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“You’re sure about this?” Head Auror Harry Potter looks between his three detectives with raised eyebrows, and Hermione isn’t sure she’s ever seen him quite so serious. She clenches her case notes tighter between her fingers, the heaviness of Harry’s gaze making her doubt her answer, even though the information is solid.
This case has been top of mind in the DMLE for weeks, mostly in the robbery division of the Auror department. A string of high profile thefts had only been on the periphery of Hermione’s attention until one of the robbery victims had been killed during a heist last week. So far their only source of leads has been attempting to follow the stolen goods, but since many of them are dark artifacts, they aren’t being sold through normal channels and are hard to track. Hermione suspects there are additional victims who haven’t even come forward due to their own crime of owning the items in the first place, but that’s for the robbery division to figure out.
Her job is to solve the homicide that has now come out of this crime spree, and they’ve finally caught a break in doing so. She was expecting a little more enthusiasm from Harry as she presents her evidence, but all she’s getting so far are puzzled frowns and the anxious drum of his fingers on his desk. Hermione chalks it up to the high-profile nature of the case, and the stress Harry must be under from the higher-ups to get it right.
“As sure as the robbery Aurors are, yes,” Hermione replies, refocusing on the task at hand as she straightens her shoulders. “They say they have a source at Borgin and Burkes who confirms that’s where the exchange is taking place.” She tilts her head curiously at Harry. “Why do you ask?”
Behind her, Seamus snickers. “Because Harry’s been looking for something to pin on Malfoy since we were first-years.”
Hermione’s eyes widen. “You know this…” She scrambles in her file for the name of the homeowner. “Draco Malfoy?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Harry says with a heavy sigh. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his temples but doesn’t offer any further details. Clearly there’s more to this story; at least that explains Harry’s odd reaction to the news that their best clue has led them to Malfoy Manor.
“We don’t have any evidence that Malfoy is actually involved in the heists,” Dean pipes up to explain. “Only that the necklace that was stolen from Augusta Wallace is changing hands at his Winter Ball tomorrow night. We think we can trace the killer through the sale.”
“Don’t suppose you’re on the invite list, eh Harry?” Seamus jokes, and Harry finally cracks a smile.
“Fat chance. Has robbery got anyone that deep undercover?” The detectives shake their heads in answer, and Harry sighs again. “Well, I guess that only leaves us one option. Where’s Ron today?”
“He had a meeting at the publishing house this morning,” Hermione answers, maybe too quickly given the smirks that appear on the three men’s faces. Honestly, it’s not like she’s keeping tabs on him; he always tells her when he won’t be available to shadow her, and Hermione rolls her eyes at their reaction. “He should be here soon.”
Harry gives a quick nod in answer as he replaces his glasses. “Good. You—” he looks pointedly at Hermione “—and Ron come see me when he gets here. Dean, Seamus, let’s keep working other angles to get eyes on that exchange.”
Dean and Seamus each give a mock salute to Harry as they get to their feet and leave the office, but Hermione hangs back. “What’s the deal with you and Malfoy?” she asks him, and Harry gives her a wry smile in return.
“We would be here all day for me to properly answer that,” Harry replies. “And frankly, neither of us has the time.”
Before Hermione can question him further, Ron enters the office with a flourish, swinging himself around Harry’s door frame with one arm. “Morning,” he greets them both. “What’d I miss?”
Hermione puts her intrigue about Harry’s history with a potential suspect on the back burner for now; she can ask Ron about it later. “Did you get an invite to Malfoy’s Winter Ball again this year?” Harry asks him.
Ron snorts. “Yeah, and it’s collecting owl shit in the bottom of Pig’s cage. Why?”
“Robbery has a source that says Augusta Wallace’s stolen necklace has a buyer. The exchange is taking place at the Ball tomorrow night,” Hermione explains. She’s even more curious about the mysterious Draco Malfoy after Ron’s reaction, but she forces it aside. “If we can catch who’s selling the necklace, we can find our killer.”
Ron’s expression couldn’t be more disgusted if Hermione had shoved dragon dung under his nose. “So you want me to go rub elbows with those pricks in the name of justice?”
Harry offers him an apologetic shrug. “It’s our best chance at solving this thing, mate. From the inside.” Ron lets out several curses disguised as a groan as he flops into the chair Dean just vacated. “Come on, it won’t be so bad,” Harry goes on. “At least you two will be together.”
Hermione snaps to attention. “I’m sorry, what?” Going undercover has never been part of her job description, and at no point in her life has she been struck with the desire to mingle with high wizarding society. This Winter Ball will require her to do both.
