,” he whispered in her ear.
They didn’t get far, however. A blond woman with an angelic face emerged from the many-layered, rustling gowns and rigidly standing men between the couple and the dance floor.
“Draco, dear,” she declared, clapping her elegantly-gloved hands together like a child who just receive a much-wanted birthday present. “How are you?”
“I am well, mother,” Draco replied, kissing her outstretched hand. He took it into his own, holding it for just a moment, then Hermione watched as it fell gracefully back to her side. It was a rather cold greeting, she thought, but, considering the source, appropriate.
Draco’s mother was tall and lithe and, though not his build per se, the relation was obvious. She wore a myrtle green and peach-colored gown, lacy but tasteful, with tiny rosebuds at intervals. Tresses trapped up in a ribboned confection, she did not seem prissy so much as perceptive. Consequently, the older woman’s sharp gray eyes raked over Draco with unending scrupulousness, finally flitting to his hair with a slight scowl that did not mar her pretty features. Then she noticed Hermione, and one of her impeccably manicured eyebrows raised curiously. “Who is this?”
“Oh, forgive me, mother. This is Bianca Ciucur. Bianca, this is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy.” The two women curtsied, and Hermione again played the game of the most negligible bow.
Deepening her own curtsy as to allow Narcissa to win the contest, Hermione smiled as warmly as she could. She knew she was in Narcissa’s territory now, in her home and on the arm of her only son. “It is my pleasure to have finally met you, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa eyes betrayed her mild disconcertion at this graciousness. “It is I who am most pleased, my dear Bianca, to at last see my son with so worthy a young woman.” Hermione privately hoped Pansy Parkinson was out of earshot. “You may call me Narcissa, if you like.”
“As you wish,” and with that, Hermione bowed her head once more, though only a little.
There was a short pause before Narcissa spoke again, and the music wafted through the silence like the smell of roses. Hermione wondered at how different these strangers were to her as a pure-blood. They were comfortable among their fellows, their presumed equals, in a way they could never be with people like Hermione and the Weasleys. Narcissa had been spiteful and rude to the girl Hermione had been, and the Slytherins had tortured her during her time at Hogwarts, but here, as Bianca, she saw them through new eyes. They were swans; they were lissome as cats and proud like hippogriffs. They gave the impression that nothing could phase them. Hermione admired them for it, especially the beautiful woman before her, who epitomized grace and passion.
“Where are you staying, Bianca?”
Snapping out of her thoughts, Hermione answered smoothly, “With Severus Snape. I’m sure you know him. Draco tells me your husband and he are great friends.”
Narcissa nodded. “Yes, I know him very well. His is a friend of mine, too. I assume Draco is staying there with you? Severus is, after all, Draco’s mentor, his godfather.”
“Mother,” Draco said in a warning voice, and Narcissa turned her gaze on him coolly.
“Bianca has a right to know-”
“-what I tell her she is allowed to know,” Draco finished for her. “Excuse me, Bianca, but my mother seems to have taken such a liking to you that she has forgotten her place.”
Narcissa looked as Hermione had never seen her. Her beauty appeared deflated somehow, and Hermione suddenly remembered who these people were. They were beautiful, yes, but under the pretense, under manners and expensive things, lurked decay and wickedness Hermione could never imagine.
Looking as if she might cry or scream, Narcissa was excused from saying or doing anything by the appearance of Tonks, Snape, and surprisingly, Lucius. The Malfoy patriarch had bought his way out of Azkaban months ago, and with the new Minister of Magic in his pocket, had managed to extricate several other key Death Eaters along with him.
“Bianca,” Tonks greeted regally as Snape smiled viciously (as only he could) at her side. “We thought we’d lost you, didn’t we Severus?”
“Indeed,” Snape replied, his voice nasal but suave. He was in his element, and Hermione could tell he was really enjoying himself. “I felt sure that Draco had stolen you away from us for the whole evening.” At this, he glared pointedly at Draco, who gave him the minutest of shrugs. Hermione recognized that Snape had been covertly chastising Draco for allowing them to separate, but the blond didn’t seem to think it was important.
Lucius chose this slight lull in the conversation to speak up, apparently unable to be ignored any longer. “Bianca, is it?” Hermione curtsied, suppressing a smile. “I have just met your mother. I hope that you are as charming as she, though I see now that you acquired her good looks.” He grinned rather mischievously, popping his cane into the air like an exclamation point. It vanished on its way back with a sound like snapping fingers, then he turned his shining silver eyes to hers. She felt him trying to penetrate her mind, and formed a mental blockade. She allowed herself to smile then, courteously, as if politely embarrassed for him at his brazen behavior. “Would you like to dance, Bianca?”
Hermione was taken aback at this. Dance? With him? “If your wife-”
“Oh, she won’t mind,” Lucius cut in, taking her gloved hand in his and practically dragging her to the middle of the hall. She heard Draco ask his mother for a dance, then saw Tonks roll her eyes and tug Snape’s hand discreetly toward the dance floor, then she lost sight of them. The three pairs spun in circles then like falling flowers, keeping time in their complicated dance steps.
Lucius had danced Hermione conveniently out of earshot of the others, steering her away from more couples who joined them. “So,” Hermione began, attempting to make conversation, remember steps, and maintain the wall in her mind all at that same time, “what is it that you do for a living?”
Seemingly at ease, Lucius looked over her head, scanning the crowd lazily before answering her question. After a while, he said “A little of this, a little of that. Real estate, business, you know. Boring stuff.”
“I do not think it is possible for you to bore me, sir.” She smiled sweetly, but meant every word.
“Oh, no. You don’t want to hear about that,” Lucius insisted haughtily, and Hermione pressed her advantage. His guard was down; he thought she was just some prudish bonbon for him to use. Then, quickly, so fast she wasn’t sure she’d actually done it, she probed his mind as he’d done hers. A flash of white light mingling with a silver something sprang to her mind, but it was gone almost before she could see it. She spent the next few moments building up her barrier so he could not retaliate. In fact, he was so shocked at her actions his simpering attitude had completely disappeared.
“I think it is unwise for us to underestimate each other, sir,” Hermione whispered, holding his gaze. For several more long seconds they simply danced, then Lucius’ mouth broke into a wide grin and his piercing eyes softened with laughter.
“You are a fascinating little creature, aren’t you?” he chortled, “I can see why Draco likes you.” They continued their whirling and rhythm, Hermione letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “But, my dear Bianca, you should know that legilimency is not a toy, and some minds are worth more than others.”
“How much is your mind worth, Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione asked in her most roguish voice.
Lucius only leered at her, and Hermione finished the song with a pretty pirouette. They bowed to each other, and Lucius found his way to Narcissa, passing Draco coming toward her as he went.
“Care to dance?” Draco snaked his arm around her, and whirled her off around the floor again. They danced the whole song, until they were both practically gasping for air. Hermione felt a hundred eyes on her, and basked in the glory of her victory. She had done superbly on her own; everyone was very impressed by her good breeding, her sharp wit and cool intellectualism. Draco decoded for her all the nuances in his friends’ words and actions (“Yes, Goyle’s a git, but the rest were watching to see how you’d react, and you did beautifully”) and expressed concern then praise for her when she told him of her encounter with Lucius. Draco reminded her to focus on Pansy’s crowd, as Lucius was not likely to simply invite her to a Death Eater meeting.
It was good then, that the young people were impressed by her. Through them she would meet their parents and slip into British pureblood society as easily as a snake into a henhouse. She would hear their troubles, learn their secrets, prove herself to them a hundred times over. And all with Draco by her side. It was possible; she could do this. All the fright had drained from her to be replaced by calm control.
Then the song ended with a flourish and Draco dipped her back. She felt the muscles in his arm tighten against her back as he held her, and his free hand found the soft skin of her shoulder, then her neck. And then he kissed her right there on the dance floor. It was feather-light and razor-soft, the purest emotion to ever brush against her lips, and a wave of shock rippled through her though she did not stop him.
She was upright and being led toward the crowd around the peripheral of the dance hall before she knew what was happening. She couldn’t breath or speak. She nodded to those around her, a part of her still conscious of her duty as Bianca be discreet and amiable. He guided her through, making introductions where necessary or stopping briefly to speak, but continued on until they were behind the throng. Ahead was a pair of French doors, which opened onto a veranda as they neared them, then closed once they’d gone through, leaving them in semi-darkness. Draco turned to face her, worry etched into his handsome features.
“Bianca,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her gently. “Bianca, are you ok?” Hermione understood now his concern. She heard her ragged breathing, became aware of how dizzy she was, how unsteady.
“I think the dancing-” she began, but the room was reeling. She felt cold sweat seeping through the skin on her forehead and her chest. She was fainting, losing herself.
“Stop it. Listen to my voice, and stay with me. Can you hear me? Bianca?” Hermione nodded weakly, slipping. “Hermione,” he whispered, but she had blacked out.

