Chapter Text
Catherine Winsor—better known as Ophelia in her life of red lipstick and lace—had hair the color of rust and eyes blue as rare crystal skies in autumn.
They were void of life, staring upward from beneath the muggy waters of the tributary where her body was found early Monday morning. Her death was presumed a suicide.
Hermione thought it was a little too on the nose.
She nursed a cup of black tea in her hands, sipping on the much needed caffeine while Harry stood behind the podium at the front of the briefing room. Normally such cases were saved for Patrol, but it landed on Harry’s desk earlier that afternoon when further investigation found that Winsor was a performer at the exclusive night club–Midnight Hall. A place of interest during the Angel Dust breakout previously.
A toxicology report was immediately issued, finding traces of cocaine, ketamine, alihotsy.
Double-lines formed between Harry’s brows as he explained the initial autopsy report concluding the cause of death to be drowning. However, it was unclear if the Angel Dust was a contributor.
There was also unexplained bruising on the body that didn’t normally coincide with drowning or the rigor of performing.
“Regardless, the high-profile and reemergence of the designer drug now makes this case a priority of the DMLE,” Harry stated. “I will be putting together a team to take further investigative measures. Dismissed.”
The moment he stepped out, the room interrupted in fervent whispers. Hermione spared one last glimpse of the club poster pinned on the white-board. Ophelia right in center of the cabaret, bejeweled in sequins and rhinestones. Pale skin opalescent under the spotlight, tight ringlet curls framing her heart-shaped face. Smile bright and white.
Hermione could never pull off that shade of red.
Her lips pursed, waxy from her generic-brand lip balm, and she followed after Harry. She rapped her knuckles beneath the gold Head Auror plaque, waited for the gruff, “Come in,” and pushed the door open with her shoulder.
Glasses abandoned on the desk, Harry raked his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his temples. She’d just stepped through the threshold when he blew out a curse.
“Angel Dust, Hermione. Fucking Angel Dust.”
She shrank back against the door, unsure of what to say. It was never a good thing when Harry Potter began to swear.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asked cautiously.
His gaze snapped up. “Whatever it is, you are not to be involved.”
“Harry—“
“I’m not going to lose another person I care about to Angel Dust,” he said sternly.
“It’s been almost a year, and all you ever assign me is paperwork.” Her voice rose. “I am not Portia. If I wanted to sit at my desk all day, I would’ve stayed at Regulation and Control.”
“I never asked you to transfer.”
His response was cold. A slap to the face, and she couldn’t help but flinch.
He’s just hurting.
Her molars sunk into her cheek as she took a breath, shutting her eyes. She tried to stay calm, saying, “I transferred for you. After Ron—“
“Hermione, stop.”
When she opened her eyes again, Harry had gotten up, now standing by the window, staring out at the Ministry atrium below. She knew exactly what he was recalling. She didn’t like remembering that day either. Her throat began to hurt, and she took another cold sip of her tea.
Harry twisted the silver Auror ring behind his back before clenching his fist and turning around again. He swiped his glasses off the desk, cleaning them on his robes, and Hermione held her breath. Maybe he–
“My decision is final,” he said at last.
Was there any point in arguing? It wouldn’t matter how much she screamed at him, Molly Weasley’s at the funeral would always be louder. A mother’s grief drowned out all other noise.
She’d blamed Harry. If he hadn’t sent Ron to intercept that deal, he wouldn’t have become exposed to Angel Dust. He wouldn’t have gotten addicted.
He wouldn’t have overdosed and seized in the middle of the atrium.
Hermione had flooed in with him. She was talking about sending scarves to the house elves at Hogwarts for Christmas, and he was fine, even nodding along as she spoke.
He had seemed fine–until he collapsed.
She shook herself out of the memory and found a manilla folder extended toward her, an apologetic Harry on the other end.
His gaze was on the floor behind her. “I need the Obliviators on scene to sign off on the M.I Memorandums.”
Before she could say another word, a knock came; a small woman with cropped pale hair and thick-rimmed glasses sitting on the edge of her nose cracked open the door.
“Mr. Potter, the press is waiting for you in the briefing room,” she said.
“Thank you, Portia.” Harry inclined his head, and Hermione had no choice but to accept the bundle of papers as he retrieved another folder from his desk and followed behind his secretary. “No leaks of Angel Dust being found?” he asked Portia.
“No, sir.”
“Good. This is a high-profile case. We cannot let that information reach the public. For now we’ll let them think it’s a suicide.”
“Harry—“ Hermione began to protest, trailing after him.
“You can ask Malfoy who was there this morning,” was the last thing he said before meeting the onslaught of reporters and their ready cameras.
A harsh flash went off right in front of her eyes, creating spots in her vision and blinding her temporarily. She didn’t even see who had approached her side until he spoke.
“You can ask me who was where this morning?”
Hermione didn’t have to turn around, but she did anyway. Rubbing her eyes, jaw tight, she faced the Deputy Auror, Draco Malfoy.
“You. Where have you been?” Goddamnit, why was their flash so fucking bright. She squinted up at him, her chin lifting, to scowl at him despite the sting in her retinas: “You missed the entire briefing.”
