Chapter Text
“Lovers find secret places
inside this violent world
where they make transactions
with beauty.”
Rumi
Hermione Granger swallowed an involuntary snicker as she watched her ex-husband make out with a 20-year old on the other side of the London Savoy Hotel’s ballroom. Ron had always been particularly talented at making her feel worthless. She could be Head Representative to the ICW and still feel like a trophy wife in an Ottery St Catchpole bungalow. Or like tonight, a Deputy Minister of Magic celebrating her first Ministerial Correspondents’ Dinner by having to watch the man she had sacrificed so much for tonguing some woman who wasn’t even born during her first date to Hogsmeade. She did not feel jealous over the kiss itself. Her break up with Ron had been a long time coming and neither of them felt anything for each other anymore. However, she still felt an almost uncontainable rage because she knew he wasn’t trying to make her feel jealous or regretful. No. He was trying to win whatever sick, undefined game they were always playing. He was showing off. The moment Hermione saw him walk into the hotel lobby with that new Auror trainee, she was back into the competitive spirit that at one point had made her post-war marriage so hot and lustful before turning it barbed and cruel. She was not going to lose.
Hermione’s decades of political and diplomatic work had cultivated her state-of-the-art poker face, but her tense jaw and annoyed finger-tapping on her empty champagne flute seemed obvious to a pureblood widow sitting a few tables away from Ron. When the Deputy Minister’s eyes drifted over to hers, Narcissa Black made an old discreet gesture to Hermione meaning ‘talk now?’ and headed off to the women’s bathroom upon seeing the Deputy Minister’s nod.
Hermione walked by a couple of tightly-clad girls sniffing their noses against the mirror and readjusting their dresses in front of the bathroom’s sink to better seduce whichever decaying scion they had deduced would gift them the most lavish of jewels for a night, or two, of company. Oh, what pureblood society would not give as long as you let them feel guilty about it. Hermione made her way to an empty stall at the end of the room and stepped inside, locking the door wandlessly and standing beside it so her heels would be clearly visible from outside. Her movements were smooth and deliberate as she carried out the routine.
Soon enough, she heard a series of knocks on the door: short - long long short - long long long. ‘EGO’, meaning “I” in Latin. She unlocked the door and stepped back to let Narcissa walk into the narrow stall. Hermione could feel the taller woman’s warm breath on her head as those dark, umber eyes bore down straight through her.
“Weasley?”, asked Narcissa with a raised eyebrow and characteristic smirk. “Didn’t take you as the type to be jealous over an ex, Hermione.”
“I’m not jealous,” Hermione bit back.
“Then why does it look like you were about to pop a nerve back there?”
“Just not jealous in that way.”
“So it’s the girl, then? Wish you had your own little piece of arm candy, darling?” Narcissa jokingly brushed her index finger on Hermione’s cheek as she said this. Her eyes went wide in surprise upon noticing Hermione’s deep, sudden blush and she quickly took back her hand, both women briefly looking away from each other.
“Well, well, well, Granger,” said Narcissa. “Seems Draco forgot to tell me that you swung that way.”
“He-, he doesn't know,” Hermione replied. Matter of fact, no one in magical Britain knew. Hermione never had been attracted to most women. Or any, for that matter, before that last year of the war. A crush on a fierce yet distant pureblood wife and some brief, exploratory experiences post-divorce with a Welsh muggle playwright had given a sudden clarity to a lingering doubt she’d had since seeing the Veelas at the World Cup. Not that she had acted on the revelation that she was bisexual aside from that weekend in Wales. People had joked that Ron and Hermione were more married to their work than to each other and when one marriage broke she drowned herself in the other to compensate. There had been no time, nor want, for any non-professional relationships, regardless of the other person’s gender.
“What’s your plan, then?” asked Narcissa, face returned to a more professional expression.
“Well, it’s not like I can come up with a better date two hours into an event.” answered Hermione, ruffling her hair and looking absently to the side. Narcissa let out a small, private smile upon recognizing one of Hermione's thinking fidgets.
“Express escorts don’t sound like the move, no. Have you really not flirted with anyone in London?”, asked Narcissa, tilting her head inquisitively. “I mean, you’d never go to a Zabini-style orgy but please tell me there’s someone out in the ballroom you can at least appear to want to… have a dalliance with.”
“No… I mean- I’ve been flirted with, just never returned it,” said Hermione. “Plus, I don’t think anyone would buy a cold-then-hot approach tonight, particularly Ron.”
“So it is about upstaging Ron. What’s the angle, though? Just want to show him up?”
“Lady Black, the motherfucker smirked at me when he got off his Uber.” Hermione groaned in frustration before clutching her hands into tight fists. “I mean, how fucking childish can he get?”
“So… your response is to get more childish?”
Narcissa was right. Hermione was responding to a low blow with one even lower, but then again that is how it had always been with Ron. They would fight dirty then make up dirtier. Now that they were divorced for good, all that remained was the fighting. As much as she knew it would make little sense to other people, she felt what she could only describe as comfort from the toxicity of it all, from how natural it felt. The world of upper magical society was never honest, but the emotion of hate? The desire for dominance? Hermione could trust those to always be genuine.
“Yes,” admitted Hermione. “Yes, as long as it hurts him.”
