Chapter Text
The moment Draco stepped away, Lucius Malfoy’s cool, ringed hand confidently took Hermione’s, his touch firm as he expertly guided her into the rhythm of the waltz. The orchestra swelled, and they were absorbed into the swirling kaleidoscope of dancers. Up close, Lucius was an imposing presence, his silver eyes holding an almost hypnotic quality, his movements fluid and practiced. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old money.
"A most… fortuitous turn of events, wouldn't you agree, Miss Granger?" Lucius murmured, his voice a silken caress that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine – a shiver she couldn't quite decipher as pleasant or alarming. "To find such an enchanting partner unexpectedly available."
Hermione maintained a polite, if somewhat guarded, smile. "Mr. Malfoy, you're too kind. Draco and I were simply enjoying the event as friends."
"Ah, yes. Friends," Lucius repeated, drawing her a fraction closer as they executed a turn. His gaze was intense, unwavering. "A commendable arrangement. Though, one must admit, seeing you together did spark a certain… curiosity in the room. The Gryffindor Princess and the reformed Slytherin Prince. It has the makings of a rather compelling narrative."
"I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, it's hardly a narrative worth pursuing," Hermione stated, trying to inject a note of firmness into her voice, though his proximity was making her feel strangely flustered. Was it the wine? The late hour? Or Lucius himself?
Meanwhile, at the DMF table, Severus Snape watched, his posture rigid, his dark eyes burning holes into Lucius Malfoy’s back. The sight of Lucius’s hand on Hermione’s waist, the easy confidence with which he guided her, the proprietary way his gaze lingered on her face – each detail was a fresh twist of the knife in Snape’s gut. He saw Lucius lean in, murmuring something that made Hermione flush, and a low, almost inaudible growl rumbled deep in Snape's chest. The Firewhisky in his glass did little to soothe the inferno of jealousy that shocked him with its ferocity. He had no claim on her. She was a colleague. A former student. Yet, the thought of Lucius, with his practiced charm and predatory intent, anywhere near her, was anathema.
Draco, seated beside him, observed his godfather’s silent torment with a carefully concealed smirk. He took another leisurely sip of his wine. "Father always was an accomplished dancer," he commented innocuously, his voice laced with just enough false pleasantry to be irritating. "He has a way of making his partners feel… utterly captivated."
Snape’s jaw tightened so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He didn't deign to reply, his gaze remaining locked on the dance floor. The "storm clouds" Luna had spoken of were no longer just gathering; they were a raging tempest within him, threatening to break free with devastating force.
On the dance floor, Lucius continued his subtle probing. "Tell me, Miss Granger," he said, his voice smooth and persuasive, "this work at the DMF, it must be rather… grim at times. Does it truly satisfy a witch of your considerable talents and passions?"
"I find it incredibly fulfilling, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione replied, meeting his gaze directly. "Bringing truth to light, finding justice for those who can no longer speak for themselves. There's a profound satisfaction in that."
"Indeed," Lucius conceded, though his eyes suggested he found her idealism quaintly amusing. "But such noble pursuits can be… isolating. A brilliant young woman such as yourself surely requires companionship. Stimulating conversation. Perhaps even a patron who can appreciate and cultivate her rarer gifts?" His thumb stroked the back of her hand where it rested on his arm, a light, almost imperceptible touch that nonetheless sent a jolt through her.
Hermione felt that strange, unwelcome flutter again. The man was undeniably charming, in a dangerous, sophisticated way. He was Draco’s father, a reformed Death Eater, a man she should, by all accounts, despise or at least deeply distrust. Yet, there was a magnetism to him, a powerful allure that unnerved her almost as much as it intrigued her. She gently tried to create a little more space between them. "I find my colleagues at the DMF provide ample stimulating company, Mr. Malfoy."
The music began to draw to a close, the final chords of the waltz resonating through the grand ballroom. Lucius guided her through the last steps, finishing with a flourish that left her slightly breathless. He retained his hold on her hand a moment longer than necessary.