Blinking hard, she noticed Draco was missing his robes again, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark wisps of ink on his forearms. Sometimes she wondered if he often forgot proper dress decorum on purpose just because of the one time he’d caught her ogling the Lucifer tattoo. Even worse–she had mistaken it for Icarus, and he smugly corrected her.
Icarus? Merlin, and here I thought the brightest witch of her age would clearly see the difference.
She never spoke on his tattoos again and avoided them at every glance.
“Anything told at the briefing I already know,” he informed her in a matter-of-fact tone as he fixed his short gloves, pale fingers flexing. “Who do you think was at the scene when poor Miss Ophelia was found?”
His above-holy attitude chafed at her skin.
“Great. So you can get the signatures for the M.I.” She shoved the folder at his chest.
He immediately rocked back a step. “No, no. I believe Potter assigned that job to you.”
“Except that isn’t my job,” she ground out.
He scoffed, derisive. “What did you expect, Granger? That you’d go through six-months of training, submit your transfer and he would just put you out on the field right away?”
“I spent my entire seventh-year on the run. I fought at the Final Battle. And I graduated at the top of my class at the Academy. I think I’m more than qualified,” she asserted.
“Congratulations. None of that shit matters here.” His sneer deepened, and he pushed the folder back toward her. “Fawley and Onai were the Obliviators on scene. You can probably find them fucking in one of the interrogation rooms.”
“They won’t let me do anything.”
“Little bitches.”
“I am more than capable of handling myself.”
“Yes, you are.”
Pansy reached over the sofa to refill Hermione’s wine glass. The sweet white brought a pleasant buzz to her mind, warming her chest, but she still couldn’t get Harry’s perturbed face out of her head.
“But Harry—he’s just…” Hermione’s voice trailed as she swirled the wine. Of course she understood that a part of him felt responsible for Ron’s death, making him more protective over her. But she wouldn’t have taken the transfer to the DMLE if she didn’t recognize the risks of the job. Despite being her superior, Harry couldn’t dictate her life like this.
“I still can’t believe Angel Dust is back,” she settled on saying with a heavy sigh.
Pansy hummed as she poured more wine into her own glass; the vintage bottle was now nearly empty. “Though, it’s not like it was never bound to come back,” she said softly.
When the Battle of Hogwarts was over, ending the war almost ten years ago, some rejoiced, most cried of relief and quiet remorse. There was so much death and devastation. Families were broken. Only mere memories of the gone remained in the rubble. No amount of restoration, no amount of Aurors could have fixed the kind of damage left behind. It was a pain forever laid in the new stone.
Briefly after, Angel Dust appeared.
A gold-colored powder that sparkled under the light like from the Disney cartoon, it was an original designer drug created and only sold by an unknown cartel who called themselves The Ninth Circle. Users said it tasted of caramel and sweet nightmares (whatever the hell that meant), invoking an intense feeling of euphoria and mental stimulation–only to be followed by a hard crash of paranoia and dissociation.
The drug was said to be mostly distributed at brothels, pubs, night clubs and similar establishments–much like Midnight Hall–but The Ninth Circle’s operations ran too deep to trace it successfully back to the source. And when news of an esteemed Auror dying of an overdose hit the headlines, all business seemed to cease. It became impossible to find Angel Dust anywhere.
Its return felt like facing an old foe. Vengeance coursing hot in her veins.
“I need to be on this case,” declared Hermione. For Ron. For herself.
Pansy bit her bottom lip. “I have an idea.”
Lowering her glass, Hermione sent her a sidelong glance.
“Okay.”
“You might hate it,” she said, then quickly shook her head. “Actually, no. You will hate it.”
That didn’t make her very confident.
“Whatever it is has to be better than being in charge of the Progress Logs,” Hermione drawled, rolling her eyes.
Pansy shifted on the sofa.
“So your only lead is this Midnight Club, right?”
She corrected her gently, “Midnight Hall, but yes.”
“What if you were to go undercover… as a performer?” The corner of her pert mouth dared to quirk upward.
Hermione nearly spat out her wine. She had to set it down on the table to keep it from spilling all over her lap.
Pansy was joking. Her roommate had to be joking. She should quit her job at Ralph Lauren and become a full-time comedian.
“Me? A performer?” she gaped, waving her hands in front of her. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re flexible.” Pansy shrugged with another deceptive smirk.
Hermione didn’t even want to try and decode what she was insinuating.
“You have to be more than just flexible, Pansy,” she argued hopelessly. “I can’t even dance.”
“I’ll teach you!” she beamed.
“I don’t have what it takes. It will never work. Just look at me.” She gestured over herself.
Yes because the half-assed knot at the top of her head and her faded, oversized Britney Spears t-shirt was the epitome of the showgirl aesthetic—especially paired with the tea and coffee stains in varying shades of brown. Somebody put her on stage right this moment.
“It’s a performance. Acting.” She lifted her hand above her head with a dramatic (and drunken) flourish. “You think those girls don’t own teddy bear pajamas?” Her foot came up to nudge her knee.
“It’s not sexy,” Hermione mumbled, bringing her knees to her chest.
