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People are vulnerable in dressing rooms.
That applies to everyone, I find – even the powerful; the mighty. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, especially the powerful and the grand – for those people have more to cogitate; bigger decisions to make; further to fall.
There is the nakedness involved, of course – and the physical stripping-away will discombobulate some more than others – but the effect, I say, is more of a psychological one.
It’s that liminal space – the one between what you are, and what you might be; what you want to be. No-one tries on robes for themselves exactly in the present, you see; orders of that sort are dispatched straight by owl. If they come into the shop, there’s something going on – and I’m the first to know about it.
Now, my friend who runs Sonia’s Salon for the Stylish Sorceress, just down the road, will claim that people come to her to lay their souls bare – what with the reassuring bubble-wash, Witch Weekly on the side table and Perm-u-matic buzzing away so that no-one can overhear too much. She gets all the juicy gossip, she says.
And she’s probably right. She gets to hear everything that people come in thinking that they want to say. My trade is infinitely more subtle. Less animated at first, but with the right person on the right day, infinitely deeper.
A dressing room is a tiny auditorium of the absurd – with just you, your reflection, your thoughts – and whatever disruption you’ve chosen to throw into the mix, courtesy of me. It’s theatre at its barest; most joyous; most poignant. The unguarded moments that let ideas take flight, new realities dawn and the truth break free.
I hear that in Hogwarts castle they have a mirror that shows your heart’s desire, and people can pine away in front of it for years. I don’t have any such Dark magic in my shop – it’s a clean trade, and besides, my Hufflepuff magic is much better suited to rows of tiny, neat stitches than the kind of magery that’ll steal your soul – but I don’t need it, anyway. My customers go in alone, together with their hopes, dreams and fears, behind my tasselled curtain. It’s all there: an exquisite, pocket-sized drama. What are you? What do you long to be? Do you have the bravery to become it?
My charmed mirror asks all the right questions, but he’s not too pushy. I ordered him by Floo from a firm in the States, and – by Merlin – it was difficult to turn him down a hundred notches or so! The accent was one thing – my customers tend to be a bit suspicious of imports – but it was the ‘Have a Nice Day!’s and ‘Missing You Already!’s that really put the teeth on edge. He’s now mainly quiet, unless people need a bit of help.
And when they emerge, they’ll talk. Of course, it might not be with words, but I’m good at understanding the meaning of a glance, a shuffle, a renewed straightness to the back, or brightness of the eye. In fact, I reckon that people come out of dressing rooms with the look of those who have returned from a quest. Some are broken, and realise that they weren’t courageous enough after all – and some are triumphant. It’s my job to help them with that; how they’ve changed, what that means for them, what they’re going to do next. I’m useful in that regard – friendly, but impartial. Sympathetic, but not too close.
Some would call it cheap therapy; I call it positive customer service. They do keep coming back, you see. One cannot run the country’s most successful robe shop without knowing how people tick.
Now, speaking of a successful robe shop, you probably know that this time of year is one of my busiest! What with the Christmas parties and presents, the family gatherings, and work nights out on Diagon Alley, there’s certainly plenty to do, and lots of urgent orders winging their way in my direction. The one event that indubitably brings the most trade to me, and high excitement to everyone else, though, is of course, the Ministry Ball.
Some people hate it. In fact, they get so worked-up and invested in hating it, that the ritual of advance loathing is almost more significant than the event itself, and becomes secretly enjoyable. Some idolise it – desperate to be invited when they’re not, and star-struck when they are. Both of these types are operettas in the dressing room; it’s my job to guide the action to the appropriate, tidy conclusion, ringing loudly through the till like the plot conclusion that you could have spotted half-way through Act One.
The most established, well-heeled and significant of my clients tend to take the Ball in their stride: an annual marker of their position and responsibilities. It therefore takes my eye for detail to tell when such people find themselves unsettled – and then it can get really rather interesting.
Dressing Room: Tartan
Headmistress Minerva McGonagall gave herself a very old-fashioned look. The problem was, the robes she had ordered were not old-fashioned at all – even though she was – and she wondered exactly who she was trying to kid.
She cringed when she admitted that she knew the answer to that, too. Oh, Circe, what a mess!
Minerva peered again at the style she had chosen. It was nothing brash, of course – Merlin, no. But the asymmetrical cut and the statement peaked shoulders – was it too much? Was it screaming, ‘yes, I may not be young, but I am very much looking for adventure and new experiences’ in a way that way that was so obvious, she’d be a laughing stock? Was she simply too old for all of this?
Minerva sighed, and turned away from the mirror, patting stray hairs back into their accustomed bun, tightly knotted and disciplined. Yes, she could be thought severe, and astringent, and antique… but all of a sudden, she’d been seized by a compulsion not to be thought dowdy.
Impulsively, Minerva opened her handbag and extracted the papers inside. They had arrived a week ago, but hadn’t yet made it into her filing system, instead holding them close, carrying them with her. So as not to lose them, she protested, and then gave herself another withering look. Who do you think you’re fooling, you old twit?
The card was so stiff, it was sharp at the corners and she could support it by just the diagonal points. She traced the Ministry emblem with her finger, embossed deeply into the snow-white in rich gold leaf. Then the text below:
The Ministry of Magic requests the presence of
Professor Minerva McGonagall
At the Ministerial Inauguration Ball.
Saturday, 31st December.
Ministry Headquarters, London.
Reception from 7.30 p.m. Carriages at 1 a.m.
R.S.V.P. by owl to Ministry Central Exchange.
Of course, she had attended the Ball several times since becoming Headmistress – it was part of the job. This time felt distinctly different, though. Minerva unfolded the parchment that had accompanied the invitation; she had done this so many times, the creases folded both ways. By now, she knew what it said by heart – but followed that neat, careful handwriting across the page once more, regardless.
Dear Minerva,
I do hope this message finds you well.