“You didn’t expect me to send Ron alone, did you?” Harry asks with an amused raise of his eyebrow. “He’s not an Auror—as much as he likes to pretend.”
“Oi!” Ron protests. “I’m a damn good pretend Auror, thank you very much.”
Harry rolls his eyes at Ron and continues, “Someone’s got to be there to gather evidence. Maybe even make an arrest, if we’re lucky.”
That makes sense, and internally Hermione is kicking herself for not realizing it sooner. It’s getting harder and harder lately for her to suppress her budding feelings for her partner, and the last thing she needs is her and Ron in an unprofessional setting with the elf-made wine flowing to lower her inhibitions.
There won’t be any way out of it, though, other than sending Ron to a fancy party with some other female Auror undercover, and somehow, that option is even worse. Hermione grits her teeth before answering. “Fine.”
“You’ll need to do some glamour charms, of course—change your hair color and stuff, I mean. We won’t want anyone to recognize you.”
“Doubt there’s too many Mandy Berry fans in this crowd,” Ron jokes. “Half of them probably don’t even know how to read.”
“No, Harry’s right,” Hermione agrees. “I’ll be too recognizable, especially showing up as your—with you.” She stops just short of describing herself as Ron’s date, but since she wasn’t invited, that’s exactly what she’ll be. His plus-one. Ron plus Hermione. Her palms are already sweating just thinking about it.
“That’s true, I guess.” Ron sits up in his chair and regards Hermione with a look she can’t quite decipher. “This stupid party is strictly black tie.” Of course it is. As if she needs more reasons to be on edge about it. “What are you going to wear?”
“Oh, I—I’m sure I have something.” Ron quirks a skeptical eyebrow at her and she scoffs at him. “Don’t give me that look.”
“I’ve seen you wear exactly one dress in two and a half years.”
Her cheeks flush at the implication that he’s keeping track, and she fires back a quick retort to deflect. “I didn’t realize Auror work required evening attire.”
“Come over tomorrow before the party,” Ron suggests, his expression softening. “Borrow something of Ginny’s.”
Despite her growing nerves, Hermione lets out a breathy chuckle. “I didn’t realize Quidditch required evening attire, either.”
Ron laughs. “Quidditch doesn’t, but magazine covers and league awards and everything else that goes with it…I swear half of her closet is sequins.”
Sequins. Great. Hermione barely knows Ron’s sister—better since she started dating Harry, but still not well—but she doesn’t think they have the same taste in clothing. Of course, she’s supposed to be going undercover; maybe it’s best if she makes the transformation complete with an outlandish ball gown to complement the change in hair color she’ll have to do.
“Okay,” Hermione finds herself agreeing. A mental rundown of her closet reminds her that she has nothing above cocktail-dress-fancy, and even those options are slim. “Sure. That would be great, Ron, thanks.”
“Good, it’s settled, then.” Harry claps his hands together. “We’ll have backup for you on standby, but it’ll just be the two of you inside the Manor.”
“Of course,” Hermione says with a nod, “we’ll be fine.”
As she turns to leave Harry’s office and get back to work, she hears Ron mutter behind her, “No promises on not punching that stupid ferret in the face.”
With all the logistics in place for their sting at Malfoy’s ball, Hermione’s only remaining concern is the dreaded black tie garb. At least Ginny seemed enthusiastic to help her when she had stopped by the DMLE yesterday afternoon to see Harry. It could be worse; Hermione could have had to go shopping for a black-tie-worthy gown.
As Hermione follows Ginny up the stairs of Ron’s townhouse, a couple of hours before the party, she realizes that his sister has the same penchant for chatter that he does. Frankly, she’s not sure how the two of them ever hold a conversation without constantly talking over each other.
When Ginny takes a breath to open the door to her bedroom on the second floor, Hermione interjects, “I really appreciate you helping me with this, Ginny. Formalwear is not exactly my forte.”
Ginny waves a dismissive hand before she flings open the double doors to her closet. Hermione holds back a grimace at the sight; Ron was not lying about the sequins. “It’s nothing,” Ginny assures her. “Someone ought to get some use out of these things. Go on, then. Anything you want.”
Hermione takes a hesitant step forward and gingerly tugs at one of the dresses. For a moment she fears she’s ripped the fabric, until she realizes it’s just a very high slit in the skirt. She lets that one fall back in line and reaches for another. “Do you not think you’ll ever get back to Quidditch, then?” she asks, making conversation as she rifles through the options.
