Tango * dramione

Chapter 40

Chapter 40: Walk The Nine Mile

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Center Stage: Draco and Hermione
Setting: WWW

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Draco and Hermione's heads snapped in unison in the direction of door.

"Your mother?" Hermione gasped, covering her breasts with her hands as if his mother were in the very room with them. "I thought she'd never be caught dead inside an establishment like this."

"You and me both."

They dressed quickly, muttering only to offer pieces of clothing. When she had her dress completely on, he remembered his rip-job to the slit of her dress and hemmed it with a spell.

"Your tie," Hermione commented, pointing to Draco's half-assed attempt to knot it.

"Bugger it." He unlooped it from around his neck and tossed it to the ground. Now was not the time to feel suffocated; his mother would do enough of that. "This is proper illtiming on her part."

"Well, when ever is a good time for your mother to show up right after sex?" Hermione quipped back, obviously attempting to lighten the mood as she slipped into her heels and transfigured them into a pair of flats.

Draco let out an uneasy sigh. "Guess we should go and see what the bint wants." He reached over, slipped an arm around Hermione's waist, and gave her a featherlight kiss on the forehead. It was all he needed to say; words weren't enough at this point. He'd put her - put them all - through so much, and it was finally coming to a head. All he could do was attempt to be strong and fight.

They exited out of the storage room, following Lavender to the front. What they found surprised Draco: his mother stood at the corner of an aisle toward the front, observing a pair of ruby-red pumps. Her eyes studied them with scrutiny, down to the stitching. Draco had seen that look before when he'd accompany her to the many dress shops around Diagon.

Weasley (the git, Ron) stood next to Astoria at the counter, bewildered and undaring to move, lest they draw her attention. As Draco glanced around, he noticed something peculiar. The shop was empty, save for its employees and volunteers. Two burly looking wizards stood outside, blocking the doors, while George argued at them with explicits. A crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle, but thanks to silencing charm, all Draco could do was pick the slur of curse words from reading lips. Amongst them were 'fucking hell', 'pricks', and 'unicorn shite.'

Blaise stood near the front door, petrified, as Narcissa set the heels back down on the display table. For all of the talking that fool could do, even he knew not to dare speak in that moment.

Only Hermione, brave soul that she was, dared to address the intimidating witch.

As she cleared her throat, she asked, "May we help you? Perhaps you're searching for one in your size?"

Narcissa's body stiffened, but she didn't give Hermione the decency of eye contact. "I doubt you could fit me - I've been told I have the feet of a ballerina."

"Broken and misshapen?" Draco offered, bearing some courage. "Or perhaps I'm getting that mixed up with your heart."

His mother chuckled, surprising them all. "My son, ever the quipper." She turned to face him, and as her eyes bore into his, he felt two feet tall. "Tell me, Draco. How are sales?"

Unsure, Draco bluffed. "Spectacular."

"Mmh. I'm sure they are," she replied, strumming her fingers along the display shelf.

"What are you really doing here, Mother?"

She didn't answer, simply staring at him.

After a time, Draco began again. "Truly! You make a spectacle of yourself, block off all paying customers, and now you have nothing to say? That would be a first."