I have so very much appreciated our work together over the past year on the Wizarding Education Strategy. With the passing of the Muggleborn Engagement Policy in the Wizengamot this month, I think we’re making real progress – and that will hopefully pave the way for further reform on the Co-education of Magical Beings Bill, on which certain parties are being particularly recalcitrant. Of course, I hope to have further leverage in the New Year, but it still won’t be easy. Our collaboration has been key to this progress, and I wanted to write to say just how much it means to me; I couldn’t have achieved half as much without your wise counsel.
And also, if I may say so, I have very much enjoyed your company – especially during a year that, for me, has seen as many personal upheavals as it has personal successes. Thank you very much indeed for your tea, biscuits, generosity of time, and kind words when I needed them. I really do appreciate it.
Those things taken together, I hope you won’t find it too strange if I were to invite you to be my personal guest at the Inauguration Ball next month? Of course, I fully understand if you already have plans for that evening – but, if you can make it and wouldn’t mind braving another Ministry roundelay with me, your invitation is enclosed, and I’d be really delighted.
Yours,
Hermione x
Minerva touched the signature with a gentle forefinger. The absolute best part of the last year had been working together with Hermione, as she completed her seat before taking Office. What had started as a professional set of meetings between Hogwarts Headmistress and Head of the Department for Magical Education and Training had turned into an ideological tour de force, with an absolute flurry of new ideas, the promise of reform not seen on such scale since the end of the war, and papers submitted so swiftly the ink was barely dry. She’d felt excited; inspired; useful. There had been late nights, urgent owls and constant, shifting manoeuvring to be done around Ministry politics… all of which had all been topped off by long lunches, wide-ranging fireside chats, and increasingly lingering cosy dinners.
-And also increasingly, Minerva had found herself thinking of Hermione as more than just a colleague and friend. But that was simply a hopeless train of thought… wasn’t it?
Minerva gave herself a little grimace and tried to disband such notions. She was clearly letting her imagination run away with her. Again. She shook her head with vigour, trying to shake some sense into it, and wondered how she had – decked out in a fashion-forward set of robes the likes of which she’d never before purchased, even when she had been young – come to this.
Perhaps she was losing her gobstones. Admittedly, the onset of the doolally at her age would be young for a witch, but such things could happen.
Perhaps she was just lonely?
Minerva had been between lovers for longer than she cared to admit; ever since she and Rolanda… well, the less said about that, the better.
There was something about Hermione, though – passionate, driven, honourable, sparky – that made Minerva sure that the attraction she felt wasn’t simply a miscellaneous one, imprinting on the first person with whom she had spent personal time of late, like an elderly baby Occamy. It was something very specific; very special. And dealing with this – surely one-sided – fancy was driving her quite to distraction.
It certainly didn’t help that, from an aesthetic perspective, Hermione has blossomed into exactly the type of witch who had always made Minerva’s breath catch and her id take notice. Perhaps it was a primaeval attraction to Opis, the goddess of plenty, in perfect counterpoint to the goddess of wisdom? That was a nice way to intellectualise her carnal preferences, thought Minerva to herself with no little satire… but whatever it was, she had it in spades.
Indeed, Minerva went gooey for women who were generously curved, and always had done. Buxom some might say, but she was never quite sure about the wench-like connotations of that word. She preferred voluptuous. Minerva could melt at the sight of a well-appointed bosom, fulsome hips and a plush arse.
And Hermione… Merlin’s balls she was just perfect – and in all their intellectual, wholesome and hard-working discourse, Minerva had been finding it increasingly difficult not to stare.
Her mind wandered to the Ball, and the fact that something a little low cut, a little figure-hugging on that young woman would drive her absolutely wild; she could only imagine the acres of creamy decolletage… and then chastised herself once again for not only being foolish, but unrealistic, and quite possibly a creep. It was a pretty state of things, indeed.
Minerva scowled at her reflection once again, with gusto. However unconventional the design she had commissioned with her family tartan, the robes fitted, and would have to do. She would go, she resolved – and be professional, and would not embarrass herself. If anyone thought the outfit odd – well, at least it would be a distraction, if not an enticement. It would be fine. She gave herself a firm nod.
…But was there any reciprocal interest, there? Even a hint? And even if there were, had she… forgotten how to do it? Was she so out of practice, that the very idea she might enter into another relationship should be hung up for good, alongside her Quidditch broom and plans to hitch across the Middle East on magic carpets?
Minerva re-read the note for the umpteenth-and-a-half time – noting the little ‘x’ at the end, and then supposing that younger witches signed all their personal correspondence like that, these days. She stood up on tiptoes, and rocked backward and forward, like a restless firstie.
Was she being invited as a sort of mentor-figure, or as a… date? Minerva dearly hoped it was the latter, and then berated herself again for being so desperately silly. At her age.
*
Professor McGonagall swept out of the dressing room, seeming to have made up her mind. She’d been in there for ages – but of course, that’s not a thing I’d comment on. Not as I value my internal organs, at least.
I left it a beat before saying anything, and in that moment I sensed a stiffness in her resolve; a brittleness. Interesting I thought, not as tough as she looks.
The modern cut looked good on her, and I said so. It was a new pattern from an up-and-coming young Armenia designer who is making quite a stir in Paris, and I had to devise some variants on the usual hemming charms to construct the collar properly - quite a fun challenge, actually. It wasn’t what I would have expected her to choose, but these tall, wiry women can carry off most things, can’t they? It’s good to try new things – that’s what I always tell my customers, you never know what’s going to work until you try – but I’d never have thought that Headmistress McGonagall would have been the type.
It made me wonder just for a moment whether the choice of robes was intended… entirely for her? Was there some other party involved in this? Someone’s eye that she was hoping to catch? The idea almost made me giggle out loud, so I feigned a cough into my handkerchief. Again, certainly not a question I’d voice, preferring to keep my viscera on the inside, thank-you-very-much. But intriguing, none the less.