“Ugh, it’s not looking like it,” Ginny replies with a groan. “If only my damn knee would cooperate. Ooh, I love that one.” Hermione pulls the sparkly hot pink dress that caught Ginny’s attention down from the rack and holds it up for examination. “My Aunt Muriel always said I shouldn’t wear pink because of my hair, but she was a right old hag. You don’t have that problem, of course. The hair, I mean; not sure about the hag of an aunt.”
“No, I’m not close enough to any of them for them to offer an opinion on my wardrobe choices, but…I’m not sure pink’s my color, either.” Hermione offers Ginny an apologetic smile as she replaces the dress on the hanger.
Ginny joins her at the closet and gives a little sigh as she helps Hermione flip through her wardrobe. “Sorry. I’m happy to help, but I know most of this probably isn’t your taste. My mother says I have a flair for the dramatic. I want to be offended, but she’s not wrong. Oh.” A sapphire blue trumpet gown in a luxurious satin emerges from among the rest, and Ginny holds it up with a curious frown. “I don’t even remember this one.”
“It still has the tags,” Hermione notes, pulling gently at the parchment label that’s attached with a shimmery silver thread. The tag is missing a price, which is probably for the best; she’s not sure she even wants to know what something like this costs.
“Hmm. Must have been from around when I got hurt,” Ginny muses. “Some event I was too depressed—or drunk—to go to after it happened.” She thrusts the dress at Hermione. “Try it on.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Hermione protests, though she can’t deny the dress is gorgeous. It’s decidedly understated compared to the rest of Ginny’s rainbow assortment of low-cut, high-slit, high fashion gowns, and she’s drawn to the color for reasons she doesn’t want to look at too closely. “If you never even got to wear it…”
“Don’t be silly, it will look great on you,” Ginny insists, reaching for her wand to rid the dress of its tags. “And I have some earrings that would match perfectly…” She trails off as she turns to rummage in the jewelry box on her dresser while Hermione hangs the dress from the door frame above her head to admire it properly. “Ah, damn, I lent them to Rose, and Merlin only knows what she did with them. Still buried in the bottom of her trunk, I’ll bet.” Ginny snaps the jewelry box shut and points a finger at Hermione. “Try that on. I’ll be right back.”
She darts out of the room and closes the door behind her, leaving Hermione alone with the dress. Hermione hesitates only a moment before she slips out of her jeans and jumper and, after a quick examination of the bodice of the dress, discards her bra, too. It has a more conservative neckline than the other options but dips lower in the back than will quite allow for proper undergarments. At least it has some sort of support built in, and if all else fails, Ginny has assured her that she’s well-stocked with Witches’ Spell-o-Tape.
Hermione steps into the dress and relishes the feel of the soft fabric against her skin as she pulls it into place, dispelling any previous notions about satin being inflexible or itchy that she’s probably held subconsciously since an unfortunate stint as a flower girl in her youth. The zipper in the back is stiff with newness, and she only manages to drag it far enough upwards to keep the dress from falling down completely as she steps over to Ginny’s full-length mirror to examine her reflection.
Despite her total aversion to this event and the associated formality, Hermione has to admit that she likes the way she feels in this dress: glamorous and elegant, two words she would ordinarily not use to describe herself. She twists her unruly curls into a makeshift bun on top of her head to complete the look, holding her hair in place with one hand and the dress with the other. There’s a soft knock on the door, and Hermione calls in answer, “It’s okay, Ginny, come on in.”
“It’s me.” Ron’s voice is followed by a tentative crack of the door. “Can I come in?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure.” Hermione swallows hard as she turns to face him, suddenly very aware of the half-zipped state of her dress.
Ron’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in her appearance. “Wow,” he breathes. “I knew that would look—that Ginny would have something that would work.” He steps further into the room but leaves the door open behind him. Hermione scolds herself for wishing he hadn’t; it’s not like anything is going to happen between them. “What do you think?”
“It’s a beautiful dress.” She turns back to the mirror and smooths a wrinkle in the bodice. “I suppose it’s not so bad, getting dressed up once in a while.”
“What were you expecting, a bloody torture device?” Ron jokes.
“Clearly you haven’t dug that deep in your sister’s closet,” Hermione teases back. She saw more than one corset-style top in there, and that’s certainly close.
“Thank Merlin for that. Your, uh—” Ron hesitates and makes a vague upward gesture with his hand. “You missed a bit with the zipper.”
“It’s a bit stiff.” The next words stick in Hermione’s throat, but she forces them out. “Do you mind?”
