Chapter Text
Hermione steps into the grandiose ballroom with one hand fisting the skirts of her ballgown. The rich, heavy material seems almost to drag her down, and she quite suddenly finds it harder to breathe in the corset Ginny had coaxed her into. She draws in as deep a breath as she can, lifting a hand fan herself. The world spins before her eyes, and it’s only after she blinks a few times that it stops on its violent axis.
“Hermione? Are you well?” Ginny’s face comes into view, her bright blue eyes clouded with concern. Hermione only smiles faintly. She is barely aware of Ginny’s mother–their chaperone for the event–fussing over her daughter’s dress. “Mother, do leave it be. You are drawing unwanted attention,” Ginny sighs, exasperated.
“Well, it is only one of Lord Lovegood’s balls, my love,” Mrs. Weasley answers. “My heavens, you must look your best.”
“Pardon, Ginny?" Hermione turns to glance at her friend.
"Oh, I only asked if you were well. You seemed somewhat...out of sorts," Ginny repeats herself.
"Oh, yes, quite well,” Hermione reassures her friend with a firm nod. “I do not think I like these very much.” She gestures to the bodice of her dress and shakes her head. A few curls shake loose of the elegant updo she had spent too much time on. With a tired huff, Hermione lifts a hand to brush them back into place before righting the elaborate mask covering the upper half of her face. “Is this really necessary?”
“Well, necessary, perhaps not,” Ginny admits with a shrug. “But it is all the rage in Italy. I hear it is the Venetians who first dared intrigue society with a Masquerade. Oh, imagine it, Hermione. Beautiful dresses, silk, pearls, gold! And to think, all of these fantastically ornate masks, simply for the mystery of the thing. Oh, do come along,” Ginny urges her, clasping her hand. “No gentleman will ask you for a dance if you’re being such a wallflower. Come on. Oh, look. There is Lord Lovegood! One could recognize him anywhere, mask or not.” Hermione barely has time to recollect herself before Ginny tugs her along, weaving through the crowd to reach the host of the ball standing all the way across the room. Mrs. Weasley bustles after them, hands clasping her skirts as she cuts through the crowd to follow the girls. Hermione hesitates, giving some resistance, because she has just seen him turn to speak to a gentleman at his side. A gentleman who, as far as she knows, might have been looking in their direction.
They stop only a few feet away when Ginny leans in to whisper, “He is our gracious host. Well, that is not the entire truth. I suppose it is Lord Malfoy, given that he has so generously offered this spacious ballroom.” She casts a quick glance at their surroundings before continuing, “Lord Malfoy, that is, as opposed to his son, young Duke Malfoy mean.” Mrs. Weasley pauses in her walk, drawing herself to her full height and smooths the ruffled skirts of her gown.
Hermione makes another feeble attempt to draw in a breath, but Ginny’s last comment catches her attention.
“The Duke?”
Ginny stares at her, lips parted slightly in quiet surprise. “Merlin help me, you must come out into society more often, Hermione. My heavens….The Duke of Wiltshire! This place must be some old mansion of the Malfoy family; we are miles away from Wiltshire. There is a terrible rumour that the Duke and his father–they never had a very loving relationship as I have heard–had a falling out which ended with Lord Malfoy taking up residence here. Imagine! Ousting one’s own father so publicly, for shame.”
“It is unbecoming to take part in such idle whispering,” Hermione remarks gently. “I cannot believe any son would be so cruel, nor any father so deserving.”
Ginny lifts her brows and sighs. “You would be surprised what men are capable of. Oh, look, he’s seen us.” She releases Hermione and instead reaches for the delicate laced fan at her wrist, shaking it open and fanning herself a few times as Lord Xenophilius Lovegood approaches them.
“Miss Granger, Miss Weasley,” Lord Lovegood addresses them, offering a warm smile.
“My Lord,” Ginny answers for them, dipping her head in a slight bow.
“How are you both enjoying the festivities?” Xenophilius asks them, clasping his hands together.
“Indeed,” Hermione replies. “I must confess, it is a novelty for me.” He laughs softly, nodding in acknowledgement.