The Professor paid with cursory politeness and made her way out, leaving me to turn my attention to the rest of the shop. When I’m not attending to a customer directly, I do like to stand back and watch the rich procession of life that flows through my ground floor. It’s not the soliloquy of the dressing room, but the crowd scene; the chorus. There is every variation on Wizardkind to be seen, here: splashed in primary colours to enjoy unabashedly; pale and unassuming; dark and violent. Sometimes, you see things that fill you with joy. Sometimes, you get to know a thing that’s enough to break your heart.
Take Arthur Weasley, for instance. He tumbled in here the other day, all sweaty palms and red cheeks and shifty expressions. He wanted to talk to me, away from the other customers. I agreed of course, thinking nothing of it.
“I’d like to place an order, please,” he said, blushing to the tips of his ears, “and I’d appreciate it if you could keep the matter confidential”.
I assured him that yes, naturally, I treat all my transactions with the greatest of discretion. He seemed to relax a bit at that, and then pointed out all the things he wanted from one of the racier catalogues I carry – nothing obscene, I hope you realise – but all red underthings of lace and silk. Very nice. Pricey for the amount of material you get, I say, but very nice. I hoped Molly would like them.
When the list was complete and my quill had taken it all down, he took another deep breath, and specified the size he wanted – which turned out to be for a notably svelte woman. I try to help my customers to get it right, so I paused and was about to tactfully suggest that-
“-She’s called Vanessa,” he blurted, with a look of shock that the sounds had come from him, “She’s a Muggle.” His face went almost purple, and his eyes were round and staring. Indeed, my surprise that we were having this conversation seemed second only to his.
Arthur didn’t need to tell me a thing, of course. It appeared, however, that he needed to tell someone – and once he’d started, the words just couldn’t stop themselves.
“I met her when I was sent out to examine a bewitched typewriter in her office,” he said. “Only they don’t call them typewriters any more these days, do they? They’re ‘computators’. Anyway, she… spoke to me. You know, actual conversation, rather than just giving me orders and being too busy to notice. And she showed me all the clever things she does at work – she actually controls the computators, you see – she writes new instructions for them so they can do more things – oooh, it’s ever so clever – and then she asked me to come again, and we started spending time together and got on ever so well, and she was ever so nice, and she invited me to her house, and we got quite close and… oh Merlin, the things she does…” His eyes almost rolled back in his head, just at the thought.
I stood there holding my quill, dumb and blinking. A silence stretched on, while I wondered what on earth to say next, and he was lost somewhere quite apart with his Muggle lover.
Finally – finally – Arthur refocused, and realised that he was standing in a robe shop, mid-conversation. In slow motion, his attention seemed to turn to me, and his flushed face suddenly drained of its colour. “You won’t… you won’t tell Molly, will you?”
And I thought about poor, dear Molly – she’d been in here just the other day, looking at something lovely for herself, but deciding just to buy new robes for the children instead, just like she always does. I thought about her effort and sacrifice. I thought about her world being torn apart, and – I admit – I thought about what bad publicity it would be for my business if that safe place for secrets and inner hopes and dark desires were to leak. A long beat passed between us, Arthur and me.
“Tell her what?” I replied breezily, and set-to on finishing up the order. He seemed to relax; a puddle of lust and bad decisions.
I charged him a spurious extra three Sickles for ‘wrapping’, which I’ll deduct from Molly’s next order. Petty, I know. –And yes, I know it ultimately doesn’t make a difference – but it did let me feel as if I was enacting some tiny justice, so allow me that. We can’t all be elected to High Office to set the world to rights, now, can we?
Dressing Room: Velvet
In the quietude of those four fabric walls, Hermione looked at herself in the eye, and took a moment just to think. It was a rare moment; she probably hadn’t stopped and taken stock for… well, who knows how long? Everything had been a frenzy. So much had changed.
Hermione’s life, she thought, had always seemed to feature doing things early; fast. Too early? Too fast? Fighting a war at the age of eighteen was certainly in that category, as was all the fallout that followed. –And now, here she was aged thirty-eight: married, divorced, and choosing her robes for her Inauguration Ball as Minister for Magic Elect. What a ride.
She was proud of what she’d achieved, so far. Of course she was; it would be disingenuous not to be. At the same time, though, there was this strange sense of being unrooted; up in the air; unreal, somehow – as if she were watching all these magnificent things happening to someone else. How odd that she could feel simultaneously in control of her life’s path, and just about to enter free-fall.
Indeed, Hermione knew that she was on the cusp of something. She was to be the youngest Minister the UK had inaugurated in two centuries; not since Elgin the Ineffable in 1785 had they chosen – via that byzantine process of committees, subcommittees, factions and favours that Wizards favoured in lieu of democracy – someone under fifty. It was an absolute honour, and Hermione hoped with every fibre of her being that she would be wise, clever and hard-working enough to live up to it.
She fixed her reflection with an expectant look, in the way that a coach might egg-on her star performer. You can do this. Really, there was so much that she wanted to do; she was absolutely bursting with ideas and energy and… the tumult of it all was making her feel somewhat as if she were riding a sky-borne Abraxan and had lost the reins.
Hermione took a deep breath, and felt the fabric of her new robes push back snugly against her torso. It was a classic design, and Madam Malkin had done a wonderful job; every stitch and seam was neat and perfect. The choice had been a calculated one: a design that had roots in the history of Wizarding dress, in a deep forest-green velvet. Although many of her ideas were considered progressive, she didn’t want to disenfranchise the centrists of the Ministry and their allies, and she’d hoped her robes would be a signal of respect for wholesome traditions, and a willingness to work together. Her detractors probably thought that she was going to turn up to the Ball in jeans and a t-shirt.
She laughed at that – enjoying the little spurt of absurdity in her new position – and idly fingered the gold trim at the neckline of the dress. Of course, she had also hoped that an elegant choice in natural colours might appeal to…
Catching herself, Hermione rolled her eyes at her reflection. Ah, well, there it was. The real reason for the commotion in her mind – when in truth, she was excellent at keeping matters of work in orderly, sectioned thoughts. This feeling of floating, disconnection, wavering: she couldn’t help but wonder whether she might be on the cusp of something personal, too.