She must have gone completely round the twist. For two and a half long years, she and Ron have skirted around the tension between them like a hippogriff in the room that neither of them wants to address directly. Hermione has a million reasons why crossing that line is a bad idea, but her mind goes blank of all of them as Ron gently pushes her hair out of the way, his fingertips just grazing the bare skin of her back as he does.
His warm breath tickles her neck as he pulls the zipper up with such slowness that Hermione can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same thing she is—that she wishes he were pulling it the other way. She watches his reflection in the mirror, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration, and when he lifts his head to meet her gaze, she’s struck by the similarity to the color of her dress. Yep, that’s precisely the reason she didn’t want to examine.
“All set,” Ron announces in a throaty whisper, and it’s several more loaded moments before Hermione feels his hands leave the fabric at her back.
“Thanks,” she returns, her strained tone matching his. She forces a smile, and Ron mirrors the action. The faint blush she can see creeping up under his freckles emboldens her to tease, “No smart remarks about where I’m supposed to hide a badge in this thing?”
Ron’s smile widens, more genuine now, but he shakes his head. “Not today,” he replies softly. “You look beautiful.”
Hermione’s breath catches at the sincere response. She turns to face Ron, but beyond him, just outside the view of the mirror, she spots Ginny and Rose in the doorway watching the exchange, identical smirks on both of their faces. “Are we interrupting?” Ginny asks, causing Ron and Hermione to take matching steps away from each other.
“Of course not,” Ron replies smoothly, though Hermione can see the flush now spreading to his ears. “Just seeing how you girls were getting on.”
“Oh, we’re getting on just fine. I have excellent taste, apparently.” Ginny flashes Ron a curious look, but it passes quickly as she brushes past him and holds her hand out to Hermione, revealing a stunning pair of diamond and sapphire earrings in her palm. “These are perfect,” she coos. “And so is that dress on you.”
“You look like a princess, Detective Granger,” Rose agrees eagerly. “Doesn’t she, Dad?”
Ron doesn’t answer but smiles at Hermione again. “I’m going to go get cleaned up. Portkey activates at eight.”
They arrive at Malfoy Manor later that evening in the midst of an already roaring party. Ron checks them in with a security guard he apparently knows by name who leers at Hermione as they pass by. It makes her horribly uncomfortable until Ron’s hand lands on her lower back to usher her inside and she forgets all about it.
The house is huge and extravagant, but dark. Only partially hidden by the enchanted snowflakes and the flickering blue and white fairy lights is a shadowy decor that seems to hold centuries of gloom and doom. The whole place gives her the creeps.
“You and Harry both owe me for this, seriously,” Ron grumbles as he takes two tall goblets of champagne from a floating silver tray and hands one to Hermione. “I’d rather feed my own toes to a dragon one at a time than be here.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and takes a tiny sip of the bubbly beverage. She technically shouldn’t drink while she’s on duty, but she doesn’t want to raise any eyebrows by not partaking in the festivities. “So if there’s no love lost between you and Malfoy, why does he invite you to this Ball every year?”
“I have money.” Ron punctuates his simple statement with a shrug that demonstrates his indifference to this fact. “He thought my family was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe until my books started taking off, and now he wants to act like he gives a rat’s arse.” His eyes narrow at something over Hermione’s shoulder as he mutters, “Speak of the devil.”
Hermione turns to look and sees a man with slicked back white-blond hair snaking his way through the crowd toward them. “Weasley,” the man who must be Draco Malfoy greets them, more cheerfully than Hermione might have expected. “Finally decided to grace my Winter Ball with your presence, have you?”
“My liquor cabinet’s empty at home,” Ron quips, but Malfoy has already turned to Hermione without waiting for an answer.
“And you’ve forgotten your manners, Weasley,” Malfoy drawls. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion here?”
“Jacqueline Dubois.” Hermione introduces herself with the cover name they’d decided on and holds out her hand to Malfoy. If it comes up, having attended Beauxbatons also makes for an excellent cover. Rather than shake her hand, Malfoy kisses the top of it in greeting, and Hermione forces herself to smile at their host, though the gesture makes her cringe inside.
“Enchantée,” he says, which only makes it worse. “Lovely to meet you. Come find me if you need to get away from this blast-ended skrewt here.” He gives Ron a friendly punch in the shoulder as if the two of them are lifelong buddies, and it seems to take all of Ron’s self-control not to retaliate with an actual punch to Malfoy’s smug face. “Enjoy the party.”
Once he slips away to mingle with his guests, Hermione lets out the shudder she was suppressing during the encounter. “I feel like I need another shower.”
“Yeah, he has that effect on people.” Ron downs his champagne and reaches for another. “Shall we make the rounds? See if we can find anyone…interesting?”