*Chapter 7*: Awake

New ending to this chapter, as I was informed it was rather lame...
Oops.

Thanks to Amanda for all her hard work as beta. She puts up with a lot. Yay!

***********


Hermione sat bolt upright, her head reeling from the rush of blood, but she didn't care. Where was she? The bed beneath her was soft, inviting and, Hermione realized, completely unfamiliar. She was wearing a nightgown, but it didn't feel anything like her own clothing. It was long and loose, broad around the shoulders with a silk ribbon tie. Heavy curtains on the huge window hid the time from her, but she could tell from a crack between the thick cotton panels that it was still night. How long had she been here? Fingertips tingling and mind racing, she tried to remember what had happened. She recalled hearing her name, whispered in the dark, and candlelight through window panes.
A movement to her left caught her attention, and she reached for a wand that wasn't there. The shadows seemed to shift like a velvety black cloak over the figure as it came closer. She felt the heat of breath exhaled somewhere close. Panic began to rise in her. She didn’t like the idea of some stranger watching her in the darkened room.
Blond hair caught what little light there was in the room. "Draco?" Hermione tested. Gray eyes flashed, and she relaxed a little.
“I’m here,” he murmured, moving away again as he spoke. He was sitting in a chair that had been pulled up next to the bed, Hermione realized. Then again, for all she knew, that chair had always been there.
“Where the sodding hell is ‘here?’” she asked, glancing blindly around the room before resting her eyes again on Draco. Her expression was sharp, expectant, though she knew he couldn’t see her properly.
“Home. For me, at least. Snape said it was not the best idea to apparate you until you were conscious.”
“So I’m… at the manor, still?”
Draco sighed, fidgeting again, and though she could not see him, she felt him fighting against things he wanted to say. “Yes,” he said finally. “In a guest bedroom.”
She pushed her hair out of her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. She felt straight locks slide smoothly through her fingers like strands of silk, nothing like her normal bushy curls. She registered the way her face felt, how soft her skin was, the shape of her nose, the fullness of her lips. She was Bianca. She remembered how.
“What happened? I fainted, didn’t I?” Hermione felt her cheeks burning.
“I think so,” Draco said. She felt him get up, and move away. Then the curtains opened, just a little, enough to splash the last remnants of moonlight onto the bed. The night was silver-tinted, blue-black like before the dawn. He was still in his dress robes. So it must still be the night of the party, or in the early morning after it, Hermione thought. “You were acting very strange after we danced, all “you-ness” aside, so I took you outside to get you some fresh air, get you away from everyone for a minute, then you just fell forward onto me and fainted.” He was pacing now.
Hermione raised her eyebrow. She thought that Draco might have oversimplified the situation a little, but didn’t say anything. Then it came to her. The kiss. She frowned. She was sure that she wasn’t so delicate that a kiss would cause her to faint, but maybe… “You kissed me.”
“Well, yeah, but I thought you could handle a kiss. I didn’t know I was so irresistible that you would faint because-”
“That can’t be why I collapsed,” Hermione said absently, chewing her lip, her mind racing for the answer. She felt as if solution was right on the edge of her mind, but she couldn’t make herself think it.
“Why not?” Draco stopped walking the little path back and forth in front of the window, indignant, though Hermione failed to notice.
“Because it wasn’t that magnificent. Really Draco, you should get over yourself,” said Hermione, preoccupied. She was so used to insulting him that it came automatically, but Draco didn’t have time to poise a proper pout on his face before Hermione was apologizing. “Oh hell, Draco, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…” He didn’t look sated. “It was a great kiss, Draco, really.”
Then he was laughing at her. “Calm down, Bianca. I won’t hold it against you.”
Her thoughts rounded on her then, and the tiniest voice asked the simplest, most awful question. It filled her, booming into the farthest corners of her body until her hands shook with the echoes. It grew louder and louder until finally Hermione blurted out, “Why did you kiss me?” Draco looked nonplused. “I mean,” she said, babbling now and blushing again, “was it to keep up appearances or-”
“Bianca, now is not the time,” he said, sitting again, avoiding her eyes.
She calmed herself, struggling to keep all the words that were bursting to flood from her dammed up. Another, less girlish question came forward then.
“Why did I pass out, then, since we’ve established you had nothing to do with it?”
“We’re ruling out the kiss? Too bad,”
“Yes, well, aside from your bloody ego-”
“I believe I can answer this question, Draco,” hissed a voice. It came from a pitch black corner of the room, next to big lumps of shadow Hermione assumed were furniture. Out of the dim, Snape emerged, also still dressed in his robes from the night before, and just as sour-faced as ever, and Hermione shivered in spite of herself. Snape’s mere presence in a room seemed to make it colder. “Ms. Ciucur has finally asked a question worth answering,” he said, sneering. “I have asked it myself since I was summoned here from the ball. Draco told Nicoleta and I about your… condition, and we came at once. I kept Narcissa from calling St. Mungo’s. I told her I could heal you, and I have. For now.”
“‘For now’? Care to explain that?” Hermione retorted, eyes narrowed, new panic clutching at her. She pulled the sheets against her, feeling much like a dying hospital patient.
“No, actually. Not aloud, at least.” He caught her gaze and held it from across the room, then Hermione heard, not with her ears, but with her mind, “To speak it would give away too much. Better to tell you here, where it is safe. Legilimency is a useful tool, you know.”
“You sound like Lucius,” Hermione thought, willing Snape to hear her through the link in their minds.
“Maybe. But then, we are friends, aren’t we? As I was saying, I did all I could to help you, but I do not think it will be enough.”