Pricked by that thought, Hermione turned to examine herself a little more carefully. Was the cut a touch too low? Nice robes, but how did they really look on her?
She smoothed her hands over the velvet covering her breasts, stomach and hips, trying to fight away the fear as to whether or not she was still on the becoming side of bookishly-plump. It didn’t matter – Merlin, if you’re about to start running a country, such things really, really shouldn’t matter – but however important and accomplished she became, part of her inside was still just a girl, wanting to be liked. Hermione turned to her side, and winced as she saw how her belly stood out, despite the flattering cut. Maybe I’ll ask Madam Malkin about a girdle, she thought – and then berated herself on behalf of her Muggle forebears who had fought tooth and nail against such symbols of oppression; the last thing she was going to do was betray those brave women now. It was a shame that the Wizarding World was in some ways more backward – but that was her job, to change things, wasn’t it? To make things fairer and better. She was supposed to be a Minister, not a model, after all.
Aagh. But that didn’t stop the fact that she also wanted to be pretty. Especially that night, with that person. She shook her head and blinked hard – what a daft mess.
It didn’t help that many years ago, Hermione had harboured a stupendous crush on her Housemistress. It had started as an admiration, but as she matured, her imaginings had become increasing exotic, all with a sharp eye and a Scottish lilt at their centre. Of course, she had not breathed a word of this to anyone – very much least of all, the object of her fantasies – but when Mrs. Weasley had happened to mention in passing one summer that Professor McGonagall was a witch preferred witches, that had sent Hermione’s reveries into overdrive. It was a fascination that had slept, but had never left her, bubbling up in her mind from time to time, always leaving her feeling utterly unsated. Was it unreasonable to imagine unpinning the Headmistress’s hair and loosening the tightly-buttoned collar at her throat to reveal what was beneath? Was it childish to imagine Minerva’s hands on her body, and her clipped voice softening to whisper affectionate words as they lay together, afterwards? Hermione felt herself tingling and blushing, and was glad for the privacy of the curtained cubicle.
Of course, the attraction was far from solely physical. Breaking up with Ron had felt less like a terrible wrench, and more like correcting an error that she had made in the past. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him – he was a nice chap, and she hoped that, in time, they would be friends – but Hermione knew she wanted more. Needed more. More ambition; more wit; more intellectual conversation; more understanding. And now, back on her course of being driven and single, she felt somehow as if she had picked up the threads of where her life was supposed to have gone, without Voldemort and sorrow and comfort and cleaving together because that’s all they’d had, getting in the way. Now, maybe, just maybe, she had been so lucky as to have found the companion for whom she yearned.
Hermione took another deep breath, now acutely aware of how her tummy pushed against the fabric, and feeling all rather out of her depth. She and Minerva got on well, it seemed – their wide-ranging conversation would flow for hours, and when Hermione sent an owl, she’d have the beat of wings back at her own window the same day… but would Minerva be willing to consider anything more than a platonic exchange? The Headmistress’s high standards in all matters likely demanded more than the dumpy little witch who Hermione seemed to have become, anyway – and the fervent hopes that she had enclosed with that invitation were probably best left as unspoken pipedreams. Hermione sighed and fiddled with the sleeve of her new robes, feeling suddenly overcome with melancholy.
“She thinks you’re ravishing.”
Startled, Hermione cast around for the source of the voice. Surely this was a private dressing room? She relaxed a little when she realised it was only a charmed mirror, and fixed it with a non-plussed glare. “What?”
“I just thought you’d like to know that,” was all it said – and no amount of further questioning would elicit whether this was actually the insight that made the butterflies in her tummy dance for joy and her heart sing, or just a faulty piece of spellwork.
*
When Hermione emerged, she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, the poor dear. Well, I don’t blame her; it is an awful lot to be taking on.
She’s done ever so well for herself, that girl. I remember when she first came into my shop – all hair and teeth and hope. And now, what an impressive personage she is! Kind, too. That’s important, in my book – that however grand someone gets, it’s the measure of them as to how they treat the little people; the rest of us. Ms. Granger passes with flying colours, I say – lovely young woman; honoured to know her.
The robes were an excellent choice for the occasion, too – real gravitas to be had with a traditional look. I’d used my finest trim on the neckline at no extra charge.
Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Do you think they’re a bit… tight?” she asked, gesturing at the fit of the bodice. She seemed a tad self-conscious, but no need for it – she looked lovely. A travesty that these days witches seem to think they have to be parchment-thin to look good. Nasty Muggle influence, I reckon – that and the trend against proper robes on a day-to-day basis.
I reassured young Hermione that all was in order, but I could cast a Charm to loosen things just a little, if she’d like some more ‘give’ for the dancing. It’s a clever spell, even though I say so myself – not an expansion Charm, because that would spoil the regular nap of the cloth – but a tiny Accio of the stitches a little further into the seam allowance. One has to be very careful to keep an even, flowing line – but after so many years of practice, my wand can practically do it by itself.
Hermione seemed happier after that, and gave an experimental twirl. “You’ll be the belle of the Ball, my dear!” I said.
“You’re very kind.” She hesitated for a second. “Just one more thing, if that’s alright, Madam Malkin? Your mirror... what kind of Charm does it have, exactly? I mean – for example – does it have any Memory and Recall Enchantment, or is it a more basic Compliment-Generating Spell, just to be nice to people?”
I smiled broadly at that. “It’s absolutely top of the range, my dear! The Reflectomage 2000, from Elegant Eldritch Enterprises in New York. It can understand and respond in at least twelve languages, has a working Spellbank Memory of up to two-thousand different clients, and retains information essentially indefinitely.” I frowned a little. “But why do you ask? He wasn’t making a nuisance of himself, was he?”