Hermione knows he means the buyer or seller of their stolen necklace, and she nods her agreement. Most everyone at the party seems shady enough to be their suspect; despite the financial similarities between them that Malfoy seems to prize, these are definitely not Ron’s type of people. Hermione could imagine just about any of them putting a cursed blade in Augusta Wallace’s heart, but so far there hasn’t been any sign of the necklace that will identify the person who actually did.
“Do you know many of these people?” Hermione asks as they weave through the crowd, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
“A few,” Ron acknowledges, “but none of them well. Haven’t even seen most of them since Hogwarts.” His eyes scan the room, and Hermione watches him for a flicker of recognition but finds none.
“Thank you,” she says suddenly. Ron looks down at her curiously, and she hurries to add, “For tonight. If it’s terrible, maybe we can still find you a dragon after, although I think you’d have a bit of a hard time with no toes.”
A small smile flashes across Ron’s face. “You’re probably right. And you can thank me when we actually catch the bastard,” he replies, quickly turning serious again. “Do we know anything about what our special guest looks like?”
“No,” Hermione sighs. “We’ll have to go on behavior. He’ll be alone, most likely, until the meet. Focus on anyone who looks nervous or uncomfortable.” Ron looks pointedly at Hermione, who shakes her head. “Not me, you prat.”
“Just following orders.” Ron grins at her and then holds out a hand in invitation. “Come and dance? Maybe that will help you relax.”
“Oh, yes, because if there’s anything I love more than a black tie event, it’s dancing.” Hermione snorts, but Ron doesn’t rescind his hand.
“All you have to do is let me lead.”
“And you dance?” Hermione asks skeptically. Ron merely raises an eyebrow at her, a silent challenge, and she puts her hand in his, trying to ignore the way it sends a jolt of magic coursing through her. “Oh, all right.”
Ron leads her to the slick hardwood floor and pulls her into a proper dance embrace, directing her free hand to his shoulder and placing his on her hip. His smooth confidence might have been reassuring against her own total incompetence in this area, if her heart weren’t now hammering like a swarm of doxies trapped in her chest. You’re undercover, she reminds herself sternly as she allows Ron to guide their steps. That’s all this is.
Hermione keeps her eyes peeled as they move, looking for anything or anyone that might serve as a clue. There’s a door at the back of the ballroom that she assumes leads to a kitchen or butler’s pantry because she’s only seen it used by wait staff, but one of the guests is lingering near it, catching her attention. The dark haired man makes a quick scan of the room before he cracks open the door and slips through it.
“Ron,” Hermione whispers urgently. “I need to go powder my nose.”
“Oh, come off it, we haven’t even made it through one song,” Ron complains, totally missing her signal. “And you’re actually not half bad, although I think that’s mostly attributed to your excellent partner—what?” Hermione squeezes his hand forcefully and flickers her eyes in the direction where the man just disappeared. “Oh. Oh yeah, I think the loo’s this way.”
Hermione hurries toward the back of the room with Ron close behind. After a quick glance to make sure they haven’t been spotted, they slip through the same door. To the left is the bustling kitchen that Hermione expected to see, but at the end of the long hallway is an open doorway to what appears to be a dimly lit stairwell. They sneak quickly down the hallway, and once they’ve gotten some distance from the kitchen, Hermione can hear faint voices from down below. They’re too quiet to make out any of the words even as they approach the end of the hall, and Hermione strains her ears to catch even a word or two that might give her sufficient cause to interrupt in an official capacity.
“I can’t hear anything,” Ron whispers, and Hermione shushes him with a wave of her hand.
She takes a step closer to the opening, and the floorboard beneath her feet lets out an ear-splitting creak. The voices down below stop immediately, followed by a call of “Who’s there?”
Hermione shrinks back against the wall and holds her breath, hoping the conversation will start up again. Instead, there’s a sudden pounding of footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, and she knows they’ll have to get out of here. If they get caught before the exchange takes place, they might spook the seller and miss their chance to catch him entirely. “Let’s go,” she hisses, reaching for Ron’s hand, but Ron is rooted to the spot.
He looks quickly from her to the stairwell and back again. Before she can urge him again to move, Ron wraps an arm around her waist and ducks his head to kiss her.
Hermione freezes, stunned, as Ron’s lips press against hers. She’s thought about kissing him so many times and he chooses now to—
As she breaks the kiss with a gasp, realization hits her. He’s not kissing her; he’s kissing Jacqueline Dubois, her blonde-haired blue-eyed cover identity. He’s giving them a reason to be there in that deserted hallway, away from the prying eyes of Malfoy’s party.