“I fainted. I was just tired from dancing or something-”
“No, Ms. Granger. You know better. You know what has happened to you has nothing to do with the ball. Molly informed me that you were lightheaded at Headquarters even before training began. I believe you are smart enough to know the difference between what you claim to have felt last night and a real and serious illness.”
“So what’s bloody wrong with me, then?” Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed in exasperation, but she did not break eye contact. She heard Draco change his position in the chair, annoyed at being left out, but didn’t acknowledge him.
“Your mind is rejecting your new body, Ms .Granger. I can sense it, even in the short time I have been in this room. I should have noticed it before, that distress you couldn’t understand because it was within your own mind. Lucius must have felt it, too. He views it only as an unusually good blockade into your thoughts and memories, but that block is there for you, too, isn’t it?”
Hermione searched within herself, reviewing her memories, trying to find proof that this wasn’t true. But it was. She didn’t have a clear picture of herself before the charms changed her, and most of her memories had altered themselves to include the Bianca-body instead of Hermione. Details of her life flickered disconcertingly in and out of her awareness like the light of a dying candle, sputtering.
“You are dying because the bulk of your mind refuses to accept what we will call ‘Bianca,’ and yet Bianca is insinuating herself in small ways, ways that won’t be noticed until you can’t conceive of noticing them because they are such a part of you. It would be like noticing for the first time that your hair is brown, or your heart is beating. So now you are cutting yourself off from…” He seemed to struggle with the wording. All of this was so difficult to understand. “Your self.” In Hermione’s opinion, this did not simplify anything. “If the rest of you does not accept Bianca, your new self, then you will die.” That Hermione grasped. She would die if she didn’t allow Bianca, this new person within her that was her to take over. But she couldn’t ‘take over’ because she was already…her.
She broke eye contact with Snape, cutting him off from her thoughts, and Hermione felt the most stunning sense of anguish. Terror rippled through her like the shock waves of a tsunami. Everything that she defined as her, Hermione, would be gone. But it must still be there, she thought, because it was a part of her already. Like Bianca. Bianca the supremacist, the elegant pureblood flatterer, the vain, cunning young woman with no soul and very little heart. Could she do it?
Hermione tried to think, her head bowing as if in prayer, her eyes closed and fluttering like a seizure. She partitioned her mind, the part of her she thought of as Bianca, and tried to stamp it out. It fought back. She felt her toes curl, her bones bending violently within her body. The message was clear: I can hurt you; I can make you squirm.
Hermione convulsed in spite of herself; she gagged on the pain. Then she nodded, and the agony inside her went away. But Bianca had must have been in pain as well, Hermione reasoned, even if she didn’t show it. Hermione felt determination that was not her own- and yet was- swell within her in response to the thought. Bianca would fight. And win. They both knew Hermione would lose the battle either way. She could reject Bianca and die, or accept her and allow everything she knew to be shoved into the farthest reaches of her mind.
Calm swept over her. It was clear what she had to do.
She would welcome Bianca. She would live. She had to, or what good was she?
Hermione felt conversely like singing and throwing up. She supposed this was the happiness from ‘Bianca’ and the rage and confusion from ‘Hermione.’ She chose to ignore her nausea, pushing it away like an offensive plate of food, and instead embraced the bliss that was bubbling up from her stomach. It was euphoria, freedom as she had never known, yet it had always been there. It was the other side of the tall, insurmountable wall. She, Bianca, regained control of her glee almost at once, but the freedom stayed on, boiling like felix felicis. She raised her head to look at the two men she had almost forgotten were there. They were staring at her in amazement, dumbfounded. When she made eye contact with Snape he tried to see within her, but she brushed him aside easily. Her cool blue eyes found Draco, and didn’t leave him from a long moment. His hair was tickling the end of his handsome nose; his mouth was parted, as if he would speak.
She smiled. It was a delicate, slightly patronizing sort of smile, Bianca’s smile.
“Thank you, Snape,” she said sweetly, turning again to the tall, shadowy man across the room. “That was most informative.”
She gazed past him to the bedchamber at large. As she watched, dawn reached its fingers through the curtains, illuminating for the first time the full extent of the room. It was huge, with walls of dark paneled oak and hardwood floors. The hulking pieces of furniture matched the walls, and their curvy, carved drawers and big silver fixtures were shockingly ornate. The bedclothes were blood-red, deeper than the Gryffindor red to which the smallest part of her had been accustomed, and creamy white. She relaxed.
“Where is my wand, Draco?” she asked, reaching out a delicate hand and touching Draco’s folded arm.
“I-” he started.
“My wand?”
“Oh,” he procured it from an inside pocket and handed it over.
“Thank you,” she said imperiously.
“Ms. Ciucur, I think it would be best for you to stay in bed for the day, just to recuperate a bit-”
“I will do no such thing,” she snapped, whipping the covers from her lower body. She swung her toned legs over the side of the bed closest to Draco, her nightie bunching up around her thighs, and felt his eyes rake over bare skin. She stood up, soft fabric tickling the tops of her feet. “I think you should both leave now. I would like to change, please.” Snape stood frozen, infuriated at this disobedience, then turned his back on her and strode from the room.
Draco got to his feet, his body almost unbearably close to hers for just a moment. “See you,” he said rather lamely, breaking the tension, then followed Snape out.