“I think they’re hot.”
“I can’t be sexy,” she rephrased, and Pansy responded with a bristle.
The brunette then took her by the shoulders, coming close to her face, so she couldn’t shrink away.
“You are Hermione Jean Granger. Brightest witch of her age. Golden Girl. I think that makes you the sexiest motherfucker out there.”
None of what she said were synonyms in any dictionary she’s ever read. And that statement alone should’ve been enough to deter her–she could already hear Malfoy snickering in the back of her mind. Yet, it was the sound of his degrading and sardonic laughter that unexpectedly fueled her determination.
“Sexy is a state of mind,” said Pansy. “And I think it’s time I teach you a couple things.”
Heels.
The first lesson was stiletto heels.
And she would much rather go back to staring at crystal balls in Trelawney’s class.
Despite the cushioning and balancing spells Pansy had taught her last night (after opening another of moscato), it still felt odd to stand a whole three inches taller than before. The simple black stilettos on her feet were from Pansy’s closet, because the only heels Hermione owned “belonged to her grandmother’s Sunday wardrobe.” Pansy had then proceeded to throw them into the trashbin.
As she stood outside the suddenly intimidating mahogany door, internally reciting her speech, her hands became clammy with sweat. If she couldn’t believe she could do this, why would Harry?
Lesson number one, Pansy’s voice echoed in her consciousness, confidence.
Hence the heels. There was nothing more intimidating than a woman in heels.
It’s why they rather make men shit or come in their pants.
Hermione prayed for neither as she finally strode through the door.
When she caught the pale blonde hair and steely gray eyes, she remembered she didn’t fucking knock. Why didn’t she fucking knock?
“Good. You’re both here.” She forced a smile despite her heart pounding in her throat.
Malfoy’s slow once-over did not help. Like a predator assessing its prey.
Standing behind his desk, Harry pinched his nose. “Now is not a—“
“I have a proposal for you.”
“Hermione—“
“Wait,” Malfoy intercepted, shifting his large body in the far-too small chair toward her. His gaze momentarily snagged on her heels, peeking out from the legs of her pantsuit. “Let's hear her out, Potter.” He slouched back as if watching a television show unfold. And Hermione was about to drop the MacGuffin.
She took a breath.
“Your best bet is to send someone undercover at Midnight Hall.”
Malfoy snorted.
“Shut up.” Harry glared at him.
“I volunteer myself,” she said, triggering Malfoy’s inevitable fit of chuckles.
“You? You want to go undercover?” He paused to catch his breath. “As what? Filing assistants don’t attract a crowd, Granger,” he said in a mocking voice.
“Hermione,” Harry huffed, “I already told you—“
“If you think it’s such a bad idea, then let’s hear your plan then.” Hermione popped out her hip, crossing her arms defensively.
“Yeah, Potter.” Malfoy snorted again. “Let’s hear your great plan.”
There was murder in Harry’s eyes–and because Hermione was indeed the brightest witch of her age, she knew exactly what it meant: this was already the plan.
Harry rubbed at his temples and stated, “I’m not sending you undercover. It’s too dangerous.”
“That is not for you to decide for me,” Hermione proclaimed. “Only I know my limits.”
“And you don’t think being a showgirl is a little out of your limits, sweetheart?” Malfoy retorted; she ignored his condescension and kept her focus on Harry.
“I am not infiltrating a deal like Ron was. I may not even get in contact with The Ninth Circle. I’ll go in and find out who Ophelia really was. Who she talked to, if she had any enemies, how she got the Angel Dust in the first place. I will be gathering intel.”
“And if you ask the wrong person the wrong question—then what? What happens if you’re exposed?” Harry argued, voice rising slightly.
“Assign me a partner if you have so little faith in me.”
That must’ve finally gotten to Harry as he then released a slow exhale. She watched his jaw tense, and she prepared her retaliation in case he continued to argue with her. But then his eyes turned to Malfoy, who was far too amused by the display for her own liking.
Harry pointed to him. “He’s your partner.”
Hermione glitched. “What?”
“Potter, I’m flattered, but I don’t think you understand.” Malfoy then deadpanned: “I don’t do feathers.”
She scoffed. “Says the peacock.”
“This is hardly the appropriate time to bring up my cock, Granger.”
There has never been a time she wanted to hit Draco Malfoy more than now. Her fist tightened at her side as he grinned at her, all (white and perfectly straight) teeth.
“Shut up. Both of you,” Harry snapped and turned back to her. “Since I can’t talk you out of this–fine. You can go undercover, Hermione, but Malfoy will be watching you from the audience at every show.”
“But—“
“You are to report back to him and leave with him every night afterward. Am I understood?”
Hermione withered where she stood. “Can’t you–”
“Am I understood?” Harry repeated, voice clipped.
Left with no other choice, she let out a begrudging, “Yes, sir.”
God, help her.
“I will collaborate with Shacklebolt and make the preparations for your mission. Now both of you–” Harry flicked his wand and the office door flew open, thudding against the wall–“please leave. You’re giving me a migraine.”