The footsteps are growing louder, and they’re about to get caught one way or another, so they might as well get caught doing something that seemingly has nothing to do with their clandestine Auror business. Even though every nerve in her body is on fire, there’s no time to think about it or second-guess the repercussions. Hermione throws her arms around Ron’s neck and kisses him back.
For a moment, as Hermione looks up at him with wide eyes that are transfigured the wrong color but still somehow unmistakably hers, Ron thinks she’s going to hex him into a thousand pieces. Kissing her was maybe the best and worst idea he’s ever had, but he tries to convey his intention to her with his expression. It’s for their mission—well, that’s definitely not the reason he wants to kiss her, but it’s the one he’s going with at the moment.
As the footsteps on the stairs grow louder, Hermione either catches on to his plan or comes to the same conclusion on her own. Either way, she launches herself at him, and then they’re kissing in earnest, in a dank corridor at Malfoy Manor.
It’s hardly the romantic setting Ron might have imagined for their first kiss, but he can’t be arsed to care at the moment. Hermione’s lips are soft and yielding beneath his, and as her hands slip up past his collar to tangle in his hair, he can’t help but think that maybe—maybe—she’s thought about this before, too.
In fact, he’s starting to think that maybe she’s enjoying the kiss so much that she’s forgotten where they really are when he feels her hand in his back pocket—until he remembers that’s where her wand is.
“Hey!” The exclamation from the direction of the stairwell causes them to break their kiss, but they remain entangled, the rapid rise and fall of Hermione’s chest matching Ron’s. That flush in her cheeks can’t be all for show, can it? “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ron’s own face feels hotter than fiendfyre, but he turns toward the interruption with a casual shrug. “Sorry mate, just looking for a bit of privacy,” he says. The man’s hands are clenched into fists, but a heavy gold chain dangles from one of them, and Ron can just see the edge of a ruby poking out beside the man’s thumb: the stolen necklace. He can only hope Hermione sees it, too, since Ron has no authority to do anything about it.
“You have no business in this part of the house,” the man grumbles.
“Neither do you,” Hermione snaps back.
The man shoots her a brief glare before he says to Ron, “You might want to get your lady in order there, ma—”
But before he can even finish the sentence, Hermione has him silenced, disarmed, and restrained with three quick flicks of her wand. Ron can only watch in awe as Hermione flashes her badge at the suspect and announces, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Augusta Wallace.”
She waves her wand again and sends her silver otter scampering off to alert Dean and Seamus on the outside before prying the necklace from the man’s grip and wrapping it in a kerchief that she hands to Ron. “Hang onto this, it’s evidence.”
He nods mutely, still too dumbstruck from kissing Hermione to process much else. She’s still breathing heavily—and that could just as easily be adrenaline from the arrest—but otherwise it’s business as usual for her; a second man arrives at the top of the stairs, and she disables him in the same short order, though they’ll probably turn him over to the robbery division. He’s unlikely to be their killer, but he’s definitely into some dodgy business dealings.
The suspects dealt with for the moment, Hermione straightens her dress and smoothes a few blonde curls back into place before she seems to realize that she can now put her hair and eyes back to their normal warm chocolate tones. Ron’s mouth goes completely dry as she makes the transformation back into herself.
He saw her in the dress earlier, of course, but she had already done the transfiguration and Ginny had helped her with the glamour charms and the fancy updo before he saw her again, so he was missing the full effect of Hermione all dressed up. Not that she needs it; he’s seen her in sweats and been just as attracted to her. Now it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to wrap her in his arms and kiss her again.
Fuck, are they going to talk about this? Should they talk about it? They kissed. It was more of a full-blown snog, really, and Ron’s not going to forget about it anytime soon. He’s been trying to come to terms with how he feels about her, certain—well, almost certain—that she doesn’t feel the same. Now he doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t want to push her to deal with something she’s not ready for. No, he’ll have to let her bring it up if she wants to. If this is something she wants to carry past tonight and make it more than a weird undercover tryst at Malfoy Manor.
Malfoy’s indignant squawking from the next room alerts them to the arrival of Dean and Seamus and the rest of Hermione’s Auror backup. She turns the suspects over to her two partners, and they parade out through the sea of stunned partygoers. Ron’s pretty sure he sees a camera flash from the edge of the room that tells him this will be on the front page of the Prophet in the morning.