*Chapter 8*: She

Hi Kids! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Harry Potter, as I'm sure you all know, just came out, so I kind of put everything on hold for that. This version is virtually unedited, so please be kind and expect grammatical or spelling fixes, as well as possibly some content updates. Those are always good. :) Sorry to everyone who has to keep going back and rereading chapters for those content updates, but I keep thinking of more stuff that needs to go in previous chapters. What can I say?
Thank you to the lovely Amanda once again for your help.

*****

The door shut with a dull hard-wood thud, and Draco and Snape stood just outside of it. After a moment, Snape returned the wand he had surreptitiously drawn back into his cloak pocket.
“I must inform the Order,” he murmured. Turning on his heel, he swept down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight. Draco stayed, resting his shoulder on the doorframe, wondering what exactly he had just witnessed. It couldn’t have been what it looked like. Hermione always had complete control of herself. She was loyal; she was pure and good and self-righteous to a fault. Whatever was wrong with her would out, he was sure of it. He shook thoughts of her from his mind. Maybe the transfigurement charms hadn’t been such a clever idea.
Then it came to him. Of course, the transfigurement charms! They were the cause of this mess. He would go to his father’s library and research them later. First, though, he wanted speak with his mother.
He found her in her parlor, entertaining her sister Bellatrix LeStrange, Mrs. Parkinson, and Tonks. His gaze lingered on his aunt for just a moment. The murderer. Not so unlike me, he thought, then let the words fade, pushed away for the time being. It was surreal to see them again, these whispering, semi-insane women he had once known so well. His mother, too, was a stranger. She alone was the angel trapped with these peons of the Dark Lord, and yet she submitted to him as well. We are all guilty of loving or hating too much.
“Mother,” he said in the doorway. The four women jumped, and eight bright eyes stole away from the conversation to stare at him. “May I speak with you privately?” It was a nicety. She had little choice in the matter, truthfully. When a Death Eater called, you came. Like a dog, he thought. It was not always thus. He remembered his beautiful mother in his youth, fawning over him, but always with a slanted smile, as if she knew it would never last. His father, for all his faults, had never deprived her of Draco’s company. Yet, before last night, it had been a year since they had seen each other. Before he could join the Order, he was made to prove himself, and before he could be an asset, he had had to return to the dark side. It was his mother who had vouched for him. Snape too, but all the time from the Dark Lord’s side, not at Draco’s own. Draco had not been conscious of his mother’s love until that moment, standing before the Dark Lord, pleading for his life. It was risky. It was a miracle he was still alive. Snape had insisted that he needed an assistant with Wormtail dead, and that Draco would be useful as a spy as well. Then he had to pretend to be accepted into the Order. It was all very confusing. He wasn’t sure he even understood it.
Draco had not thought either side would accept him. He was prepared to die. But his mother, with Severus, had saved his life. And Hermione, with Severus again, was his saving grace with the Order just weeks before.
Another time.
His mother had come out of the parlor and directed him to an adjacent room. She closed the door. “What is it, Draco?” she asked, looking worried as she turned to face him.
“I wonder if you have invited the Ciucurs to stay at the Manor for the duration of their visit?”
“Of course, dear.”
“And have you spoken with Severus about Bianca’s condition?”
“There is no change?” A look of concern passed over his mother’s face.
Draco avoided answering her directly. He had to maintain that it was none of her business. “We are not sure what is wrong with her, but I expect her to be well soon.”
“Her mother is delightful. Pricilla says so as well.” Draco did not think that Pansy’s mother was any judge of character, but he did not comment. “This is all good news after all. Does Bianca wish to keep her current room?”
“I will ask her. Nicoleta is staying as well, then?”
“She has told me she will stay until Bianca is in better health, then she will return to Severus’ home. Severus is a lucky man, I think.” She was probing. It would be unlike his mother to be disinterested in the affairs of others, though, and as Severus was unmarried and Nicoleta was a “widow,” it made sense that there was talk of a romance.
Draco eyed his mother, mock-disapproval written on his features. “Clever, mother, but I’m not saying a word. Let them come out with it in their own time.”
She curtsied almost imperceptibly. “Then, may I return to my guests?”
“Of course,” he said, and kissed her cheek. He watched her go. So their place in the Manor was secured, and Tonks would aid Severus in being a link to the Order. From now on, he and Hermione would be mostly cut off. He let himself out of the room through another door looking down the long hallway to which it led. He started toward the library. It was on the other side of the house, near his room.
Then they came to his mind, memories unbidden: the smell of her hair, how it felt in his hands, her breath on his cheek that sent shivers down his spine and prickled the back of his neck. She was fire, rushing through him, ice on his skin, melting slowly, burning. His face reddened, and his pace quickened. He didn’t have time to think of the past now. It would take all of his attention to focus on the present, let alone the future. But there it was again: her laugh, her smile, and none of it for him. He had watched her, had seen her brilliance, her wit, but she had belonged to Ron. And now she belonged to nobody, but she was someone else.
The double doors of the library stood before him. “Alohomora,” he said, and they parted to gain him entrance. As he walked down the center aisle, searching for the book he wanted, he thought of her in the dusty library of Hogwarts. It was brighter there, and less lonely. He could just see her seated at the long study table, stacks of books nearly hiding her completely, pouring over some ancient tome that would give her the answers she wanted. Books never failed her; they always told their secrets.
He came to it: Beauty Charms by Quintessence Martin. He suspected his father might have bought it with his mother in mind, seeing the light pink cover and baby’s breath scent. Draco slid the book from it’s place and sat in a near-by chair. He found what he was looking for in the index and flipped through the pages until he came to it.

