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Her dress is a brilliant gold, finer than anything in Gringott's, and cascading down her form to gently brush the floor.
She's breathtaking, even from across the room, and Theo is having a problem. Because he should not be thinking these things about Miss Hermione Granger, even if everyone else here is also thinking similarly.
As if sensing his focus on her person, she turns her head to meet his gaze, offering a flick of her eyebrow and tucking a smile into the corner of her bright red mouth before she turns her attention back to the Minister of Magic, the Minister of Finance, and at least three pureblood members of the Wizengamot who, even six months ago, would have at best shunned her for her Muggleborn birth status.
Not that Theo is any better, mind. The thought stings with his own bitterness, but it's true; regardless of whether his actions would have been spurred by hatred or fear, he never would have dreamed of associating with Miss Granger while his Father was both alive and free of Azkaban. Even catching her attention would have meant more pain than he'd like to think about, even now.
These days, his father is neither alive, nor free, and as conflicted about those things as Theo is, he also can't put into words just how relieved he feels every single day he catches his mind wandering to things it ought not.
Like Miss Granger.
Theo turns to the bar where an intimidatingly tall tower of champagne glasses stands, held up by nothing but the magic which enchanted them in the first place. He selects two and holds them up for inspection. The last Halloween Ball he'd attended at the ministry had been as a child, even before Hogwarts, and he remembers being fascinated by what the committees had chosen as decoration.
The champagne, for instance, has been turned a deep red, as if to mimic blood, which Theo thinks is in rather poor taste, considering the past year's events and the guests of honor. In addition to the alcohol, though, are the floating candles which provide the only light, dimming the usually bright hall. In the ceiling are several bats which occasionally startle and swoop down on the guests, causing a cry and a wave of laughter each time.
The guests themselves are an odd mixture of well-dressed and costumed, with several guests in attendance wearing garish masks in disorienting colors, bedecked with feathers and jewels that likely should have remained tucked away in someone's grandmother's attic.
“My dear,” he says, offering one of the flutes. She turns, bright eyes focusing in on him with startling sincerity that still catches him every time it happens. She accepts the champagne, smiling at him and tucking one hand into his proffered elbow.
“Thanks,” she replies, leaning up to gently buss his cheek. “Did you find him?” she whispers in his ear, and Theo has to suppress a shiver. He’s eighteen years old, for Merlin’s sake, he shouldn’t be acting like a second year holding hands with his crush for the first time.
He nods, drawing her closer in the next breath. She seems to turn back to her conversation, but Theo can see her glancing in the direction that he’s angled her in, toward the back of Mr. Moncrief, the man in question.
Theo, again, can’t help but admire Miss Granger. What other young person, regardless of intelligence or pedigree, can ably command so many powerful wizards of government with little else than a smile and some conversation? Then again… He pulls her yet closer and angles her body away from Mr. Ernest Hawkworth, whose wandering eyes were famous among the Slytherin witches of his year.
Hermione pinches his arm through the pale gold and cream brocade of his jacket, and he brings his focus back to the task at hand. Shacklebolt and the Minister of Finance seem to be arguing about where the reparations taken from Death Eaters and suspected sympathizers should be put to use, now that the initial restoration efforts have concluded. Theo scoffs and uses the opportunity to take a sip of his champagne.
It tastes fine, except for a sharp tang at the back of his throat that makes him think of choking on his own blood, that time he’d been subjected to the Cruciatus and, rather than scream, he’d bitten his tongue hard enough to bleed. He’d been unable to swallow and unable to spit, stuck in that moment for an interminably long few minutes. He’d thought he would die.
At least the Dark Lord had never been so cruel to him. If he’d faced that type of careless disregard from more than one master, he most likely would have ended things himself long before the end of the war. Theo just wasn’t built for torture.
Speaking of reparations, though. Mr. Moncrief has just claimed his third glass of pumpkin juice, which might impede their plan, if he weren’t also liberally dosing the stuff with his own home-brought bourbon. A bit more difficult to judge his use of his faculties, yes, but not impossible.
“Would you care to dance, my dear?” he asks, not caring one whit about whoever he’d interrupted to ask. This is the opportune moment, and they’ve spent too long planning tonight’s charade to let it pass by.
Hermione turns to him with a dazzling smile playing at her mouth, slipping her hand down his arm to entwine their fingers. “I’d love to,” she says to him. Theo offers a nod to the other men and barely conceals his smugness at having her undivided attention. It’s all artificial, but even so. Their envy is like mana to his war-wearied soul.
There aren’t many couples dancing yet, as the night is still young and the majority of those present remain hesitant to show anything but a solemn mien, lest they stand out as gauche.
Still, there are enough other couples present to disguise the two of them as they take to the floor, hands clasped with hardly any space between them as they step in time with the orchestra’s song.
“Were we right about him wearing it? I couldn’t see clearly earlier.” Hermione murmurs as she steps perhaps closer than propriety would allow, even as his hand remains steadfast in the center of her back. The pressure he keeps is firm enough to prevent her from moving too far away.
She doesn’t seem bothered.
“On a chain around his neck. The modified Summoning Charm should work, especially now that he’s been in his cups.”
In the first few months following the Battle of Hogwarts, the Ministry had raided the homes of every suspected and confirmed Death Eater and sympathizer, and several artifacts of value had mysteriously gone “missing”. Naturally, the Ministry had no records of those items being confiscated and, quite honestly, Theo would quite happily burn his entire ancestral pile to cinders if it meant never spending another night in an Azkaban cell.
Even so, his mother’s wedding band was one of the few things he had left from her, and he has no wish to part with it.
“Shall I cast, then?” Hermione asks. Theo has to consciously loosen the grip he’d accidentally tightened on her hand. He nods. She smiles again, gentler this time. “Spin me.”
He does, watching her disguise the quick flick of her wand in its arm holster among the swishing of her skirts, and when she comes back to him, she’s holding the ring in her hand. “Let’s go to the balcony.”
He takes her hand to lead her away from the crowd. Once outside, the cool wind whips their faces, but Hermione is flushed as she hands him the ring.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes downcast and words quiet. She gives a soft reply that he barely hears, heart pounding loudly in his ears.
This is the end of their entanglement, is it not? It’s all been artificial—the flirting, the small touches, all just a product of her kindness and willingness to help even him. He has no right to ask for anything more from her, and yet… he can’t help but want.
“I think,” she says, and Theo draws his eyes up to meet hers. This is the witch who had hunted down pieces of the Dark Lord’s soul, who’d come back to Hogwarts and empathized with the son of a Death Eater who’d only wanted a piece of the only family who’d ever loved him returned. “I don’t want tonight to be the end of us. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, these last few months. That is—if you’d like to see each other seriously.”
He swallows hard as he grasps her hand again, feeling the small callouses on her middle finger and the lifeline in her palm. “I’d like that very much, Miss Granger.”
Hermione grins, a sharp slash of bright white in the dimly lit space, and gently presses her lips to his.