Seamus apparates away with both suspects once they’re outside, and Hermione waves off Dean with a promise that she’ll meet them back at the DMLE for questioning after she pops home to change. “Are you coming?” she asks, turning to Ron as the rest of the Aurors disappear in a series of pops, leaving the two of them relatively alone, though a few of the guests followed them outside to gawk. “Or do you need to go cleanse yourself of the horrors of the evening?”
She’s grinning at him, and Ron thinks she means the horrors of dealing with Malfoy, and her dragging him to a party he had no interest in attending. But if she considers kissing him one of those horrors, he’s not sure he wants to find out.
“Nah,” Ron says with a shrug, “I’m pretty knackered. I think I’ll just head home if that’s alright with you.”
“Sure.” Hermione hesitates and then reaches for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Thanks again for your help tonight. We really couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Anytime.” Ron flashes her a quick but tense smile. He wants to do more before they part ways for the night—to hug her or something, hell, maybe to throw caution to the wind and kiss her again—but he’s not going to push. He won’t. He can’t. “Goodnight, Hermione.”
“Goodnight,” she echoes.
Ron waits until she raises her wand and disappears with a pop to pull his own from his pocket. He reaches up with his other hand to loosen his tie, but before he can apparate away, there’s an angry call from the house. “Weasley!”
He rolls his eyes but pockets his wand and waits while Malfoy storms down the front steps toward him. “Problem, Malfoy?” Ron asks lightly.
“Yeah, there’s a problem. You snuck bloody Aurors into my Ball.”
Ron smirks. “My bad. The invite said plus-one.”
Malfoy’s pointy face contorts with rage, and Ron delights in making him squirm. “And that’s the last invitation you’ll be getting from me.”
“Gee, I’m heartbroken.” Ron rolls his eyes as he reaches for his wand again, but Malfoy grasps his arm to stop him.
“You Gryffindors always were a bunch of goody two-shoes,” he sneers. “Dumbledore’s pet students. Shouldn’t be surprised the whole lot of you are doing the Ministry’s bidding now.”
“And whose bidding are you doing, Malfoy?” Ron snaps back, wrenching his arm away as he flicks his eyes purposefully back to the Manor. “Most innocent people don’t invite thieves and murderers to their parties.”
“We’ve always run in different crowds,” he says with a smirk. “But I can assure you I didn’t have anything to do with their illicit actions.”
“I’m sure,” Ron replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm that implies the opposite. “And yet, you seem very uncomfortable with the Aurors being here. Worried about what they’ll find if they start poking around?”
“If you and that mudblood detective start poking around, I’ll—” Ron doesn’t give Malfoy a chance to finish his threat as his fist connects with the blonde wizard’s face. Malfoy’s nose makes a satisfying crunching sound as it breaks, and a couple of drops of crimson red blood mar the sidewalk before Malfoy can reach for his wand to fix it.
“Don’t you ever let me hear you talk about Hermione like that again,” Ron says icily as he towers over Malfoy, “or you’ll get to find out about one of the many creative ways I’ve learned to hide a body by writing mystery novels.”
Malfoy narrows his eyes at Ron and spits back, “Fuck off.”
“Gladly.” Ron lifts his wand again and apparates away from Malfoy Manor, ready to put the whole evening behind him.
Well, most of the evening, anyway.
His hand still stings a bit when he wakes up in the morning, but it was well worth it to disfigure Malfoy, even if only for a moment. Ron throws an old Cannons jumper over his t-shirt and wanders down to the kitchen, where Ginny has thankfully already brewed a strong pot of coffee.
“So,” she greets him with raised eyebrows, “how was the party?”
“It, uh—yeah, it was good,” Ron mumbles. “Caught the killer.” Snogged Hermione. Just another day. Yeah, right.
Ginny peers at him over her mug, barely hiding a smirk. “What did Hermione say about you buying her a dress?”
“I—” Ron nearly drops the sugar pot in surprise. Ginny has such an expansive closet, he thought for sure she wouldn’t have noticed a single addition. “What makes you think I—”
“No offense, but I would never wear that dress.” Ron frowns at his sister and she hurries to defend herself, “It was gorgeous, Ron, but it’s not my style.”
“Well, it wasn’t for you.”
“Duh.” Ginny rolls her eyes. “So. Did you tell her?”
Ron shrugs and goes back to preparing his coffee, now needing the shot of caffeine even more. “Why would I?”
“Because it’s either a very sweet or very creepy thing to do, and it’s up to Hermione to decide which.”
It hadn’t occurred to Ron that the gesture might be perceived as anything but sweet, and he grimaces. “Which do you think it is?”