“Oh, no! Not at all,” she said quickly, and a curious sort of pleased flush climbed up her pretty cheeks. “Well, thank you very much. I’ll settle up and be on my way, now, if that’s ok with you.”
Hermione paid quickly, and left with an expression of plucky hope and a spring in her step that had not been there when she had arrived. She reminded me then of that tiny girl from so many years before, with wide eyes and Hogwarts, a History tucked under one arm, about to embark upon her new adventure. I suppose she – once again - was.
Yes; it’s nice when customers seem happy to come into the shop. Even better when they seem to have been cheered-up by the experience – and a little retail therapy among the populus isn’t bad for business, I have to admit. Sometimes, though, what you get is just pure joy laid out on stage: the pastoral ballet; the comic interlude; the variety show. All one needs to do is sit back and relish every moment.
Take Horace and Filius, for instance. They’re very regular customers of mine – even more so, since they found one another – and they’re now so full of light and life that everyone – and I mean every one of us – could do to take a leaf out of their book.
It’s such a pleasure to hear those plummy tones call, “Ah, Madam Malkin!” through the display racks, or when Filius creeps in so very quietly I haven’t noticed, and then starts my mannequins off in a silly dance around the whole ground floor. Or sometimes, they just stroll up to the counter, hand-in-hand, simply glowing.
It’s the way that people are illuminated by finding love, I guess – an adoration that shines so brightly between them, and is so fulsome and ebullient, it overspills and lights up the applauding audience, too.
Not that it was easy. I understand that those two went through quite a merry dance of things before they made it to the same page – lots of cautious courtship, second-guessing, testing the water, being ever-so-polite so as not to be misunderstood and to inadvertently spoil things, and of course treading on eggshells the whole time because even if it didn’t work out, they’d still have to be colleagues. -Yes, I remember now, a good period of about a year when Filius was so jumpy he’d accidentally leave little sparks in the wake of his wand – really played havoc with my carpet, that did – and Horace was so preoccupied by what to do, he was even off his food, and all my finest creations started to look a bit too baggy. I was so glad when they sorted themselves out; I really was!
As I hinted, both Horace and Filius were well-dressed wizards in their own right, but now they’re egging each other on, they’ve really taken it to the next level.
“For the Ball, my dear Madam Malkin, we’re thinking purple brocade,” declared Horace, the other day.
“Matching, of course,” added Filius, “but whereas Horace would like the lining in gold silk, I rather fancy silver.” They then went on to explain all the different kinds of embroidery, fittings and fancy details they’d like:
“Flared cuffs, please-”
“-Oh, and a bit of a train – with a levitation Charm so as not to trip-”
“-And perhaps some of those delightful filigree clasps?”
“Why yes! Definitely those…”
It’s a real pleasure to sew for people who are going to appreciate it. Not only is Horace a real gentleman – perfect manners, remembers everyone’s name even if he hasn’t met them personally, and tips generously – he could hold his own in conversation with any magical tailor and cutter. Really understands the finer points of construction, Horace does, and he’ll sometimes even request a specific Charm to be used on a detail of his next commission. Oh, and as well as being a natty dresser, he’s such a charmer, to boot. I daresay he could sweep me off my feet any day he liked – but not much chance of that, alas! Not now that he’s found his Filius.
After placing their order they browsed the displays for a little while, picking up this and that, offering things to one another, and giggling and stealing kisses like a pair of young lovers. Beautifully tactile, they are, too. Nothing lewd of course – certainly not in public – but there is a palpable magnetism, there: a lingering hand on a shoulder or in the small of a back; a touch to the cheek; a stray strand of hair lovingly brushed aside. Horace and Filius show us the Platonic ideal of a relationship, to which mere mortals aspire – the demonstrative entr’acte; the moralising Greek chorus. How humbling. What bliss!
I went home buoyed that day, pleased that at least some people were going to be having a magnificent time at the Ball.
*****
I’ve always enjoyed my little side-job on New Year’s Eve. They put me – the emergency seamstress for the night – in a little side room off the main hall, and keep me well-supplied with all the nice food and a few of the drinks. Not too many to stop me casting straight, mind, but I do like a little sherry at Christmas.
How much my services are needed varies enormously from year to year, but there’s usually plenty to do. Missing buttons and snagged hems are all par for the course, but some rather more creative repairs can be required to get a middle-aged wizard through the night when it turns out that his dress robes have been languishing at the back of a wardrobe for a few years too many. It’s all in a night’s work – and sometimes the third sherry can actually be a bit of a help when it’s a matter of Transfiguring some basic cloth into a patch to blend across an impossibly rent seam; I’d usually be too fastidious to do it, let alone do it quickly enough to get said wizard back into the party in a jiffy.
The best thing of all, though, is that I get to watch. Robes play a very important part at balls, you see, and it’s wonderful to see my creations out in the wild. All of those ambitions and alternative personae are being tried-on – often out in public for the first time – and I can see who is faltering in their new versions, and who is getting on marvellously with being this fresh, improved rendition of themselves. Like an actor before a crowd on opening night, good dress robes give people a license to find what the audience reception will actually be. I find it endlessly fascinating.
The early arrivals were very much the usual suspects. Minister Shacklebolt looked as regal as ever, greeting guests at the door and inviting everyone inside toward the food, drink and dizzying decorations. There was a certain lightness about his manner that I’d not seen before; jovial and grinning, he certainly seemed to be looking forward to a well-earned retirement. After over twenty years in post, I don’t blame him, not at all! That’s not an easy job, and he’s done it with integrity and style. I claim no little credit for the style.
Speaking of style, Horace and Filius bowled in almost immediately, looking charming in their matching brocade. They took the opportunity to have a good twirl while the dance floor was still almost empty, spinning around the hall in an expensive purple blur, like a pair of young sweethearts. They stopped, breathless and laughing, and then set about demolishing the splendid buffet that was laid out along the side of the hall. That’s what joie de vivre looks like, I thought, and made a mental note to be more ambitious in all my dress-robe creations – they’d pushed me to make something really over-the-top, and it’s some of my finest work, even though I do say so myself.