“I do so delight in novelty, Miss Granger,” he comments, then starts, as though he'd forgotten something. “By Jove, I have forgotten my manners!” He lifts a hand to flick a lock of pale blond hair out of his face and turns to Mrs. Weasley standing at attention just behind Hermione and Ginny. "I'm sure you will have heard we have been graced by a most esteemed character this evening." Lord Lovegood's gaze lands warmly on Hermione for just a moment, long enough to set her on edge. "I would so like to make introductions, if you will permit me?"
Ginny can barely contain her delight, even in the smile she hides behind the hand covering her mouth. Hermione slowly releases a sigh and drops her gaze to the smooth marble beneath their feet. She had come to this event in hopes of festive delight and finds herself tangled in the delicate web of etiquette she has no wish to be netted in.
“Oh, Hermione, smile, will you not?” Ginny whispers into her ear. “It is an honour, to be sure. A Duke!”
Mrs. Weasley presses closer to the girls and says softly in a whisper, “Remember yourself, my girls. You need not make a show of yourselves.” She turns her attention back to Lord Love good and answers solemnly, “You may, my Lord.”
“Yes, mama,” Ginny huffs. Hermione keeps her gaze fixed on the floor and as Mrs. Weasley gives Lord Lovegood an affirmative answer, she grips the skirts of her gown tightly between her fists.
“Wonderful!” Xenophilius exclaims, “Dear ladies, if you would follow me to the grand piano just over there.”
He leads the way through the crowd until they reach the other end of the ballroom, where a beautiful white grand piano fills the space.. There, beside a marble pillar stands the gentleman Hermione had spied earlier. He is nearly as tall as Xenophilius himself and dressed in a fine black wool tailcoat with satin lapels over a high-collared white shirt and a silken cravat.
Addressing himself first to Mrs. Weasley, Xenophilius glances at her and says, with a kind smile, “Mrs. Weasley, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Wiltshire?”
The Duke bows at the waist and when he rises, he presents her Lady Weasley with a gracious but reserved smile. “A pleasure, dear lady.”
Xenophilius nods his approval and turns toward Hermione, inclining his head.
“Miss Granger, I believe you are not yet acquainted with His Grace,” Xenophilius remarks.
Hermione inclines her head and lowers herself into a small curtsy. The gentleman standing beside Xenophilius bows at the waist, and when he rises to his full height, says to her, “Miss Granger, may I have the honour of this dance?”
“If it pleases you, Your Grace,” Hermione answers, almost as if it does not entirely please her. Nonetheless, she curtsies again. The Duke smiles faintly, and offers his hand.
The orchestra swells into a waltz, strings rising soft and deliberate beneath the chandeliers.
Hermione places her hand in his. His touch is cool — steady, assured. Not possessive. Not tentative. Simply certain. He bows; she curtsies, precise and economical, then allows him to lead her onto the floor.
The first turn is flawless. He moves as though he had been born to it — every step measured, every shift of weight perfectly timed. His hand at her waist does not wander; it rests exactly where propriety demands. Irritatingly correct.
Hermione matches him without effort. She refuses to be the sort of woman who requires steering. They revolve once, twice — silk and black wool gliding through candlelight.
“The evening appears….meticulously arranged,” she says quietly, her eyes fixed somewhere just beyond his shoulder.
There is the faintest pause in his step — so slight most would not notice it.
“It was,” he replies, voice low and even, “Is it to your satisfaction?” A turn. Her skirts brush his boots.
“A truly magnificent evening, your grace, with so many wonderful young women in attendance. I'm honoured to have been selected of them of course.." Hermione says quietly, her eyes fixed somewhere just beyond his shoulder. "Though dear Mrs. Weasley can be most convincing, I do hope it isn't too great a sacrifice of your time to oblige us." His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly at her waist — not enough to offend, only enough to signal that he had perceived a challenge.
“Hardly a penitential engagement, I assure you,” he replies with a soft laugh. “Though I confess I find it more tolerable when one’s partner does not treat it as one might a military campaign.”