"A most delightful dance, Hermione," he said, the use of her first name both presumptuous and disarmingly intimate. His eyes gleamed. "Perhaps we shall have another opportunity to… converse, before the evening is through. Promise me another dance?"
Before Hermione could formulate a polite but firm refusal, or before Snape could combust at the table, salvation, or perhaps just further complication, arrived in the form of a beaming Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic himself, approaching them with an outstretched hand towards Lucius…
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"Lucius, my dear fellow!" Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep, sonorous voice boomed, effectively slicing through the charged atmosphere Lucius had cultivated around Hermione. The Minister for Magic, looking regal in his own deep purple dress robes, extended a hand towards Lucius, a broad, affable smile on his face. "A splendid evening, is it not? Your contributions to the Ministry’s renewed vigor are much appreciated, as always."
Lucius, momentarily surprised by the Minister's direct approach, released Hermione’s hand with a smooth, almost reluctant grace. He turned to Kingsley, his public persona snapping perfectly into place. "Minister," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Your presence always elevates an occasion. And I am merely a humble servant to the betterment of our world."
Seeing her opportunity, Hermione offered a polite, if somewhat strained, smile to both men. "Minister Shacklebolt, Mr. Malfoy, if you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and made her escape, her heels clicking purposefully on the marble floor as she headed back towards the relative sanctuary of the DMF table.
Her heart was still beating a little too fast. The dance with Lucius had been… unsettling. His charm was undeniable, a silken, sophisticated web, but beneath it, she’d sensed a possessive, calculating intelligence that made her deeply uneasy. And her own confusing, fleeting reactions to him were even more disturbing. She chided herself again. It was the wine, the opulence of the ball, the unexpectedness of it all. Nothing more. Yet, as she walked, she could almost feel Snape’s eyes on her, a prickling sensation that was entirely different from Lucius’s overt appraisal – heavier, darker, and infinitely more complex.
Back at the table, Draco greeted her return with an insufferably knowing smirk. "Survive your close encounter, Granger?" he murmured as she took her seat, fanning herself slightly with her hand.
Luna offered a gentle, enigmatic smile. "Your aura is quite… vibrant now, Hermione. Many swirling colors."
Hermione shot Draco a mild glare before turning to Luna. "I'm sure it is," she said, trying for a light tone. She risked a quick glance towards Severus. He was staring pointedly into his glass of Firewhisky, his expression unreadable, his jaw set in a rigid line. The silence from his corner of the table was almost more unnerving than any cutting remark. It felt deliberate, a cold shoulder that stung more than she cared to admit.
Cormac, oblivious to the undercurrents, seized the opportunity. "Well, Granger, now that you're free from the clutches of the Malfoy dynasty, senior and junior," he winked at Draco, who ignored him, "perhaps a dance with a colleague who truly appreciates your forensic brilliance?"
Before Hermione could even formulate a polite refusal, another voice interjected, smooth and unexpected. "Actually, McLaggen," said Pansy Parkinson, who had just returned to the table with Ron, both of them looking slightly flushed from a rather energetic dance, "I believe Miss Granger might appreciate a moment to catch her breath. And perhaps a fresh drink." Pansy slid a glass of chilled water towards Hermione with a surprisingly thoughtful gesture.
"Thanks, Pansy," Hermione said, grateful for the intervention.
The band struck up a new tune, a slightly faster, more modern melody. Several couples, including Ron and Pansy, and Harry and Ginny, headed back to the dance floor. Neville leaned over to Luna. "Shall we, Luna? I believe this one has a rather interesting rhythm." Luna nodded, her eyes sparkling, and they joined the throng.
The table suddenly felt much emptier, with only Hermione, Draco, a pointedly silent Snape, and a slightly crestfallen Cormac remaining. Draco, sensing the lingering tension, or perhaps just bored, stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I saw Blaise Zabini lurking near the canapés. I should endeavor to rescue him from himself." He sauntered off, leaving Hermione in the increasingly uncomfortable company of Snape and McLaggen.