As if hearing those thoughts from across the room, Horace’s dulcet timbre reached my little nook: “Ah, Madam Malkin!”
I greeted them both, and accepted the cocktail that Filius had so thoughtfully brought across. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he beamed, particularly admiring the auto-levitating train, “Neatest bit of sewn-in spellwork I’ve seen for years!”
I thanked them, not only for the kind words, but for being such fabulous clothes-horses. These days I don’t really need to advertise; Horace and Filius do it for me.
People had continued to flood into the hall while we were chatting, and everyone was brought to a pause, then, by the sound of trumpets. Most folk gathered around the doorway; I stood up to maintain my view – and in ceremony, the Minister for Magic Elect processed into the Ball, looking radiant, if a little nervous, and on her arm… Headmistress McGonagall. Well, I never!
-So, that’s why the Professor had been experimenting with new styles, I thought – more in the limelight than usual, this year. I wondered whether she’d let me get a picture; young Davit, the designer, would be pleased for the exposure. We in the trade have to stick together, you know.
It made sense that Hermione had needed a companion, of course; divorce is a tricky business, even if the parties involved had tried to be reasonable about it, which is the case as far as I’ve heard. I can see why she wanted someone who was well apart from all that, with her for the Ball – and Professor McGonagall is certainly not one for petty gossip; even I will give her that.
After the official announcement, the crowd shifted and mingled, everyone greeting old friends and new. There was a never-ceasing swarm around the Minister Elect, friendly factions offering genuine praise, while would-be detractors came forth with their mealy-mouthed congratulations and bargaining chips. Hermione seemed to handle it all with aplomb; she’ll be good, I’m sure of it.
The evening then seemed to take up it’s stride and settle in, and a little flow of work began to trickle my way. It starts with the spills – champagne on velvet; mayonnaise on silk; grass stains on damask. Then, when the cocktail supply has been dented and the dancing begins to take flight, we get the rips and the tears.
Somewhere between a snagged pocket and fraying hem, I had a small lull. The solitude of my side-room was interrupted, though, by a sheepish grin around the door. The owner of the grin was Arthur Weasley.
“Madam Malkin, so sorry to bother you… do you have a moment?” he asked.
I did, and bade him come in. He made a bit of a pantomime of pointing out a missing button that wasn’t really missing – from an angle that might be seen through the doorway.
Arthur chewed his lip and dared a glance at me. “I’ve been such a fool.” He swallowed, hard. “I never should have… Please can I cancel my previous order? Or better yet, transfer the credit to something nice for Molly? You could choose…”
He was really pleading now – and I did let the moment draw itself out, I admit. A good squirm on his part seemed quite fitting.
Of course, I did say ‘yes’, though, and he looked flooded with relief. The ‘you choose’ gave me pause – but perhaps Arthur was learning about discretion being the better part, and so forth – and it was a fair point; I likely would choose better. We agreed that Molly’s late Christmas present would be dispatched by owl the next day, and I mentally allocated two Sickles back onto his balance sheet for this purpose.
All agreed, he mimed thanking me for the imaginary button, and went out to join dear Molly. Arthur bowed to her, and swept her up in a dance – the happiest those two have looked for years, I reckon. Well, they say that you don’t appreciate what you’ve got until you’re at risk of losing it, don’t they?
The evening wore on and the music picked up its pace. Hermione seemed to be granted a little relief from her supplicants, and was chatting animatedly with the Professor, who was responding in kind. Then – and I wasn’t expecting this – they took to the dance floor together, and foxtrotted around with the best of them, making rather an elegant pair. Indeed, I daresay I took something of a professional interest in the scene. The striking curved epaulettes of the Headmistress’s robes made a perfect frame for Hermione’s soft, luscious gown; the velvet flowed around them as the couple danced, pooling and swooping in their wake like the wings of a magical bird.
That was about when the really busy time of the night hit for me; I soon had a queue that snaked out of my little room, and along one side of the hall. I cast mending, patching and darning Charms as quickly as I could – and generally did a passable job of getting everyone through the night without losing their modesty. It’s a pleasant job, really – everyone’s so grateful for what you’ve managed to do, even if it’s only a temporary fix. I got more smiles and thanks in that three hours or so than some of my quieter weeks in the shop put together.
In fact, I was so busy, that I looked up again at the wider scene only when the band was winding down, travelling cloaks were being retrieved, and a steady stream of folk were heading out to their carriages. The hall was pretty empty, and there was a sense of contented tiredness in the air; New Year had been marked some hours ago. My gaze passed over a few little knots of witches and wizards still chatting and sipping a late drink – you’ve got to give the Ministry credit for that; they’re generous enough to keep pouring as long as people keep wanting a refill – and saw that Hermione and Professor McGonagall were sitting cosily together in a bay window seat, their conversation sheltered from the remaining hubbub of the main hall by the curve of the stonework.
I couldn’t hear what they might have been saying, but I saw Hermione take what seemed to be a steading gulp of whisky, and a deep breath. She looked down, where her fingers were fiddling with the hem of her robe, and then said something to Professor McGonagall, peeking up through her eyelashes. She turned a shade of pink somewhere between carmine and fuchsia.
That was curious enough – but what happened next astonished me even more: Professor McGonagall broke out into the widest, most giddy smile I have ever seen on a witch – let alone that witch. She was beaming; glowing; radiating. Absolutely uncanny, I tell you.
They exchanged a few breathless words and giggles, and then – from my particular vantage point just off the hall – I was probably the only person who saw the Minister-Elect slip her hand into the waiting palm of the Headmistress, and the two Disapparate together, with that particular, very special glow radiating between them.
(Un)dressing Room
They appeared in Hermione’s new London flat, hands firmly locked, and gazing into each other’s eyes. Unlike the neat tidiness of her dwelling, Hermione’s thoughts were a frenzy of triumph and excitement and elation; she couldn’t quite say who at last closed the distance between their mouths, coming together in a crushing, passionate kiss, the kind of which she had dreamed for years.