Hermione filed out of the office, refusing to glance back to see the bemused look on Malfoy’s smug face. This was what she wanted, to be put on the field, to leave behind the stack of paperwork on her desk–but at what cost?
Her pulse was still thumping with leftover adrenaline when she entered the breakroom for a cup of water (caffeine was probably the last thing she needed at the moment). Unfortunately, Malfoy had followed her. She immediately reached for the coffee pot then.
He towered over her, the woodsy spice of his cologne invading her senses, as she stirred in a packet of sweetener.
“So, were the heels part of your act, Granger?” he asked, gaze narrowing at her feet, unimpressed. She resisted the urge to shift. Even with the extra couple inches, she still had to tilt her face to look at him properly.
“I can wear heels,” she muttered into her papercup.
“Never said you couldn’t. You just don’t.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do you often pay attention to my footwear, Malfoy?”
“You’ve worn the same boring flats to work every day.” He bristled. “They’re barely anything to write home about.”
“Yet, you’ve noticed,” she quipped.
“And I so desperately wish I could forget.” He sighed dramatically. “But it’s going to take more than just a pair of heels to put on a show. I expect to be dazzled.” Gray eyes glinting under the fluorescents, he smirked.
“You can take your expectations and shove them up your ass.”
Harry had the details of her assignment by the following day.
“The club has already replaced Ophelia with another senior performer and hired a new cast member to fill in.”
He threw a headshot of a young woman on the desk in front of her; she resembled Pansy somewhat, except her hair was darker, dyed black, fair-skinned, and her eyes were a striking shade of dark blue with purplish hues.
“This is Abigail Taylor–Violet on stage. She has agreed to help us with the investigation,” Harry continued. “During this mission, you will be polyjuicing yourself as Violet. Currently, she has ‘contracted Black Cat Flu’ and is unable to perform, giving you two weeks to learn the routines. You will make your contact during the rehearsal prior to your first show.”
As much as Hermione loved a challenge, two weeks didn’t seem like enough time at all.
Midnight Hall opens its doors to the public hours before midnight only on Friday and Saturday nights. Rehearsals ran from the morning until late afternoon the days of, with the shows beginning strictly at midnight. There were also some special instances where business mongers might privately book the hall for a meeting during the weekdays and ask for entertainment–but despite being part of the main company, it was unlikely for Violet to be requested since she was just hired.
She let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Hermione.” Harry's tone turned serious, and his green gaze pinned her. “Your sole objective is to collect possible intel, like you mentioned yesterday. Under no circumstance are you to make contact with The Ninth Circle. If you suspect someone, you tell Malfoy,” he instructed.
She nodded but made no verbal agreement. No offense to Harry, but her instincts always came first.
Later that night, the flat smelled of buttered popcorn, more wine, and Pansy’s bergamot candles. The television whirred to life as she popped a DVD into the player, her manicured finger tapping impatiently against the plastic case.
“What are we doing?” Hermione asked, eyeing the flickering blue screen.
“Shh.” Pansy swatted her shoulder. “We’re studying.”
The title Moulin Rouge! scrolled across the screen in a burst of glittering red, and Theo—curled up at one end of the sofa in a ratty Puddlemeer United jersey—perked up.
“Oh, I love this movie,” Theo said, reaching over Hermione. “Hand me the popcorn.”
On the screen, Satine descended from the ceiling in a shimmer of diamonds, her voice lilting through the small sitting room. The lights from the telly painted the walls in shades of crimson and gold, and Hermione’s wine glass glinted faintly in her hand as she leaned forward. Nicole Kidman looked absolutely ungodly and mesmerizing throughout the movie–even in the scenes where she wasn’t performing. And Hermione was supposed to exemplify that in under two weeks? She’d barely passed heels.
She mindlessly flexed her toes underneath the woven throw blanket. Her flats may have been boring, but at least they were comfortable.
“Theo, what have you done to this sofa?” Pansy hissed as Satine kissed Christian, shifting back and forth on the cushions with a grimace.
After yet another breakup with Oliver Wood, Theo was currently occupying their sofa for the time being until he found a place of his own (or until he crawled back to Oliver–whichever came first).
Theo stretched out lazily like a cat, his long legs knocking against the coffee table. “Sleep on it. What else?”
“Then how the fuck did it get so lumpy? The springs are digging into my ass.”
“You have to have an ass to feel something there,” he muttered.
Pansy growled. “That’s it.”
Hermione wasn’t paying any mind to their interaction, but she heard the thwack of her decorative pillow and Theo was suddenly sprawled on the floor by her fuzzy slippers.
“You’re exiled to the floor,” Pansy said, smacking his face with the smiley jack-o’-lantern pillow.
“What, no! Hermione,” he whined. “You can’t let her do this.”
Wordlessly, she handed him the bowl of popcorn and he shut up for the rest of the movie (occasionally singing along quietly with Pansy).
Two hours later, when the credits rolled, Pansy stood from the sofa–half-inspired, half-drunk–and traded the DVD for the Midnight Hall rehearsal tape Hermione had been given. Reclaiming his spot, Theo was in charge of pausing and rewinding as Pansy helped Hermione learn the routine. Pansy being Pansy picked it up easily after only watching the footage three times, prancing and twirling about the sitting room. Hermione on the other hand–flushed, tipsy, and mortified–had the grace and prowess of a newborn Hippogriff.