Transfigurement Charms, Permanent
Made famous by Cleopatra VII, permanent transfigurement charms have a reputation for being a fast and effective way to change one’s appearance. Within the bounds of the wizarding fashion industry, transfigurement charms are common to remove blemishes and shrink over-large noses. Permanent charms, though less conventional and rarely publicized, have enjoyed a new vogue within the last fifty years thanks to Claudia Rosenshawk, a famous witch whose copious permanent transfigurement charms made her so unrecognizable that she was often mistaken for somebody else. Nevertheless, her popularity spawned widespread transfigurement charms to be preformed by amateurs (often ending in disaster), though now many private healers are well-trained in the arts of transfigurement charms. Indeed, many make their living as experts in the field.
Aurors, among other members of the Ministry of Magic, are required to learn these handy spells as well. Permanent transfigurement charms, despite the beliefs of many, may cause an array of side effects, ranging from minor soreness at the site of the charm to insanity. Habitual users have complained of a nagging sensation or of a feeling that they have forgotten something important. Rare cases of major charm-work done in a short period of time, however, have created alternate personalities or caused paralysis. These risks are often taken gladly, however, since well-performed permanent transfigurement charms continue on as a popular quick-fix for the imperfect witch or wizard.


Brilliant, he thought, slamming the book shut on his lap. He had never been more frustrated at the Order. Had any of them bothered to crack a book on permanent transfigurement charms at all before just slapping about a hundred on Hermione? No. Instead they trusted some crackpot article in Witch Weekly with Hermione’s life. Now she had an “alternate personality,” the worst symptom, and it was trying to take over her body. Maybe it already had. It was the most surreal thing Draco could think of; two head-strong women battling or something inside of one body did not sound good. And Bianca wasn’t exactly Order material. In fact, she was almost as bad as Draco’s father. She was the ultimatum that could pull this mission apart. She was a liability, dangerous. If he didn’t do something, she would almost certainly compromise the operation. Then they’d all be at the Dark Lord’s mercy, and that wasn’t all too promising.
Leaving Beauty Charms in the armchair, Draco strode out of the library to find Severus.


***

Bianca leaned on the wall to the right of the doorway, a smile simmering on her lips and her fingernails scratching the wall excitedly. A secret conversation between Severus and Lucius? Too good to pass up. She listened, their voices hollow through the door.
“…want, Severus? I am eager to hear your position,”
“It would presumptuous to kill them so soon. We are not even sure of her whereabouts. She may not find out for weeks, months even.”
“True. I suppose LeStrange gets a little carried away.” Bianca’s smile broadened as she remembered the black-haired witch from the night before. There was something wild about her, something like fire, that made Bianca shudder.
Shudder?
Bianca let the back of her head rest against the cool stone wall, brushing aside the urge as the discussion inside continued.
“Her parents, you said? Why them?”
“They are easy targets, of course, but that is not all. The muggle aspect would greatly further our cause. The parents of a famous mudblood? It’s perfect publicity.”
“Does the Dark Lord-”
“No. We thought we’d tell him at the meeting tonight.” Lucius’ voice was excited, eager.
“Fool!” Bianca heard angry footsteps and the swishing of cloaks. “The Dark Lord already knows of your plan. He sees all, knows all. It is clumsy of you to forget such a simple fact.”
“Have you spoken with him-”
“On this subject? Not extensively. The mudblood’s parents are of very little interest to the Dark Lord. While Ms. Granger may have an emotional attachment to these muggles, there are some of more consequence who are much more likely to stand in our way.”
“But none more potently disarming than the Grangers-” Bianca heard no more. She was retching on the floor now, though she could not think why. Her slim legs had folded themselves beneath her where she stood. Her eyes were rolling, and the room spun terribly. The calm, smooth demeanor fought against this new thing, or so it seemed to Bianca, that was clawing at her from within. Tears welled up in her eyes. A sob broke her lips, though her mouth was still arranged in a smile. Her graceful hands pounded the floor, a crude, brutal gesture that could not be her own, and yet it was.
Bianca was vaguely aware of the two men looming over her now. “She must have been sleep-walking,” came Severus’ hissing tones. “No one has been in to wake her this morning.”
“Draco was with her earlier, I know. He finds her fascinating.”
“He left before she woke up. He said so when I spoke to him before my short errand home.”
“What is happening to her?”
“I don’t know.”

*Chapter 9*: Between

Thank you to everyone who has waited like... forever to continue with this story. :) Here it is, the next chapter of Silhouette, and with your encouragement, hopefully there will be many more to come.
***


