In These Silent Days

Chapter 8

But these events with Draco have gone fairly well in her estimation. He's only a quiet presence at her side when she speaks to colleagues, which she appreciates more than she can ever tell him. He doesn't insert himself or interrupt, but gives her silent signals for when she might want to pull back—a squeeze to her elbow or a fresh drink nudged into her hand. These discreet actions force her to take a pause, a breath, and either end the current discussion or calmly steer it to safer waters.

Thus far, he's prevented her from openly berating several senior staff on house-elf freedom, Centaur bigotry, and Squib prejudice.

Hermione has also gotten better at grinning and bearing it when strangers congratulate her and Draco on their marriage; their few public sightings together quelling curious quills in all but one regard.

Those blasted pregnancy rumors thanks to Minister Lance.

As she preps for another evening out—this time a dragon preserve benefit—she sighs and considers her wardrobe. Though she loathes caving to gossip, Hermione slides aside all her hanging formal robes and instead combs through her gown collection. Something a little more form fitting to declare, "See? No bump. Now bugger off."

Choosing a blood-red silk dress, Hermione casts a critical eye over her reflection once dressed. The fabric hugs her curves from bust to low on her hips before flaring out. No person (or photographs) from tonight's party could mistake her for being several months pregnant.

After a few minutes fumbling with clumsy fingers at the top closure behind her neck, she finds Draco in the hall. She gathers her hair up and turns away from him.

"Clasp this for me?"

He instantly complies, but that's where his immediacy ends.

"I like your dress."

"Thank you."

One of them should move. Or speak. Do anything besides stand there and breathe. She could turn around, but this action would bring them practically chest to chest.

Stepping forward, stepping away, is the logical choice made by her feet, even as other parts of her scream in protest.

"All set?" Hermione asks and holds out a hand. He grabs it with an expressionless face and she apparates them away.

Neither of them lets go when they arrive in the ballroom.

Tonight has gone well, until now. Hermione spoke with three school governors from the Hogwarts Board who enthusiastically backed her Wolfsbane legislation. Testimonials from them, along with most of the professors and Madam Pomfrey, will strengthen her case. Plus, it's forward progress on her end that she can show Miriam and the other parents as proof that their children could have support.

It's a high she hasn't felt in so long, the thrill of succeeding at something big for her career. She takes a brief break from socializing at the edge of the room as Draco offers to grab her a fresh drink.

But she's not alone for long.

"Good evening," greets an older man in velvet, black robes.

"Travers," Hermione says tightly.

The man smiles wide. "So glad to have made such an impression that you remember me."

He thinks she's forgotten, does he? That shortly after Minister Lance handpicked him to head the Department of International Magical Cooperation he was on the court floor advocating for the marriage law? That Hermione doesn't know he was a vocal supporter of that abominable, gruesome consummation tenet?

"Enjoying your evening?" she asks.

Travers blatantly ogles her midsection.

"Such a shame, isn't it? That the conception clause was struck out of the Act?"