The floral side-table lamp she’d bought from a flea market earlier that summer shattered on the floor when she tried to imitate the high-kick. It was quite unfortunate; she really liked that lamp, and she’d gotten it for a bargain too.
But her roommate had been right about one thing–Hermione was pretty flexible.
“You have to know your undertones,” Pansy told her the next night in her bedroom as she examined the color of the veins at her wrists. She then took her by the chin and twisted her face toward the vanity mirror. “You’re pretty neutral but lean a tad warm. So I suggest a soft rose or peach.” From her makeup bag, she removed two compacts and held the two powder blushes on either side of Hermione’s face; lounging on the bed behind her with Crookshanks, Theo nodded in approval and gave her two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“They’ll probably make you wear red lipstick for performances, but any other time—match the shade to your nipples.” Pansy winked.
Hermione choked on air. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s your perfect nude. I don’t make the rules,” she said simply.
And who the fuck came up with that? she wanted to retort, but what did Hermione know about makeup? It was why they were taking a “short” break from practicing in the first place (that and her thighs were still killing her from yesterday).
The last time she attempted anything special with her bipolar hair and a bit of lipstick and eyeliner was for the New Year’s Eve party at the office almost a year ago, a night she did not want to recall at all.
As she snuck a quick glimpse beneath the collar of her shirt, she reminded Pansy: “But I won’t be looking like myself during the show.”
“Right. You will be Violet,” she sing-songed. “Let me see her picture.” Hermione dug through her bag and pulled out the copy of the headshot, and Pansy inclined her head. “Much cooler undertones,” she mumbled to herself and shifted through her second makeup bag, the ruckus of the glass and plastic containers bumping into each other filling the silence. Two more similar looking compacts hit her vanity. “Use these, but you should still keep these,” she said, gesturing to the powders she’d already pulled for Hermione. “You might need them.”
Hermione didn’t know what had gotten into her the next morning, but she woke up a little bit earlier, despite the ache in her muscles and mysterious bruises, and tested herself on her new found cosmetology knowledge. Using her new toys, she applied the rose blush and lipstick along with her usual combination of mascara and concealer–and as embarrassing as it was in the bathroom mirror, she did match the lipstick shade to her nipples. Though, when she was finishing up with a final dusting of powder over her t-zone (more new terms), she didn’t entirely hate what reflected back at her. She looked less flat, her usually dull features standing out more with the complimenting pop of color–she looked more alive and pretty.
Maybe not Witch Weekly model pretty, but she did catch a few lingering stares on the London streets and in the atrium on her way to the office. The attention admittedly felt nice.
Because of Harry’s (ridiculous) condition, she unfortunately often found herself in Malfoy’s company as they went over mission prep. Leaning over his desk, she was going over the history of the club while he continued to say nothing and stare up at her face and mouth, his expression unreadable. Not even pretending to take notes—just sitting there, jaw working as if he were grinding down whatever tantalizing thought was trapped behind his teeth.
“What?” she paused to ask finally, exasperated beyond relief. “What is it now?”
“You’re… wearing makeup,” he said slowly like he’d just uncovered some great cosmic truth.
Hermione blinked. Was he actually serious right now?
“Oh I had no idea,” she said flatly. “Thanks for the observation, Auror Malfoy. How ever would I have known otherwise?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, though it was insufferably impossible to tell if it was amusement or judgment. “First heels,” he drawled, “now makeup. What’s next, Granger? You’re going to start wearing skirts?”
The following Monday, she borrowed one of Pansy’s pencil skirts just to tick him off.
Surprisingly, it fit her better than any of her usual pantsuits did in her own closet.
And the hitch in his usually smug demeanor was definitely worth it.
He’d been talking to Harry when she walked in, hips swishing in tune with the confident click of her heels. Lips parted, his gaze caught her like a snare, traveling up her exposed legs and following her all the way to her desk across the bullpen. She sat up straighter, pretended to ignore the weight of his stare and focus on the bundle of parchment in front of her. But she couldn’t help smiling triumphantly to herself when she saw Harry snapping his fingers in Malfoy’s face. He swatted his chest with a file then marched off, calling for Portia to get him an aspirin.
Malfoy was left blinking, dumbstruck, muttering to himself, and he ran a hand through his blonde hair as he stalked off. But not before glancing over his shoulder one last time at Hermione. She waggled her fingers in a small wave, and he glowered.
However, her victory was short-lived when on her way out to meet Ginny for lunch, a hand shot out from an open doorway and closed around her wrist. She gasped as she was tugged into the cramped supply closet. Her back hit the wall. A hand reached above them to turn on the light, and she was met with Malfoy’s signature sneer.
“How cliché,” she said coolly, looking around at the manilla folders, quills, and inkpots on the shelves as he locked them inside. The soft click echoed.