Minerva too felt as if she might have fallen through into the Mirror of Erised and not realised it – for surely this amorous, intelligent and beautiful young woman in her arms was her very heart’s desire. She clasped Hermione’s shoulders, almost holding on lest it turned out to be all an Illusion, and felt Hermione’s fingers play gently against the back of her neck, pulling her down further into the kiss and twining into the neatly-gathered strands at her scalp.
They must have continued like that for some minutes, barely drawing breath, eyes closed and minds awhirl. Finally, Hermione detached herself a little, fingers still playing near Minerva’s bun. “May I… take down your hair?” she whispered, thrilled and pinching herself at the very idea that such fantasy might come true.
Minerva smiled, and battled with herself a little. In all her more recent relationships – if one could call them that – she had made love with her hair firmly up. Strangely – for it was very strange if one were to consider all else that she had gladly done with said other women, she thought – Minerva felt far less vulnerable that way. It was as if she tucked away all her softness and foibles into that neat knot – all her girlishness, all her silly vanity, for that is surely what it was – and kept her deeper self away from the tumbles she might have enjoyed in the past. It was much safer that way.
Besides, thought Minerva, would the grey make her seem fossilised and foolish? Was she too old to keep such long locks, anyway? Tidily wrapped up, no one usually saw an old witch in such an asinine state… would Hermione realise this was all a daft mistake and run away for a younger lover?
Oh, it was agonising. All the more so, when Minerva felt she was so close to all that of which she had been moonishly dreaming. She didn’t want to spoil it, now.
Hermione noticed the pause, and watched Minerva keenly, then quizzically. She tilted her head to one side. “Please?”
Swallowing hard, Minerva schooled her thoughts into those of calm and trust, and turned to one side to give Hermione better access. It wouldn’t do to be a coward, now. “Of course.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but cursed herself as the quaver in her own voice reached her ears. Luckily, though, the grin that broke out on Hermione’s face really helped to calm her nerves.
Hermione reached out with slightly unsteady fingers. Minerva’s bun was densely fixed; almost impenetrable. In her younger days, it had been the very symbol of the unobtainable nature of the woman she so desired. And now… she slid away one hairpin after another, luxuriating in the task – and the braid became looser – glossy and fluid under her fingers – until at last Minerva’s hair tumbled down all at once, silky black and silver, like Thestrals in the moonlight.
Hermione ran her fingers through Minerva’s locks. They were astonishingly long and beautiful: gentle waves that reached past her waist. “Oh,” she breathed. Hermione combed from Minerva’s roots all the way to the tips, and felt an absolute thrill of lust. “I’ve… I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time.”
Minerva had been bracing herself for a non-plussed reaction, but now she felt a little shock of flattered happiness. “Really?” she asked. “How long?”
Hermione giggled. “I’m not telling you! But let’s just say a really long time.”
Minerva turned and captured Hermione’s mouth again, and she felt the curtain of her hair slip around them both like a shared cloak. Then, emboldened by Hermione’s words, she finally allowed herself to touch and explore that breathtaking figure before her; her hands slid so perfectly around Hermione’s waist and up her sides, and then over and around the sumptuous curves of her hips and her bottom. Oh Gods, her bottom: two perfect rounds encased in fine velvet. Minerva expected that every witch and wizard at the ball must have been beside themselves with desire when they’d watched Hermione dance. She kissed a trail down Hermione’s throat, and in an excitement of forwardness, cupped her exquisite bosom. The silky white expanse beckoned Minerva’s kisses, down, down, until she was just about to expose a nipple from the lace edging of Hermione’s dress.
Hermione gave a little gasp, and it was just sharp enough for Minerva to pause and look up, holding Hermione close. She raised her brow in a way that was intended to ask gently whether everything was alright; a pause stretched between them.
“I’ve… I’ve never been with a woman, before,” Hermione murmured – and then looked down, immediately feeling foolish for it.
Minerva was suddenly halted; she worried that she had done too much; been too forward. “And… do you wish to, now?” She tried to keep her voice sounding even again – but there it was, the quaver.
“-Oh yes, very much so!” Hermione’s words tumbled out, puppydoggish in her rush to avoid any doubt about the situation. “I just… might need some instruction, that’s all.” If there was one thing that made her feel uneasy, it was not having had the opportunity to do her study in advance. Rather like Defence Against the Dark Arts, a book could only take one so far with practical subjects such as this.
Minerva smiled, relief uncoiling within her. “I daresay you won’t, my dear – but if it helps, I’m very happy to provide.”
Hermione relaxed at that – and at the same time allowed herself to delight in the frisson of her schoolgirl fantasy actually coming true. She tugged Minerva into her bedroom, intentions more than clear.
Delighted to resume her explorations, Minerva allowed her hands and her kisses to roam freely, paying close attention to the little sighs and sounds they elicited, and storing up as much learning as she could about what Hermione seemed to like best.
Hermione gave herself over to the exquisite sensations of her lover’s caress. The touch of Minerva’s mouth and tongue set her alight – in turn light and teasing, and passionately demanding. Minerva had slid Hermione’s robes from her shoulders and was undoing the bodice with clever hands, all while suckling and nibbling Hermione’s pert nipple in a way that made her gasp, and hot need to pool within her.
Indeed, Minerva’s ministrations were so effective, Hermione almost didn’t notice that she was soon to be almost entirely naked; it was only when her velvet robes hit the floor, and Minerva detached herself – standing back slightly to get a good view – that she felt all those dressing-room fears flood back in: a cold, dark tidal wave of doubt that flooded the warm happiness in which she had been bathing. Surely, she was too plump to be desirable? Her stomach definitely seemed round rather than fashionably flat, and in her enjoyment of Minerva’s lips and teeth, she’d forgotten to try to hold it in. She darted her arms across to cover her body a bit, and gave Minerva an apologetic, chagrined sort of grin.