Cormac, ever persistent, was about to try his luck again when Severus finally moved. He pushed his chair back, the sound scraping harshly in the momentary lull. He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow. His dark eyes, when they finally met Hermione's, were like chips of obsidian – cold, hard, and utterly unreadable, yet with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Miss Granger," he said, his voice a low, formal rumble that cut through the ballroom's ambient noise. "Given that our department has been publicly acknowledged, it would be… remiss… if the Head of Department did not at least make a cursory appearance on the dance floor with one of his lead investigators. Purely for the sake of appearances, of course." He didn't offer his hand. He didn't smile. It wasn't an invitation so much as a coolly delivered, almost reluctant, statement of protocol.
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Hermione stared at him, momentarily stunned by the unexpected, albeit stiffly delivered, summons. Cormac, deflated, wisely chose that moment to mumble something about needing a refill and scurried away. The music, a sophisticated, moderately paced melody, swirled around them. To refuse would be churlish, an insult after his public reasoning, however thinly veiled his true motivations – or lack thereof – might be. And, if she were truly honest with herself, a small, treacherous part of her wanted to dance with him, to feel his hand on her waist.
"Of course," she managed, her voice emerging a little breathier than she intended. "For appearances."
He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, and then, rather formally, gestured towards the dance floor. He didn't offer his arm as Draco or Lucius had. Instead, he simply began to walk, expecting her to follow. She did, her heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
When they reached a relatively clear space on the crowded floor, he turned to face her. For a moment, they stood, the music swirling around them, a silent, charged anticipation hanging in the air. Then, with a precision that was more practiced than graceful, he placed one hand firmly, almost possessively, on the small of her back, the other taking her hand. His grip was strong, his palm surprisingly warm against hers.
As they began to move, Hermione immediately noted the difference. Where Draco had been light and fluid, and Lucius smoothly dominant, Severus was… controlled. His steps were precise, measured, almost as if he were executing a complex potion sequence rather than a dance. There was a certain formality to his hold, yet beneath it, an undeniable tension. And then, as they navigated a turn, his hand on her back tightened, drawing her closer than what was strictly necessary, closer than what was considered appropriate for a department head dancing with his subordinate.
Her breath hitched. Suddenly, she was intensely aware of the solid wall of his chest, the subtle scent, that uniquely Snape-ish aroma that always seemed to cling to him. The thin silk of her gown felt like no barrier at all against the warmth radiating from him. Her fingers, encased in his, tingled. She could feel the faint, rhythmic thud of his heart, or perhaps it was her own, hammering in response to their unexpected proximity.
He tried to ask her something then, his brow furrowing slightly as he navigated them through a particularly dense cluster of dancers. His lips moved, but the swell of the music, combined with the chatter of the crowd, swallowed his words. He frowned again, a flicker of impatience in his dark eyes.
Then, with a subtle shift, he leaned down, his head inclining towards hers, clearly intending to repeat his question directly into her ear. The movement was precise. But in the slight sway of the dance, as he dipped his head, the unimaginable happened. His lips, cool and unexpectedly soft, brushed ever so lightly against the sensitive shell of her ear.
A shockwave, pure and electric, shot through Hermione’s entire being. Her body reacted before her mind could even process the fleeting contact. A shiver traced its way down her spine, raising gooseflesh on her arms despite the warmth of the ballroom. Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny, almost inaudible gasp. A dizzying heat pooled low in her belly, spreading like wildfire through her veins, making her knees feel weak. Every nerve ending seemed to ignite, her senses overwhelmed by his nearness, the accidental intimacy of that feather-light touch. Her grip on his hand tightened convulsively, her mind a sudden, roaring blank save for the overwhelming, undeniable physical response he had unknowingly, or perhaps knowingly, just evoked.