“I think it’s a beautiful dress and that you owe Hermione the truth about it.” Ginny slides off her stool and refills her coffee before patting Ron on the shoulder. “But for what it’s worth, if Harry had done such a thing, I would find plenty of ways to thank him.”
“Ugh. Could you not?” Ron groans. He’s plenty happy that his best friend and sister are dating, but he could do without the visuals.
“Just saying. Might be something to look forward to.” Ginny shrugs and then saunters away up the stairs with her coffee, chuckling to herself.
Breakfast sounds like as good an idea as any to get that unwelcome image out of his head, so Ron rummages around in the fridge for some eggs and sausages, putting enough on the stove to feed the whole townhouse. He flicks his wand to set a couple of spatulas to stir the food as there’s a knock on his door.
Ron’s heart thunders in his chest as he goes to answer it. There’s only one person in his life who reliably uses his front door instead of coming in through the Floo—though he’s told her repeatedly that she’s welcome either way—and he’s not sure he’s ready to see her after last night. What if she wants to talk about the kiss? What if she doesn’t?
Hermione looks perfectly well-rested and put together after their late night, so she probably didn’t toss and turn all night like Ron did, replaying the scene in the corridor over and over in his head. Imagining a scenario where it wasn’t for show and Ron got to help her unzip the dress instead and—fuck, don’t go there right now.
“Are you ever going to use my Floo?” Ron teases as he lets her in, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
Hermione smiles at him. “Maybe someday.”
“Come on in, I’m making breakfast.”
“Smells good,” Hermione notes as she follows him to the kitchen. “I ate already, though.”
“Butter on toast is not a real breakfast.”
“Technically, I could eat spaghetti and call it breakfast so long as it was my morning meal.”
Ron rolls his eyes. Is there anything she won’t argue with him about? “One scoop of eggs and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Deal.” Hermione shrugs out of her coat and takes a seat on the stool Ginny vacated a few minutes prior, while Ron pours her a cup of coffee with a tiny splash of cream, the way he knows she likes it. “Thank you. I just came by to return your sister’s earrings.” She sets the sparkly accessories on the counter between them and then raises an eyebrow at Ron, holding his gaze as she pulls another object from her coat pocket. Ron frowns in confusion at the Gringotts note that she places on the counter between them. “And to ask you what I owe you for the dress.”
Fuck. This is what he gets for falling in love with a detective. He should’ve known he couldn’t get anything by her.
Denying it would be useless, and probably piss her off to boot, so Ron just shakes his head. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Ron—”
“No, seriously. I know these events aren’t really your thing—fuck, they’re not mine either, but sometimes I can’t get out of them—and I just wanted to make it…I dunno, less terrible for you.”
Hermione purses her lips, hesitating before she says, “Actually, it wasn’t terrible at all.”
“No?”
“No.” They stare at each other for a long moment, locked in a stalemate until Hermione reaches for the note again. “But I would like to pay you for the dress.”
Ron shakes his head again. “I’m not taking your money, Hermione.”
She frowns at him but doesn’t seem too terribly put off by the whole thing, so Ron figures he can push it a little further. “I can take care of myself, Ron.”
“I know you can,” he agrees, “but can’t you just accept that I wanted to do something nice for you and leave it at that?”
He’s truly not sure if she can. Hermione is strong and stubborn and independent and he knows the idea of letting someone else take care of her, letting herself be vulnerable, shakes her to her very core. It’s not in her nature. Unfortunately for her, Ron’s nature is just the opposite. He wants to care for the people he loves, and that includes her.
If she can’t let it go, he’ll just take the note and not deposit it. No, she’d notice that too. He’ll donate the money to charity or something. But he’s hoping she’ll just let it go.
Hermione takes a deep breath and then lets it out again. “Fine.” She shoots him another glare before she lets a smile crack through. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ron spoons a small portion of eggs onto a plate that he pushes in front of her before loading up his own.
“The eggs, too?” Hermione complains good-naturedly, though she reaches for a fork. “You already got one concession out of me today.”
“You agreed to the eggs first.” Ron grins at her and tucks into his own breakfast, while Hermione rolls her eyes. “So, how did it go back at the DMLE?” he asks, changing the subject. “Was that our killer?”
Hermione nods and then swallows. “He’s already been processed out to Azkaban.”
“That’s good. Well, now that that’s over, I’m curious…where did you have your badge hidden in that dress?” Hermione had joked about it up in Ginny’s room yesterday, but there really wasn’t much of anything—anything— that her dress could hide. Hence her wand ending up in Ron’s pocket.
She smirks at him, and the gesture sets Ron’s insides wriggling like flobberworms. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”