Leaning against the door, his body nearly took up the entire space. “It was a joke, Granger,” he disclosed. His gaze swept down, deliberate and unapologetic, stopping just long enough at the hem of her skirt to make her fists clench. “I’d have thought you’d remember the last time you wore a skirt in my office.”
She swallowed hard, willing her heart to steady. “I didn’t realize this was your office.”
“You didn’t seem to care if it was or wasn’t on New Year’s Eve.”
Suddenly–too much champagne, firewhisky, the interrogation room.
Her stomach twisted.
“Go to hell,” she gritted out as she pushed past him for the brass handle.
His lips brushed her ear. “Keep dressing like this, and I just might.”
Two weeks of training and preparation finally came down to tonight.
Hermione stood across the street from Midnight Hall, clutching the strap of her bag. Even in the daytime when the lights were off, the building gleamed like a jewel in the heart of Soho—if one could see it. To the muggles rushing past, it was nothing more than a dim, unremarkable storefront. They’d glance its way, hesitate for a second as if catching a glimmer of light or sound, then blink, frown, and walk right on. Within moments, they’d forget it was ever there at all.
But Hermione saw it clearly. Beneath the illusion shimmered a façade of mirrored glass and a silver marquee hung above the doors, MIDNIGHT HALL spelled in a looping script. She could already hear the muffled sounds of music enchantments adjusting pitch, wards humming in harmony with the bass coming from inside.
She caught Violet in the reflection of the glass, black hair tied back and bangs swooping just above her cornflower blue eyes, and she took a slow breath, her limbs jittery from nerves and extra caffeine.
The moment she stepped inside past the velvet ropes, the air immediately changed, the club unfolding like another world. Drenched in starlight and shadow, the interior was dark and rich, perfumed with something heady–ozone, champagne, vanilla. Velvet walls in deep blue glittered like a midnight sky, the crystal chandelier in the center was the moon.
The lower floor was an expanse of deep leather booths, each illuminated with a small constellation hovering above the polished tables. At the far end, a long obsidian bar stretched beneath a wall of bottles glowing with various liquors in shades of gold, amethyst, sapphire, and emerald. The bartender polished a glass that caught the light like a diamond. Up above, a slender balcony traced the edges of the room; a second floor with no seating, meant for just watching. Its railings gleamed silver.
It was dazzling. Intoxicating. And it was all about to be hers—if she didn’t completely humiliate herself at rehearsal first.
The dressing rooms were up a staircase hidden by the sidewall. She quickly went up, found Violet’s (who she shared with another performer named Este), and dropped off her bag. The walls were all black-and-white headshots of performers past and present, main and background. Ophelia’s was near the end, young and glowing and smiling. Hermione peered closer at the photo; she couldn’t be older than sixteen or seventeen when it was taken, her skin without blemishes, untouched by anxiety and fatigue. On the glass of the frame, she noticed someone had written: RIP BITCH.
The marker was poorly erased.
The main stage was already buzzing with movement by the time she made it back down. Lights dimmed, charms flickered, the metallic scent of stage powder thick in the air.
“If you’d arrived any later, Violet, you’d already be replaced,” said a sharp voice.
Hermione turned. The stage manager, a tall and wiry witch–Carolina Everleigh, she recalled from her assignment notes–didn’t even look up from her clipboard.
“I—” Hermione checked her watch. She was early. “Sorry, I thought—”
“Thinking’s not your fucking job. Get on stage.”
Hermione bit her tongue, ducked her head, and followed orders.
Then came another booming voice.
“Violet!”
Sebastian Haynes—the club owner. She remembered him immediately. Older in his late forties, with slicked-back hair that gleamed under the lights and a permanent sheen of sweat that made him look polished but oily.
“Violet, darling, come here!” He crossed the floor with his arms wide, grinning.
She froze, but smiled as he engulfed her in a touchy embrace, sweeping over her shoulders and spine.
“Let me take a look at you,” he said, his hand pressing lightly to her lower back as he spun her. “You’re looking so much better, love.” He hummed.
Hermione forced a shy laugh. “Thank you. Feeling much better too.”
He winked. “Good girl.”
As he strode off, she resisted the urge to wipe down her clothes. There hadn’t been anything too off about the interaction, but she still felt… icky.
She shook it off and joined the rest of the performers. She recognized all of them.
Charlie was stretching on the floor, blonde hair in a loose braid, her makeup smoky. Opal stood beside her, radiant in every sense: deep skin glowing under the lights, eyes like polished obsidian. Next to them, Este—her dressing-room mate—looked like she belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly, her golden tan and perfect hourglass figure almost unnervingly symmetrical.
And then there was Kitty.
The lead. The one who had replaced Ophelia.
Brown hair pulled into a bun so sleek not a strand dared move, posture poised and precise. When her sharp green eyes flicked over to Hermione, she gave a slow once-over, then went right back to stretching, as though Hermione had been no one of importance.
She pressed her lips together. She wasn’t naive enough to expect warmth, but she’d thought there might be some camaraderie between the girls. Instead, the air was taut, competition and rivalry thrumming just below the music.
“Places!” barked Everleigh.
The music swelled. Hermione fell into position, muscle memory from two weeks of practice guiding her through the opening sequence.
