Overture {Dramione}

Encore

It felt the way she remembered it did.

Like a second skin, holding her together. The tight crossing of the fabric at the top and the flow of the skirt made her feel both constrained and free. She ran her fingers over the bodice, tilting her head to look at herself in the mirror.

She wondered how he saw her that day. What was it? The few inches of cleavage it afforded her? The way the straps fell over her shoulders? What was it about this dress that made her the center of Malfoy's obsession?

Though it felt the same, it looked different. She distinctly remembered it not taking this long to zip it up at the side or how it curved over her backside so prominently. She was different now than when he first saw her in this dress, would he even see her the same way?

It took quite a bit of internal dialogue to convince herself to even wear it. She didn't even touch it, just left it in the box as she paced back and forth in front of it. As if touching it would somehow burn her.

On one hand, it was everything she ever wanted. Her, in this dress, standing in front of her future and getting ready to charge head on. On the hand, it wasn't really hers, although it was now somehow in her possession.

It was his. He bought it, hundreds of galleons for a dress he would let sit for years untouched. It was another gift, another thing that tied her to him. It felt too much like the Trojan horse; a deceptive trap presented as a gift.

But Malfoy had not tried to contact her again. No request for the return of the dress. No insistence on meeting. She had half expected Pansy to show up and make Hermione watch as she really did throw it down the gutter.

And yet, nothing.

It was awful. How much she wanted to talk to him. To see him, to watch the way his eyebrow would twitch. To listen to his voice. To let him explain, let him fix this.

She had conceded at one point, huffing at the dress because Malfoy couldn't possibly know if she tried it on and how silly she was to be afraid of a couple stitches of fabric.

How wrong she was. It was a dangerous dress.

Because the first thought was not of how she felt in the dress, but how she wanted Malfoy to feel when he saw her in it.

——

"That's Don Bertram," Mary whispered in her ear, inclining her head towards the end of the table where a man had just taken his seat. "He'll try to talk to you about nargles if he gets you alone. Don't let him."

Hermione giggled, covering her mouth with a sip of wine. "I can carry a conversation about nargles."

Mary arched a brow but turned away, continuing her conversation with a woman on her other side. Hermione bit the inside of her lip nervously, her eyes flickering to the vacant seat on the opposite side of the table.

Malfoy had yet to show up. She wondered if he even would. The thought caused her stomach to roll painfully in guilt and disappointment. This was as much a celebration of him as it was for her. Perhaps moreso, though he would never take that much credit.

She took another sip of her wine, her mouth feeling dry and her head buzzing. Maybe it would be better if he didn't come. Maybe it was for the best that they parted ways.

He was flammable and she was like a puddle of gasoline. He would burn the world down for her, and she would let him.

And still, it didn't make the throbbing in her chest subside. She had wanted him here. To watch her be everything he always wanted her to be. Powerful, confident, recognized.