Bianca stared disinterestedly into the sky where six broomsticks soared high above. The figures were just barely distinguishable on the darting brooms, their hair color and approximate build being the only things she could easily discern from the leaded glass atrium in which she sat. The walls and ceiling were spotlessly transparent panes with one door leading outside, sectioned off by thin, pinewood beams that matched the wood of the furniture grouped in the center of the room. The atrium butted up against the manor on the east end. The long wall adjoining the atrium to the manor house at large was set apart by two sets of wide French doors and covered in beautiful tiffany stained glass depicting fields of vivid wild irises with luminous, smoky purple mountains in the background.
Ahead of her through the glass was a sprawling green lawn eventually ending in a thick line of trees. Malfoy Manor was positioned on a hill and overlooked a small village from this side, all thatched roofs and patchwork farmland. Stonehenge could be seen from the west wing, where her room was located, and Bianca preferred that view to this quaint, picturesque one. Still, sunlight poured into the room from overhead, the heat of the day extinguishing itself before it reached Bianca’s pale skin according to a clever bit of charm work within the atrium, and she didn’t particularly mind the comfortable lounges upholstered in light sea foam green and salmon floral patterns or stripes, a typical rococo theme, accented with ornate, spindly pinewood and gold tables dotted around.
There was no doubt it was a beautiful room, definitely one of Narcissa’s many retreats scattered about the estate, and that Bianca looked beautiful in it. She wore a milky white sun dress that gathered around her thighs in layered confection, it‘s neckline cutting across her collarbones to gather at her shoulders, pastel lavender footless tights, and strappy royal blue high heels. She seemed as though she belonged there with her high fashion and aloof demeanor. She seemed as though she couldn’t be real. Too striking, too detached from the finery of her surroundings, too refined.
The broomsticks hovered lower now, and distant shouting could be heard. Bianca looked away from the aerial scene and became aware again of the chattering, insipid young woman to her right. Pansy was prattling on about Tracey-something’s surprise engagement to an apparently unsatisfactory former Ravenclaw. “…Though, I suppose I’d sooner accept a Ravenclaw than a Hufflepuff, or worse, a Gryffindor. Could you imagine?”
Bianca registered that a question has been asked of her, and she brought her long-lashed, cold grays to meet Pansy’s deep brown eyes. “No, I can’t. I never went to Hogwarts.”
Pansy flushed at her lapse of competence, but regained her composure quickly. “Where did you go to school, Bianca?”
Bianca could tell Pansy was interested, but she said, indolently as ever, “I attended The Salem Academy.”
It was obvious that Pansy had heard of the institution. She leaned in conspiratorially, nearly whispering, “Is it true that Gabriel Williams went to Salem Academy?” Gabriel Williams was a famous American wizard, the lead singer of a wildly popular rock band called the Black Cats. Bianca didn’t miss a beat, and smiled vaguely.
“He was in my class. If I recall correctly-- and I do-- he can trace his ancestry back to where it stems off from the Black family in the sixteenth century.”
Pansy looked envious, her brown eyes flashing greedily. “Aren’t they on tour, the Black Cats, I mean? They’re coming to England, aren’t they? Could you introduce me to Gabriel, Bianca?” Bianca seemed to take this request into consideration, pleasantly dangling this morsel over Pansy’s head for several long moments.
“I suppose I could owl him.”
The Slytherin’s satisfied smile was genuine as she took Bianca’s hand into hers. “Let’s be best friends, Bianca.”
But Bianca was watching as the six young men carrying broomsticks sidled up to the side door of the atrium. “Of course,” she replied just as the door opened and Nott, a smug grin fixed handsomely on his face, strutted inside, followed closely by Draco, Pucey, Goyle, and two men to whom Bianca had not yet been introduced.
Pansy’s demeanor went from one of rather transparent eagerness and voracity to that of a mildly interested, spoiled cat. She did not turn around to look at the sweaty, wind-whipped bunch at her back, but instead lounged back into the chaise on which she was perched, one of her arms snaking seductively, languidly above her head and the other stifling a yawn that had not been there before. Her powder pink, silken dress draped over her prettily, catching the light, and her long brown hair fell elegantly around her shoulders.
“The victorious few!” Nott announced, propping his Nimbus 2001 against a pouf and sweeping over the Bianca. Before she could prevent it, he had taken her hand in his and brought it to his lips with a flourish. He pulled her forward off of the chaise and spun her, catching her lithe form in a low dip. Bianca followed his lead with grace, but the look on her face was mingled amusement and disapproval. “My dear,” he said, twirling her into a normal upright position with the dexterity of a professional dancer and leaning in close, “you are stunning today.”
“As I am every day,” Bianca cooed, not bothering to lower her voice, then turned her attention to a bored-looking Pansy. “Shall we?” Pansy took the hand Bianca offered her and stood up, and together they made as if to leave. This gesture was met with immediate disapproval by all of the men present.
Draco stepped in their path. “Bianca, have you met Montague and Harper?” The two newcomers, or at least new to Bianca- made curt bows to her. Even in sweaty quidditch robes and the air of youthful electricity, the old niceties had to be acknowledged.
Bianca curtsied curtly. “A pleasure, I’m sure, however-”
She was interrupted by Nott, who came up from her right to join the group again. “You are coming to dinner, aren’t you?” He had been speaking to Bianca, but when Pansy gave him a look of deep resentment, he added, “Both of you?” and grinned sheepishly.
Bianca sensed jealousy from more than one person in the room, however. A covert glance at Draco told her that Nott was giving her much more attention that he liked. She decided to use this to her advantage. “If I may accompany you, I would be delighted, Theodore.” Nott looked blind-sided, but purebloods have a way of recovering superbly from social blows.
“It would be my sincerest pleasure,” and then he bowed to her and kissed her hand again, and Bianca left the room trailed by Pansy without another look at Draco.
Bianca walked with Pansy to the front door, where after promising to introduce her to Gabriel Williams, Pansy apparated back to the Parkinson Estate outside of London to get ready for the night’s festivities. Bianca made her way alone through the corridors of Malfoy Manor, not meeting anyone between the entrance hall and the hallway leading to her room. She thought on how easily the seemingly emotionless and supercilious Slytherins were manipulated, and ran over in her head everything she had learned about Nott through Draco and Pansy over the past week. He was a clever boy, not necessarily a part of Draco’s gang, but a close friend of Draco’s nonetheless. His father was a Death Eater. He was ambitious, often assuming the rules did not apply to him. He barely adhered to the etiquette of pureblood society, not wishing to be told what to do by those he considered equals, not betters. Draco could not control him, maybe he even envied him. Bianca liked Nott more and more because of how she could use him. He was a challenge. Dinner would be interesting.
She opened the door of her bedroom and noted immediately without comment or even a physical response that Draco was standing near her bed looking out of breath and angry. She ignored him, went to her chest of drawers, and began taking off her earrings and necklace, letting the door shut lightly behind her.
“What do you think you are doing?” Draco demanded, taking a few steps toward her heatedly.
Bianca did not face him; she did not raise her voice as he had. “What does it look like I am doing?” she sat on a stool at her nearby vanity and stretched out her leg to remove one of her shoes, then the other.
Draco stared at her. “I assumed you were going with me to dinner. I assumed you realized how pivotal it was that we keep up appearances. I suppose I was wrong.” Bianca was busily rolling the tights down her legs.
“You did not ask me to dinner, Theodore did. Would it be wrong for me to assert that you are jealous, Draco?” She took her wand from the vanity, pointing it at her back and undoing the buttons that bound the high-necked, cropped-short dress to her. It slid down her shoulders a little, revealing bare, pale skin and immaculate collarbones. She turned her back on him and padded to the armoire, opening it to choose a dress for that evening.
She heard his footsteps behind her, felt his presence, the heat of his body, but left it unacknowledged. “Would it matter if I was?” came the deep-throated reply from somewhere behind her left shoulder. Then he touched her, grazed his fingers over the exposed flesh of her back, tracing the line of her shoulder blade up to the nape of her neck.
“No,” she whispered, suddenly struggling to keep her composure. A need washed over her such as she’d never felt before. A part of her insisted release, and she whirled around to face him, her elegant hands shaking as they found his chest, still a little damp with sweat from quidditch, but she didn’t care. She moved up his chest to his neck, and pulled him close to her. “Yes,” she said as her lips met his for a second time, hungry and aching. She felt his arms encircling her lower back as he lifted her into the air and over to the bed, their kisses deepening with each step. Gently, he lowered her onto that deep crimson comforter, his knee propped up between her legs, her white dress contrasting beautifully, her black hair spreading like oil behind her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her as he ran his lips over her jaw line and the angles of her neck.
“Hermione,” he half-whispered, half-growled against her clavicle, nibbling the sensitive skin over the bone.
But inside her head, Bianca was waging war. She fought against the powerful force, the will that she had almost forgotten in the week that had elapsed since her fainting spell when Snape and Lucius had found her slumped against the wall. The Draco boy was making it worse. Her head felt as though it would split open, although with pain or pleasure, she could not tell.
Bianca shoved Draco hard away from her, and he staggered backward into the wall. She wanted to scream. Draco looked completely nonplussed. “Get out!” She ordered through gritted teeth.
“I-” He did not look ready to leave. He looked shocked, bordering on outraged.
Bianca gained more control. “Leave me!”
His silver eyes flashed venomously, and he straightened himself against the wall, then turned and walked to the door. “Fine. See you at dinner.” She didn’t even bother to answer him, and he shut the door rather harder than was necessary.
Bianca collapsed on the bed, unbidden tears falling, shock waves rolling through her entire body as the feeling of rebellion inside her head resided. This would simply not do.
All the same, as she magicked her hair up into a messy bun for dinner a few minutes later, she thought she saw a look in her eyes-- something soft and pleading-- that she definitely didn’t like.