“Don’t worry if you can’t get through rehearsals today,” Charlie said as they passed each other, smirking. “I can do your routine in my sleep if I have to.”
Hermione only nodded, focusing on the choreography. The rhythm was relentless. Sharp turns, spins, the kind of balance work that made her thighs ache (even more than usual). And every time she slipped by half a beat, Everleigh's shrill voice pierced her ears like punishment.
Still, she kept going.
By the third run, sweat trickled down her spine. Opal approached between sequences, her smile bright under the spotlights. “If you want, you and I can switch positions tonight—so you can be in the back for most of it.”
Though she sounded genuine, as if offering her a favor, Hermione caught the deceptive sweetness in the phrasing of her words. “I think I should be good for tonight, but thanks.”
Then came the background dancers, filling the stage like a storm of bodies. Hermione tried to adjust to the new spacing, missed her cue twice, and nearly collided with a veela-blooded chorus girl who hissed at her under her breath. Everleigh’s warning cracked across the stage again: “Violet, if you can’t count to eight, I’ll find someone who can!”
Hermione swallowed the sting and forced herself to focus. You’re not Hermione. You’re Violet. Be Violet.
She pushed through the last run, muscles screaming.
When the music finally cut out, silence crashed over the stage like water. Hermione’s chest heaved. Her calves trembled. She felt depleted. But somehow, she’d forgotten that she still had to perform for real tonight.
She groaned into her sweaty palms.
“Next time–” Hermione looked up to find Kitty offering her a towel. Her expression didn’t soften one bit. And somehow she still looked poised and perfect after hours of rigorous practice. “I suggest not getting sick,” she said, stony.
Caught between gratitude and too much exhaustion to even care, Hermione accepted the towel and trudged back up to the dressing rooms, Este fell into step beside her, her long, dark-brown curls bouncing with every stride and the faint scent of vanilla clinging to her skin.
“Don’t mind them,” Este said casually as she drank from her water bottle. “They’re always like that.”
Hermione gave a weary half-smile. “I just thought maybe it was because I’m still new.”
“I mean… that too,” Este replied with an airy shrug. “It was just the four of us and Ophelia for so long.”
The mention of the name drew Hermione’s attention back to the corridor wall, to the headshot.
RIP BITCH
They stepped into the dressing room. Two vanities faced opposite walls, surrounded by a halo of lights. A mint-green settee sat beneath the single window at the far end while a tall wardrobe loomed by the door.
Este went straight to her vanity, collapsing into the chair with a sigh. She freed her curls from her ponytail, shaking them out. They fell effortlessly over her shoulders, and Hermione instantly grew envious. Her own curls have never behaved that well.
“Were you two close?” Hermione asked after a pause, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, twisting Kitty’s towel between her hands.
Este laughed softly, though it wasn’t a reminiscent sound. “We shared this dressing room. That’s as close as it gets for people like us.” She leaned closer to the mirror, examining her skin and scratching at invisible blemishes. “Still feels off not to see her. I keep expecting her to just walk through that door and start belting Chicago.” Her eyes flicked toward the door, the smallest shadow crossing her face. “Or accuse me of filing down her heel,” she added under her breath. Then, turning back to Hermione, she nodded toward a box by the other vanity. “I finally got around to clearing her side of the room for you.”
Hermione followed her gaze. “You kept her stuff?” she asked, moving closer.
Este shrugged, pulling out a gold cigarette case from the drawer of her vanity. “Someone had to. Haynes didn’t exactly rush to do it. Besides, it didn’t feel right to throw it out immediately.”
Hermione lifted the lid. The perfume hit her first; floral and musk. Inside were stacks of letters–fan-mail, photographs, wilting flowers, posters with her name signed in gold, cracked compacts, jars of hair gel and cans of hairspray, and velvet jewelry boxes.
“She preferred to keep her life pretty private,” Este said, conjuring a flame with a snap of her fingers to light her cigarette. She drew a deep pull and exhaled the smoke into the room. “No one knows where she lived or if she had any family. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it.” Another drag as she smiled at Hermione’s reflection in the mirror. “But I thought maybe you’d want something in there. Consider it a welcome gift.”
Hermione—no, Violet—stood under the harsh glow of the dressing room bulbs, her reflection barely recognizable. The transformation was almost frightening. The costume shimmered like a constellation come to life: a silvery-white bustier covered in rhinestones and gems that glittered with every rise of her chest, the neckline dipping far lower than she’d ever dare in her normal life. Feathers and sequined fringe cascaded from the high-cut sides, swaying as she shifted, covering just enough of her ass but not enough to comfort her inner prude.
Her tights gave a golden gleam, layered with black fishnets and held up by a matching sequined garter belt. The heels were taller than the ones she’d practiced in. Her toes wobbled for a moment before she steadied herself, muttering a silent thank-you to Pansy for teaching her those bloody charms.
