Chapter 3: Serpentine Rejection
Twilfitt and Tattings was quieter than Hermione expected for a Saturday afternoon. Racks of deep jewel-toned silks and velvets whispered against each other as she passed, the air smelling of beeswax and dried lavender. She hated shopping for formal wear. It felt like choosing armor for a battlefield she didn’t understand.
She held a dress of emerald green against herself, examining her reflection in a full-length mirror. The color was striking, but it felt too much like a statement. I am here. Look at me. She preferred the dusky blue number draped over the changing room door—subtle, professional, safe.
“Granger? Merlin’s pants, is that you?”
The voice, too loud and brimming with false bonhomie, made her shoulders tense before her mind even placed it. She turned.
Cormac McLaggen stood by a rack of dress robes, a measuring tape draped around his neck like a stethoscope. He looked broader than he had at Hogwarts, his jaw squarer, but his eyes still had that same entitled glint.
“Cormac,” she said, forcing politeness. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Family business,” he said, shrugging with a practiced modesty that didn’t suit him. He swaggered over, his eyes doing a quick, appraising sweep of her body. “Looking for something for the Ministry gala? Smart. It’s the networking event of the season.”
“Just something simple,” she said, turning back to the mirror, a clear dismissal.
He didn’t take the hint. He moved closer, standing behind her reflection. His smile was all teeth. “That green is a killer. Brings out your… eyes.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur she felt rather than heard. “You know, I could pull some strings. Get you a discount. My uncle owns the place.”
“That’s quite alright, I can manage,” she said, her voice clipped. She reached for the blue dress.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Before she could protest, his hands were on the hanger, his fingers brushing against hers. A jolt of revulsion shot up her arm. “The changing rooms are just through here. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
She wanted to refuse, to snap at him, but years of conditioned politeness and a deep, weary aversion to causing a scene rooted her to the spot. She allowed herself to be ushered into the plush, velvet-curtained booth.
“Give me a shout if you need a hand with the zipper,” Cormac said, his grin widening before he let the curtain fall shut.
Hermione stood in the small, perfumed space, clutching the blue fabric. She felt hot and cramped. The air was too thick. She heard him pacing just outside, humming tunelessly.
Swallowing her irritation, she changed quickly. The dress was beautiful—a soft, sweeping blue that draped elegantly over her shoulders. The back zipper, however, was a devil. She twisted, her fingers slipping on the tiny metal pull.
A shadow fell across the curtain seam.
“Everything fitting alright in there?” Cormac’s voice was right on the other side of the velvet.
“Fine,” she said, too sharply.
“You sound strained. Zipper stuck? Happens all the time. Here, I’ll just…”
The curtain rings scraped back. He stepped inside.
The booth was not made for two people. His bulk filled the remaining space, pressing her back against the cool mirror. His scent—overpowering cologne and wool—filled her nostrils.
“Cormac, get out,” she hissed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Relax, Granger. Just helping.” His eyes weren’t on the zipper. They were roaming over her bare shoulders, the line of her spine. His hand touched her back, not on the zipper, but on her skin, just above it. His fingers were warm and slightly damp. “See? Easy.”
Her breath hitched. Not from fear, but from a cold, rising fury. “Take your hand off me.”
“Or what?” he murmured, his voice a low, sleazy whisper directly by her ear. “You’ll report me? My uncle’s on the board of governors at St. Mungo’s. Big donor to the Ministry. Your Ministry.” His other hand came up, not to pull the zipper, but to rest heavily on her hip. “We could be good for each other, you know. I know people. You’re clearly going places. A powerful witch needs powerful friends. And… other things.”
His thumb stroked a slow circle on her hip bone.
Something in Hermione snapped. It wasn’t fear. It was a pristine, crystalline rage. This bloated, entitled child thought he could corner her, silence her with his connections. He thought her ambition was a currency he could trade on.
She didn’t whirl around. She didn’t shout. She simply turned her head slightly, catching his smug reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were dark and utterly calm.
“Serpensortia Vestis,” she whispered, her wand tip pointing backwards, concealed by the folds of the dress.
There was a muffled pop, a sound like rustling leaves.
Cormac gasped, his hands flying away from her. He looked down, his face paling. The fine wool of his trousers was… moving. Rippling. A scale-like pattern erupted across the fabric, and with a soft hiss, two garden adders, small and vividly green, slid from his cuffs and began to wind their way up his legs.
He shrieked, a high-pitched, undignified sound, and stumbled backwards out of the changing booth, tripping over the curtain and landing in a heap on the shop floor. He frantically slapped at his legs, where the transfigured trousers now writhed, the snakes hissing and coiling around his ankles.
“Get them off! Get them off!” he yelped, scrambling backwards like a crab.
Hermione stepped out, calmly pulling up her own zipper with a neat, final tug. She looked down at him, her expression one of mild curiosity. “I believe you have a pest problem, Cormac. Perhaps you should see to it. I’ll find my own way out.”
She picked up her beaded bag from the plush chair, threw her old clothes over her arm, and walked out of Twilfitt and Tattings, the bell tinkling softly behind her. The last thing she saw was Cormac McLaggen, red-faced and flailing, as a sharp-dressed witch rushed over with her wand drawn, face etched in concern and confusion.
High above, in the dusty, lamplit attic of the shop, Draco Malfoy lowered his extended brass ear trumpet. A slow, sharp smile cut across his face.
He had seen it all through a knothole in the ancient floorboards. The entire, beautiful scene.
He moved to his ledger, lying open on a crate. The page for today was already dated. His pen, dipped in that peculiar red ink, flew across the parchment.
Subject demonstrated decisive, non-verbal, wand-based defense in a confined space under physical intimidation. Spell choice: innovative, humiliating, appropriately scaled to the threat. No Unforgivables, no excessive force. Poetic. Elegant.
McLaggen’s touch on her skin…
His hand tightened around the quill, the knuckles bleaching white. The rage that flooded him was instant and volcanic. He saw McLaggen’s thick finger on the delicate plane of her back, the proprietary grip on her hip. He had to close his eyes, breathe through the static in his head. When he opened them, his gaze was cold again.
Subject handled the intrusion with perfect contempt. No panic. Clean execution. She left him as he deserved to be left: powerless, ridiculous, less than.
He paused, thinking. Then he added another line, the letters precise and deep.
She wears the blue. Not the green. The green was for an audience. The blue is for herself. She does not yet know she is preparing for a different audience entirely.
Downstairs, the commotion was fading. Draco walked to the small, circular window that overlooked the alley. He saw her emerge, a figure of calm in the soft afternoon light. She didn’t look back at the shop. She didn’t hurry. She simply turned and walked away, the blue fabric of the dress whispering around her legs.
He watched until she turned the corner and vanished.
Back at the ledger, he made one final entry for the day.
Patience is a discipline. She has hers. I have mine. Soon, I will show her that I am the one who sees the difference between the dress she wears for the world, and the one she wears for herself. I see her. Soon, she will see me.
He closed the book with a soft, definitive thud. The dust motes swirled in the lantern light, settling slowly over the crate, over his hidden kingdom of secrets. The only sound was the distant, fading echo of Cormac McLaggen’s impotent shouts.