*Chapter 10*: Without

The tiny kitchen was packed with members of the Order, their faces illuminated by twenty or so fat candles places intermittently on the spotless counters and at the center of the gigantic dining room table in the middle of the room. Each person wore an expression of eagerness, worried and anticipating the long-awaited news. A patronus, almost wolfish in appearance, sat at one end of the table, its stunted tail dragging slowly like smoke over the dark wood. Another, a petit doe-form, stood nearby, impatiently pawing the floor with its cloven hoof.

Lupin entered the room, skirting around George and Fred to an empty seat across from the waiting patronuses. He looked concerned, older, weighed down with the immense responsibilities of leadership, but his eyes were sharp and focused as he regarded the incandescent figures opposite him.

A ghostly voice broke the tension. It came from the deer patronus, but it was decisively Snape’s sneering drawl, echoing harshly around the silent kitchen. “Lupin, so nice of you to join us.” The doe stepped forward a little, closer to the werewolf patronus.

“I came as soon as I could,” Lupin replied calmly, his words measured, without passion.

“What’s going on, Severus?” Molly blurted, and her hand clenched around her cup of tea, knuckles white, her green eyes wide. Ron’s face flinched practically imperceptivity, his thoughts on the woman he had allowed to leave him.

“The news is not so good as we had hoped,” the deer began, but the other patronus shook its mane-like back as if shuddering, and cut in.

“Hermione is… well, she’s not Hermione.” It seemed to have trouble explaining the situation and trailed off, looking once again for the doe to speak.

“Hermione had been compromised. Her use is cursory at best now, unless her condition improves.” Molly broke out in sobs, and Ron and Ginny moved quickly to her side to comfort her.

“It’s all my fault!” she cried, her voice muffled by her knit woolen sleeves as she attempted to wipe the tears from her reddened cheeks.

“Molly, I helped too,” the werewolf patronus said cajolingly.

“We all did,” said Lupin.

“No,” Ron snapped suddenly, “no. Hermione chose to have the charms placed on her. She may not have known the consequences, but then none of us did. It’s nobody’s fault. Hermione is brave, she’s a hero to have undertaken this mission. Even with out the side-effects of the spell it was dangerous, and she knew that. Don’t-”

“Enough, Weasley. Time is short, and we can’t afford to waste it with your bold orations, correct though they may be,” interrupted the doe patronus, digging into the floor again with its hoof. “We must accept Hermione’s present state and move forward. Nothing can be done for her at this point in time.”

“Where are Hermione and Draco now?” asked Lupin. His voice had an edge to it, and he spoke now to Tonk’s patronus.

“They are at dinner with Draco’s old Slytherin gang. I don’t know when they’ll be back at the Manor.”

There was a pause, then Lupin spoke again. “Do you think it’s safe for Hermione to be alone with those people? She’s not stable.”

“There’s not much we can do to stop her, Remus.” The werewolf patronus fidgeted, its sad, luminous eyes boring to Lupin’s.

“Just be careful, then. Watch her.”

“We did not risk this conference to have you order us to do something so plainly obvious.”

“Why did you, in that case, Snape?” It was George. He seemed incensed.

“The Death Eaters are planning an attack on the ministry. There is a meeting tonight to induct Tonks, then it will happen. Sometime soon.” There was a roaring hush. Nobody moved, Molly’s tears welled up again, but she did not make a noise. The Order was failing, the Death Eaters were getting stronger.

Lupin stood up. “Find out when. Molly, contact Arthur at the ministry and tell him. I’ll tell Kingsley tonight when he comes. Severus, I want updates on this whenever you can, and for Merlin’s sake, be careful.” The doe nodded, turned, and dove through the open window. It hovered in mid-air for a moment, then shot off into the distance. The werewolf patronus hesitated, though, and through the shuffle of footsteps as people filed out of the kitchen door and scuff of chairs scooting out from the table, it locked eyes once again with Lupin. The look said it all. “Be careful,” Lupin mouthed.

With one last longing glimpse, the werewolf patronus stood on its hind legs and leapt over the dwindling assembly, following the doe into the cold, damp night.