Her hair—Violet’s hair—was jet black and glossy, curled into old-Hollywood waves that framed her face, her bangs lacquered perfectly in place with bounteous amounts of gel and hairspray. A jeweled headpiece rested over the curls, matching the draped chains at her throat and the cuffs glinting at her wrists. Este had helped with the final touches, dusting glitter into the inner corners of her eyes, flicking on the winged eyeliner that made them look impossibly large. The false lashes tickled when she blinked. A soft pink blush warmed her cheeks, and her lips—Merlin, her lips—were painted a deep, unapologetic red.
She gave her one last approving look before spritzing her generously with vanilla perfume.
Now, standing in the narrow wings of Midnight Hall, Hermione tried not to throw up. Her hands trembled against the cool metal of the stage curtain. The muffled hum of the waiting crowd seeped through the velvet, glasses clinking, low laughter rising. Behind her, Charlie lurched into the bin beside her and retched violently, only to straighten a second later, swipe her mouth, and smile as if nothing had happened.
Showgirls. God, they were terrifying.
Then the lights dimmed. The first notes of the overture swelled.
Hermione’s heart pounded.
And then Violet took over.
Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up. The choreography flowed from her limbs as if she’d rehearsed it a thousand times (she probably did). The stage lights hit her skin, warm and blinding. Her feathers flared, the rhinestones on her corset catching every glint of light as she spun, smiled, arched her back on cue.
She scanned the room, searching through the haze of smoke and silver.
Malfoy sat in one of the booths. Sleeves rolled to his elbows as always. A tumbler of something dark rested in his hand, the glass catching the glow of the stage. But he wasn’t watching. His gaze was turned toward the bar, at the ceiling and exits–as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here. He wouldn’t look at her at all.
Something burned in her chest.
Every movement became sharper, bolder—the swing of her hips deliberate, the toss of her hair calculated. Finally, she caught his attention once, his gaze flickering her way, brow slightly furrowed; but it was fleeting. He looked away before she could even confirm it. He could’ve been looking at another girl for all she knew.
By the time the final note rang out, Hermione’s lungs were on fire and her legs shook, but adrenaline flooded every inch of her body. She hadn’t expected it to feel good. The applause was deafening, intoxicating.
She smiled wide as the curtain fell.
Back in the dressing room, Este was already out of her costume, adjusting her makeup and hair in the mirror. She didn’t say goodbye before leaving, only dabbed at her lips, sighed, and vanished in a cloud of cigarette smoke and vanilla perfume.
Hermione peeled off the heavy jewelry and tied the short, satin robe around her waist. She sat down, staring at her reflection—at Violet fading away. Before she got a glimpse of Hermione looking ridiculous in glitter and red lipstick, she turned to the box of Ophelia’s things.
She lingered on one of the photographs. Ophelia mid-laugh, head thrown back, glitter dusting her cheekbones. The edges of the photo were singed, as though someone had held a cigarette too close.
Majority of the photos were burned like that.
RIP BITCH
There could’ve been a hundred reasons why someone had written that on the frame, half of them rooting from jealousy. But how much jealousy does it take to spin into sabotage–or even murder?
A slow clap broke her thoughts.
“Nice show, Granger,” came the drawl. “Though your kicks could’ve been just a little higher.”
Her heart stuttered. She turned sharply and found Malfoy leaning in the doorway, that infuriating smirk firmly in place, the overhead bulbs catching on his hair.
His gaze was shameless over her body.
Without thinking, she stood up. “Oh really?”
She lifted her leg and planted her heel on the wall just beside his shoulder.
“Like this?”
Malfoy’s eyes flew to her thigh, the smirk faltering for half a second. Then his hand came up, fingers encircling her ankle.
He lifted it from the wall and set it higher against his shoulder, drawing her just close enough to feel the heat between them through the thin fabric of her robe.
“I never understood the appeal of fishnets,” he murmured, tracing a light line down her leg with his ring finger; she suppressed a shudder. He chuckled low. “I think I get it now.”
Her pulse fluttered. She could feel it in her throat, in her knees.
He wouldn’t look at her during the show, but he was looking at her now.
Gathering the last of her composure, she then pushed off of him before he could feel the way her heart was hammering. “Liar. You weren’t even watching the show.”
“I don’t have to watch you to do my job.” He straightened, adjusting his sleeves, cool once more. “Speaking of jobs—did you find anything?”
Hermione gestured toward the box on the vanity. “A box of Ophelia’s things. Fan mail, flowers, posters.” She flipped open a jewelry box, lips curling. “And diamonds, of course.”
Malfoy peered closer, examining the lavish diamond necklace. “This looks expensive. She couldn’t have afforded this herself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Idiot. No girl buys herself jewelry this nice. It was obviously a gift.”
“From a fan?”
“Or a lover.” She shrugged, snapping the box shut.
“What difference does it make?” he said with a scoff, sifting through the rest of the items. He pulled out a tea tin and popped it open; the shimmer of gold powder instantly caught the light. His expression darkened. “And this—looks like Angel Dust.”
Before Hermione could respond, there was a knock at the door.
“Violet?” came a voice, smooth and oily. Sebastian Haynes. “Can I come in?”
Malfoy’s eyes snapped to her—and she saw his pupils dilate in realization.
She froze. Turned to the mirror.
Violet’s black curls and blue eyes were gone.
Hermione stared back at her.