Shaelune

There had only been two times in Hermione's life when she had wished she was Ginny- or Parvati Patil, or Lavender Brown, or even Pansy Parkinson, for that matter. This was one of them.

The other had been sitting on a stool in front of a compact mirror she had stolen from the youngest Weasley and Engorged to have a diameter of a full meter, staring at the spongy wad of sludge-brown hair that had sprouted out of her head sometime between infancy and her first year at Hogwarts and trying not to cry. She'd been lucky enough to find a date to the Yule Ball- and she certainly liked Viktor well enough- but the first two of three hair potions she'd bought last Hogsmeade weekend had apparently combined for a chemical reaction and made her mane virtually impenetrable to a brush. She was wearing the beautiful pale-indigo robes that had cost a fortune at Madame Malkin's. The hot blush of frustration on her arms and face clashed horribly with them.

Hermione cast her eyes upward, trying to prevent the tears from submitting to gravity and ruining her painstakingly applied eye makeup (the eyeliner alone had taken her half an hour, as she'd never worn any before). What was she going to do? Viktor would be waiting patiently for her in the corridor outside the Great Hall twenty minutes from now, and all she had to show for the two hours she'd allowed herself for primping were soon-to-be-smeared smoky eyes straight out of Teen Witch Weekly and a ball of frizz tacked onto her head.

Inhaling deeply and forcing herself to stay calm in the hope that her blush would go down, Hermione reached for the last hair potion. The bottle was transparent and filled with a shocking pink liquid; the label read, in fancifully sparkling script, Sleekeazy's Classic Calming Concoction.Taming Manes Since 1784 was printed below the title.

The potion oozed out onto her hand, cold and even more brightly-colored than it had appeared in the bottle, then, before she could think better of it, Hermione slapped it into her hair, massaging it forcefully into the springy curls.

Nothing happened.

She really was going to cry now. What choice did she have left but to stuff the entire damn mess into a hat?

Then she gripped the table, because something not unlike an electric shock was sizzling along the spiraled strands of her hair from their split ends to her scalp. Was it possible the twenty-galleon bottle of Sleekeazy's was actually frying her hair? She'd kill that simpering saleswoman! "It works miracles, you really ought to try it..." I'll try it! I'll try poisoning you with it, you superficial idiot!

Wait.

The buzzing had stopped...

Hermione opened her eyes and sat up rigidly and suddenly, because there, shining jauntily back at her in the Engorged mirror, was someone else's hair. Hers didn't cascade past her shoulders. Hers wasn't the color of imported Spanish chocolate. Her hair wasn't...

She picked up a piece at the front and ran it through her fingers.

It was straight.

As soon as she jumped up and whooped, Hermione caught herself, realizing how silly it was to get so frustrated and excited by something as inanimate and without purpose as hair. But it was straight! It was beautiful and long and silky straight, and all she'd had to go through was the distinct sensation of electrocution, but it had definitely been worth it. So worth it. She was going to sashay into the Great Hall on the arm of the best Quidditch player in Europe, and she couldn't wait to see the look on Draco Malfoy's face. Call her a bushy-haired, bucktoothed beaver, would he? (She'd certainly made sure Madam Pomfrey revised that little matter of her overbite.)

On her way out the door, she'd had a flash of propriety, and quickly pinned the this-can't-possibly-be-mine hair up. And even while she wrestled with the pins, Hermione hadn't been able to wipe the magically altered grin off her face.

But there was no hope of that quick-fix now; her problem wasn't hair this time. It was clothes.

Superficial, she knew- and that's exactly why she'd wished she was Lavender or Parvati or Ginny, who, though she was quite down-to-earth in most ways, had her head in the clouds when it came to appearances. There was no potion that would fill her almost-empty trunk with Muggle clothes.

On Sunday, Hermione had read the notice posted in the Gryffindor common room, the one that read

ATTENTION FOURTH AND FIFTH YEARS:

As you have been informed in class, in accordance with your current Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum you will be traveling to Ireland this coming weekend to conduct your practical exam for that course. School robes are not to be worn or packed, as they may be lost or damaged during the exam; all students are to bring a set of dress robes / Muggle-style formal attire. Caged owls are permitted, but frogs and cats must be left in the care of Professor Hagrid, who has graciously offered to care for your familiars while you are abroad. Transportation will depart promptly at one o' clock on Saturday afternoon.

In smaller print, at the bottom:

Guidebooks are available with Professor Titleby.

"Obviously written by Dumbledore," Hermione had remarked.

Ron looked up from his Divination homework (Hermione noticed that he had been staring at the page on centaurs in Ancient and Animal Diviners for the past hour). "How d'you reckon?"

"Well, he refers to Hagrid as 'gracious.' What other teacher would do that?"

Ron considered for a moment. "Dunno, you're right," he admitted. "Maybe McGonagall?"

Harry chipped in from his chess game with Ginny- Ron, in an uncharacteristic move, had turned him down in favor of homework. "McGonagall's skeptical of him too, don't kid yourself."

"Just being optimistic," Ron said, affronted.

"That's new," Ginny muttered without looking up. Ron pulled a face and glared at her back.

"I'm going upstairs," Hermione offered helpfully after a few minutes. No one paid her any mind, so she had rolled her eyes and headed up to the girls' dormitory.