Minerva saw the clouds pass across Hermione’s features, and tutted. This wouldn’t do at all. Sodding Muggle customs… It was time for some Gryffindorish straightforwardness, then. She tried to school some sentences together through the haze of her own arousal, and held Hermione’s gaze with her own. “You are sublime, lassie. Like a Renaissance Venus. I’m sorry to gawp, but I do find you breathtakingly attractive.”
Hermione saw the hunger in Minerva’s gaze, and recognised that these were no platitudes. She resisted the urge to ask, “Really?” – but Minerva’s gentle nod that followed answered her unspoken question all the same. It was true, then. Minerva wanted her, really wanted her, just as she was. Hermione decided that she would be mad not to accept that and enjoy it, so she had a strict word with herself, and commanded her mind to relax once more. She didn’t have to try very hard, though – the deal was sealed when Minerva stepped close once more and whispered in her ear: “I want to taste every curve of you.”
At that, Hermione let out a little needy mewling sound and submitted herself to Minerva’s hands – more forceful now – roaming all over her flesh. She felt the tingle of a clever wandless spell, and then she was entirely nude. Minerva guided her backward to lay on her own bed, and Hermione took that lead with gusto, pulling Minerva with her to land between her legs on the soft mattress, even though she was still almost fully clothed.
Minerva grinned, a little wolfishly. “Now, let me take your mind off those Ministerial papers…”
She ghosted her hands over Hermione’s full breasts, soft tummy and ample hips, and simply couldn’t believe her luck. Gods, she was beautiful. She also felt deeply humbled and somehow responsible that this was her young lover’s first encounter with a witch, and vowed to use every bit of learning from her own extensive – and oft colourful – Sapphic career to give Hermione a good time.
Minerva’s fingers stroked and caressed and curled just so, making Hermione gasp and quake, her eyes squeezing shut and her hands grabbing handfuls of the bedclothes. Indeed, Hermione felt things she had no idea her body even could feel; Minerva’s touch was exquisite torture. She was taken there, time and time again, to the quivering edge of release – but then back again, rapturous agony building within her, as she gasped and cried and almost begged, waves of pleasure ricocheting through her, but then not quite, not quite enough, never quite enough. She felt she might be going mad, but it was the best kind of madness; the Lotus-eating kind, from which she hoped to never wake, unless her body couldn’t stand any more.
As it was, some minutes later, Hermione did find that she couldn’t stand any more, as thrilled and intoxicated as she was. She managed to choke out a few words, enough for Minerva to allow her possession of her own mind and pause, just for a moment.
“Certainly, Minister,” Minerva purred, and in some distant corner of her mind that was not totally overcome with need, Hermione wondered whether one possibly could have everything, after all.
Hermione felt her chest heaving as she tried to make her vision swim back into focus. It was then that she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. She raised a mischievous eyebrow in Minerva’s direction, and then flipped their positions, so that Minerva was laying back, and Hermione, unabashed now in her naked glory, raked her eyes across the woman whom she so desired.
“Ahhhh,” sighed Minerva, as she settled back onto the pillows. Her gaze swum upward to Hermione… Hermione with her gorgeously flushed cheeks and cloud of tousled hair, and expression that could only be described as predatory, aimed toward her. In all her wildest flights of fancy, she had not imagined magic such as this.
Hermione sank down to kiss Minerva’s mouth – slowly; luxuriantly. Then, she kissed along that striking jawline, and then watched enthralled as Minerva curled her neck backward to give Hermione better access to her throat. That position of submissiveness – from the most competent and imposing woman she had ever known – made Hermione’s heart somersault in her chest and her desperation redouble. It was truly the most erotic thing she had ever seen: “Oh, gods,” Hermione breathed.
Minerva understood instinctively to what Hermione had responded, and splayed her arms upward in faux-helplessness, arching from the bed. It was a delightful game. “Take me,” she whispered, full of heat and promise.
Hermione did not need to be asked twice. She set to work on the fastenings of Minerva’s stunning modern robes, revealing the warm planes of her body in utmost fascination. Minerva’s waving hair spread out all around them, cascading across the pillows, over Minerva’s shoulders and breasts, and reaching all the way down with a final tantalising lick to the top of her knickers. Hermione trailed her fingers through the strands, following their path, and was rewarded by Minerva squirming beneath her, eyes shut and lips slightly parted. The tartan robes finally cast aside with a nifty spell of her own, Hermione’s hand came to rest at Minerva’s hip, fingertips playing just beneath the top hem of her underwear. “May I?...” Somehow, it still felt right to ask.
Minerva gave out a sound that on a less imposing person might have been described as a squark. “At this stage, I’ll be most cross if you don’t”, she said – with a tone that would have sounded more strict were it not for the raggedness of her breath, the pinkness of her cheeks, and the little flutters of her diaphragm when Hermione experimentally ran a fingernail down her stomach.
The first touch of skin-to-skin was utter, mind-altering bliss. The second, third, fourth and seventy-ninth touches… had them both moaning, learning, begging and crying out with desperate heat and need, until it wasn’t quite clear which hands and voice belonged to whom, or how many times they had each climaxed, shaking in each other’s arms.
Beside the bed, in a happy, tangled heap, lay a dashing robe of tartan and a sumptuous robe of velvet, all vulnerabilities cast aside.
*****
The day after the ball, I sent the order for Molly as I’d promised, and received a charming thank-you note from Horace and Filius, saying that my creations had been much admired and had felt supremely comfortable all night long. Such charmers!
A little while later, as the New Year’s Day sun became as bright as it was able and then a little past its peak, and those who had indulged in a really good time the night before might have been stirring, a second owl came: a large, official-looking one. I read the note that it bore, and smiled:
Our dear Madam Malkin,
Thank you for your sage counsel – and your well-chosen mirror.
With fond regards,
Hermione and Minerva
I do so like it when a play turns out to have a happy ending – don’t you?