The hazy lightness of her well-camouflaged yet undeniable drunkenness suddenly brought an idea to the forefront of her mind. Hermione’s conscience would disapprove once she sobered up, of course. Asking her long-standing secret crush for a kiss in front of perhaps the most powerful room in the magical world was a terrible idea. She tried to come up with other ways to one-up Ron tonight but none, she thought, would be as effective or as enticing as hiding behind a thinly-veiled excuse to claim Narcissa's lips in hers.
A more sober Hermione would have thought of the target it would place on Narcissa. A more sober Hermione would have considered the members of the press that obviously are present at a correspondent's dinner. A more sober Hermione, conscious of the implications regarding pureblood courting, would understand the immense magnitude of her plan. But the current Hermione, the Hermione standing between the laminate partition and the well-tailored suit of Narcissa Malfoy, had little patience for consequences. Her mind had missed that exit two champagne flutes ago.
“Kiss me. When we’re back in the lobby, kiss me as we say goodbye. He’ll be there.”
Hermione was too preoccupied with getting the words out to notice Narcissa's eyes go wide and cheeks flush a deep red.
“You’re positive, knowing what it means?” Narcissa asked. About what? Positive Ron will be there? Positive you want to kiss me? Positive you’re sure about this whole situation?
“Yes,” answered Hermione with more emphasis than any other word in this conversation. Yes to all.
“Good,” said Narcissa as she straightened her blazer. “It should be you.”
“What?”
“I meant-... Hermione, you should initiate it. Otherwise it’ll look…”
“Like I don’t want it,” Hermione interrupted. Narcissa nodded in response.
“Discrete, without looking at him. You’re not supposed to be thinking of him if we’re kissing, technically.” Narcissa said this with a tone better suited to a briefing at the MLE’s offices than the bathroom of a hotel. She said ‘supposed to’ as if she was saying ‘don’t you dare’. Hermione could not tell if that is what Narcissa really wanted to say at that moment. She hoped it was.
“Of course,” is all Hermione could reply, only now realizing Narcissa had not even brought up an alternative or pushed back on her crazy idea. Such quick acceptance seemed too simple. Too good to be true. Maybe, Hermione thought, Narcissa realized that she would receive something back for playing along this time, like she had all those other times. Narcissa’s heart sank under the realization that for the daughter of House Black this would just be yet another quid pro quo. Nothing quite as pureblood as getting your heart broken over a deal you did not realize you were making.
“See you in thirty, then,” said Narcissa, looking at her wristwatch before turning towards the door and leaving Hermione by herself. Hermione waited the requisite amount of time so as to not draw any suspicions and left the stall, noticing another bunch of political groupies at the sinks before exiting to the hotel’s gala space. She saw Narcissa on the other side of the room talking to someone she recognized from the Nigerian IWC delegation – a business contact, probably – and made her way towards the Minister’s table to begin the long affair of saying goodbye to all the right people and exchanging promises that would become necessary for the administration’s success this term. A lot of it was posturing, of course. Hermione used the terms ‘Light-Dark consensus’ and ‘common interests’ as if she was a belly dancer waving sequins past the eyes of a sultan. She was aware, of course, that she was being misled as well. As Dennis Miller-McNair once said, ‘Magical London is to lying what China is to tea. So she carried on lying and nodding and being invited to all sorts of functions until she noticed the ink and starlight-colored hair of Narcissa Black by the main entrance of the ballroom. Hermione also saw Ron and his daft blonde off to the side exchanging pleasantries with a Witch Weekly correspondent. And so the final piece in the puzzle started walking to the entrance as well.
Narcissa did not notice Hermione behind her until a delicate hand fell on her shoulders and interrupted her conversation with IWC Representative Estrada from the Magical and Non-Magical Intelligence Committee. “Darling”, Hermione purred into the pureblood’s ear and smiled upon noticing them turning red.
“My apologies, Roque,” Hermione said to the Representative.
“Not at all, Hermione,” he replied. “We were just finishing our chat.” Hermione gave him a polite smile before the representative nodded at the pair and walked away to continue mingling.
“Didn’t know you were on first-name basis with him,” Narcissa said as she turned around.
“Have to be. Might be the new Majority Leader if the ICW elections go in our favor.”
“So that’s what Minister Podmore saw in you,” Narcissa told Hermione, respect evident in her eyes as she tilted her face up at her. “You’re better at the political game of chess than what you showed in your early days.”
Hermione suddenly felt too exposed by the tall woman’s intense gaze. She had to regain control of the situation, of herself, and so she leaned in and whispered so that only Narcissa could hear, “I’m glad you let yourself be my pinned pawn, then.” Hermione did not notice the sharp breath Narcissa took at that moment nor the movements of the many attendees walking by. She had even forgotten about Ron, who was now walking over to hit her with a sharp barb. All she noticed now that she was closer to Narcissa's face than she had ever been were the pureblood's lips and how her lip gloss shone against the soft light of the chandeliers above them. Forgotten, too, was whatever agreement had been made. The only thing in Hermione's mind at that moment was deep, unfiltered instinct.
In the waning hours of what had so far been an unremarkable Ministerial Correspondents’ Dinner, a camera flashed as the Deputy Minister softly kissed the Last Member of House Black in the ballroom of the London Savoy Hotel.