That draws her gaze to his.
His eyes are silver — strikingly so in the candlelight. Observant. Assessing.
“I was unaware I appeared so formidable,” she replies.
“You do not smile,” he says.
“Nor do you.”
Another turn — closer now. The room seems to recede into blur and gilded light. She is acutely aware of the distance propriety requires between them… and how very small that distance is.
“I smile when there is cause,” she says evenly.
“Will I prevail in providing such a cause, do you think, lady?”
The question is quiet. Not flirtatious. Curious.
Hermione hesitates — only a fraction — before answering.
“That remains to be seen, Your Grace.”
He almost — almost — smiles at that.
They turn again, and this time the movement feels less like obligation and more like orbit.
They move through the dance, and Hermione finds herself waiting for its end soon enough. The orchestra slows, signalling the close of the waltz. Its final notes linger in the air. As the orchestra falls silent, he brings them to a smooth halt, his hand steady at her waist until the last possible second.
Applause flutters politely through the ballroom.
He bows. She curtsies — exact, unflustered, already distant.
“Your Grace,” Hermione says, as though the past ten minutes had been nothing more than an item properly ticked from a social ledger.
“You appear relieved,” the Duke observes.
“I am,” she replies without hesitation. “The set is concluded.”
“Was it so dreadful?”
Hermione withdraws a step, her eyes searching his face, and considers him — not coyly, not admiringly. Appraisingly.
“Dreadful? No. You are exceedingly competent.”
He lifts a brow. “Exceedingly….competent,” he pronounces the words slowly, as though reflecting on them.
“Yes.” She folds her fan with a quiet snap. “You navigate the floor with precision. You avoid stepping on hems. You observe every convention without fault.”
There is the faintest suggestion of amusement in her eyes now — but it is not admiration.
“And yet,” he prompts, inclining his head.
“And yet...I suspect you do exactly as much as is anticipated by your onlookers and not a step or word more or less.”
He stiffens.
Around them, couples disperse, soft laughter rises, jewels catch in the soft candlelight. But there, in the small space between them, something sharpens.
“You prefer unpredictability?” the Duke asks.
“I prefer sincerity.”
He sways slightly, smoothly enough to hide the recoil he gives at this. He studies her more closely now. She is not nervous. Not dazzled. Not performing. She simply stands her ground.
“And you believe me insincere.” Hermione cannot see his eyes well enough to read any emotion therein, but the words he speaks feel stiff, hissed through gritted teeth.
“I believe you are very well practiced,” Hermione corrects. “There is a difference.”
A lesser man might have bristled.
“Well practiced men rarely lack in dance partners,” the Duke answers smoothly. “You could have declined.”
“I could have,” she agrees. “But I was curious.”
“Am I such a spectacle?”
“Not at all.” Hermione slips her gloves more firmly into place. “I wished to determine whether reputation ever diverges from reality.”
“And your conclusion?” She meets his gaze fully now — steady, unblinking.
“Your evening is not yet over, Your Grace.”
It is not an answer.
He almost smiles. “And what of your evening, Miss Granger, perhaps another dance will settle your opinion of me?”
“Perhaps,” Hermione replies with a faint smile. “Mrs. Weasley grows weary of crowds,” she continued. “And I of orchestras.”
The Duke hums at this and offers his arm — instinct, etiquette. Hermione accepts it only long enough to allow him to escort her to the edge of the floor. The contact is brief. Controlled.
“I will submit to your will, lady,” he says softly, “If you must depart so early in care of Mrs. Weasley, I will acquiesce, of course.”
As they reach the periphery of the ballroom, she withdraws her hand first. It does not escape her notice the way his fingers curl ever so slightly around hers even as she pulls back.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
Polite. Final.
“Will I have the opportunity to alter your assessment?” he asks.
Hermione tilts her head slightly, studying him as though he were a puzzle she had not yet decided to solve.
“That would require you to surprise me,” she remarks. And then — before he can make any further reply — she dips into a small, impeccab
le curtsy and turns away.
He does not follow after, but watches as she disappears into the crowd.