***



“And of course you’ve heard of the Weird Sisters?” Pansy wasn’t really asking a question. That would imply that she expected an answer from Bianca, and Pansy was jabbering on about music, something to which Bianca hardly gave any credence. Bianca slipped her hands into one of her elbow-high black satin gloves, then carefully slid on the other. They matched the silk ribbon choker she wore around her neck, and her black satin stilettos, all rather unusually plain for Bianca. The elegant allure of her dress more than compensated for the simplicity of her accessories, however. It was a satin turquoise evening dress that shone in the light from the several lamps and wall sconces in her room. The upper portion of the dress did not leave very much to the imagination as it wrapped around her breasts and torso in three gathered bands that criss-crossed over her middle to tie in three big bows along her spine. The skirt of the dress flowed to her knees from the bottom-most band in several layers of the same turquoise blue, and created a swishy, fluid effect. Her eyes were painted a smoldering black, but she opted out of lipstick, preferring her natural color to any her vanity or Pansy could offer her.

Pansy arrived back at Malfoy Manor soon after Draco had left Bianca’s room, and she had barely had a moment to herself since. Pansy’s attire was a trifle too ruffled for Bianca’s taste, but she supposed she naturally favored her own style over the stuffy British apparel on which Pansy had been raised.

Gathering her thoughts, Bianca cut across Pansy’s explanation of “Magic Works” lyrics, and how they were so perfect for her and Blaise, and should she feel guilty because it had once been her and Draco’s song, to tell Pansy she was ready to leave. Pansy nodded abruptly, stood up from the bed on which she was sitting, and wove her arm around Bianca’s as they walked together from the room.

“The boys are downstairs. I made Blaise wait for me with Theodore. Draco hasn’t got a date. Isn’t that sweet? I think he fancies you very much, don’t you?”

“I do not presume to know Draco’s thoughts, nor do I wish to.” But Bianca felt a little stir in spite of herself. Draco was diminishing himself for her. He had opted out of company for the night in order to show her he was available. Pansy was right; it was sweet. And stupid. It showed weakness.

“There will be five of us in the carriage, then, I think,” Pansy said, allowing Bianca to enter the main hall before her. Three men in collared black dress robes stood near the front doors. Draco was not facing them, but Nott smiled and stretched out his hand for Bianca.

“We’re not apparating?” Bianca asked, a little confused.

“No, of course not! That would take all the romance out of it, Bianca,” admonished Nott, his long fingers easily encompassing hers and pulling her toward him. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Bianca’s expression told him just exactly what she thought Nott could do with his ‘sense of adventure,’ because his smile faltered a little. Draco had crossed to the huge double doors and was opening them now.

“Well then, how-” Bianca broke off, her eyes settling on a great white and gold carriage with four magnificent granian horses kneading the ground anxiously and blowing steam into the cool night air. Their grayish-white bodies were sleek, and their manes and tails brushed into smooth, long tresses, but it was their wings that caught everyone’s eye. Bianca recognized the characteristic gray-tipped white feathers of the granian thoroughbred. These were exquisite, spectacularly swift creatures. Bianca smiled in approval, a coy, striking smile that brought color to Nott’s cheeks.

“It was Draco’s idea,” Nott said. A driver appeared from behind the carriage, bowed, and gestured

to the coach door, which he held open as each of the elegant passengers ducked gracefully inside.

The carriage ride to London was short. And Nott was right: it was hopelessly, haplessly romantic. He had given her the window seat and as they took off, flying low at first over Amesbury then gaining speed, Bianca felt her stomach lurch queasily. She swallowed hard, thinking that she did not remember being frightened of anything, let alone heights. Feeling someone’s eyes on her, Bianca turned her attention to the blonde lounging nonchalantly across from her, his storming grays belying his true emotions. Bianca pushed her nausea and fear aside, wanting conversely to reach out and touch Draco and completely ignore him.

“It really is beautiful,” Bianca commented instead to Nott, watching to see if Draco caught the covert compliment out of the corner of her eye. He had, and leaned forward, elbows in knees, the ghost of a smile threatening his lips. Nott nodded, patting her gloved arm, and engaged Draco in a discussion about Puddlemere United vs. the Chudley Cannons. Pansy sat on the opposite side of the carriage, next to the other window, but she was not taking in the view. Bianca caught her eye as Pansy doted on Blaise, who sat next to Draco. Her hand was on Blaise’s chest, and whenever he said something clever or funny she smiled demurely, almost patronizingly, and tapped her fingers over his heart.

Their carriage shot up toward the clouds and through them into the starlit evening, the sun’s dying light still tingeing the thin wisps of vapor deep purple. Soon, Bianca could see the London suburbs sprawling beneath them through open patches in the clouds. It was night now, but Bianca was surprised to note that no disillusionment charm was placed on the carriage to prevent muggles from seeing it.

When she mentioned this to Nott, he laughed at her, and Draco smiled appreciatively at what she assumed he thought was a joke. “Let them see,” Nott guffawed, leaning over her out the window to watch the streaming city lights, “It‘s no concern of ours what the muggles think!” He whopped and shot white sparks out of the end of his wand at the racing river of traffic below. Draco doubled over, laughing at his antics, Blaise chuckled regally, and Pansy was trying to stifle her giggles behind her hand. It dawned on Bianca the level of recklessness to which the pureblood aristocracy was accustomed, and she simpered, a sense of abandon overcoming the nagging feeling of outrage.

Bianca felt the carriage descending, felt the great beating of wings up and down slow as the carriage bobbed heavily after the winged horses. They were nearing Diagon Alley. Draco gestured down at the cramped street, pointing out shops to Bianca, who had never visited Diagon Alley before. They landed shortly after, and Bianca gripped Nott’s arm to steady herself. The horses trotted up the cobbled street a bit, then came to a stop. Bianca looked out the window and saw a daunting, impressive white marble building with huge columns.

“That’s Gingotts, the Wizarding Bank,” Draco explained, and she nodded admiringly.

“I think my mother started an account there,” she mused, turning to see Pansy exiting the compartment with the help of the driver outside. Blaise bend low to compensate for his height and emerged next onto the lamp-lit street outside. Then Draco, then Nott, the Bianca, with Nott reaching out his hand to assist her.

Across the street from Gringotts Wizarding Bank and right at the crook of a street called Knockturn Alley stood a rather plain pale brick building, only two stories high. It’s sign, written in bold green, purple, and black read:



Curse/Charm



A little sign hooked under it added:



Private Party:

Malfoy