It wasn't like Hermione to put anything off 'til the last minute, but here she was at eleven 'o clock on the night before they were scheduled to leave, torn between following orders and going naked. Having happily given up trousers and jumpers at the end of summer in favor of the Hogwarts uniform, she happened to have brought to school exactly three items of Muggle clothing: an army-green jumper dress that even she knew was exceedingly ugly (and was too big for her anyhow); a pair of all-purpose black trousers that would actually be a good packing item if she had anything decent to wear with them; and a stained polo-neck, which did not fall under the category of 'decent' (the stain happened be right across her chest, and three years of scrubbing, while they had not managed to reduce the stain, had made the fabric there somewhat... sheer in direct light). And her parents, fittingly, were on holiday, backpacking through Austria.

And that was how she found herself wishing that, through some miraculous twist of fate, she would go back to her trunk, open its carved lid, and find not five neatly stacked Hogwarts uniforms and her only two pairs of shoes, but the colorful, fashionable mess that was Ginny's wardrobe. Or Parvati's. Or Lavender's...

"Hermione... what is that?"

All three of those girls were standing in the doorway of the fifth-year dorm. Lavender had spoken. Parvati's wide, dark eyes were opened in a combination of fear and shock. Ginny had frozen in mid-step.

Shaken out of her reverie, Hermione looked down and realized she was holding the hideous green dress up- she had been folding it, hadn't she?

"Er... it's a dress."

Parvati stalked over, and ripped the dress from Hermione's hands. "This is not a dress," she replied, her tone clipped. "This is the product of a very, very drunk witch who somehow managed to conjure possibly the ugliest fabric in the world, then cast a sewing spell that should be named one of the Unforgivable Curses. If you don't mind," she said, but it was clear that whatever she was about to do would occur whether Hermione minded or not. Parvati drew her wand.

"No, don't," said Ginny, finding movement and taking the dress from Parvati. "Maybe- maybe we can salvage it," she said, looking over at Hermione's bedspread, which currently boasted the black trousers and dark blue polo-neck, yet to be folded. "She doesn't seem to have much else."

"Would you please stop talking about me as if not here?" Hermione requested as Lavender wheeled over the enchanted mannequin she'd gotten last Christmas from her grandmother, Estelle Malkin. Ginny handed the dress to the headless mannequin, who, despite being without eyes, proceeded to pull it on and begin posing and strutting around the room like a runway model-slash-massacre victim.

Parvati considered. "Definitely longer," she said, motioning with her wand.

"But make it asymmetrical," Lavender suggested, and Hermione watched her dress' skirt suddenly lose a half-meter of fabric on the left and gain a full one on the right. The hem re-furled itself; a tiny line of perfectly matching stitches appeared along it.

"And strapless!" The mannequin's strikingly realistic collarbones were suddenly visible.

"It has to be red," Ginny said stubbornly. The puce-y green color shimmered chartreuse and orange, then bloomed a lovely crimson that almost blended with the carpet. "Red satin," she added; the long skirt of the dress suddenly rippled and shone in the lamplight. For the robe, Parvati created a gauzy jacket that pulled tight across the mannequin's chest but billowed over her arms.

Lavender nodded, pleased. "Nice work, Parv."

Hermione's face was ashen. "I am not going to wear that. Ever."

"Oh, I think you will," Parvati said, casting a cursory eye at the trousers and shirt on the bed and the uniforms in her open trunk.

"Come on, Hermione, at least try it on for us," Ginny pleaded.

Hermione was silent for a moment. "No cameras," she said finally, then glanced at the corridor outside, as if checking for any sign of Colin Creevey.

Lavender cheered and motioned for the mannequin to give Hermione the newly tailored dress.

The next day after lunch, Hermione went back to the dorms to say a fond farewell to her beloved uniform for a week. The pleated kilt, knee socks, button-down and cardigan were all folded and placed gently beneath her bed, where a dust-repelling charm was filling in for Hermione's trunk while it journeyed with her to Ireland. The trunk in question sat on the bed, filled with clothes Lavender and Parvati had Transfigured for her last night from various worn-out or outgrown items of theirs. They included her black trousers (deemed acceptable but a bit high-waisted, and so victims of another mannequin try-on), polo-neck shirt (which she had insisted on keeping but had allowed Parvati to soak with a Coloring Charm), and the red satin dress, still frightening in its blatant sexiness (for that reason, Hermione had hidden it at the bottom of the trunk). And she had reluctantly submitted and allowed her two pairs of sensible loafers to be changed into stilettos- one pair higher and sparkling silver, the other lower and "casual" (Lavender's words, not hers) black.

"Are you ready, Hermione?" That was Parvati, her speech mangled by the cleaning spell she was using on her teeth.

"Almost," she answered, pulling the trousers and the first shirt she lay hands on out of the trunk and closing it carefully. "I just have to get dressed-"

Lavender sat up on the other side of her bed, where she was attempting to organize the huge pile of clothes spilling from her trunk. She was red-cheeked, and her hair was mussed. "Hermione! Can I borrow those shoes we conjured for you?"

"Which ones?"

"The pewter stilettos with jewel-encrusted heels and Magiclere soles."

Hermione reached into the trunk. "Oh, you mean the silver ones."

"Yes," Lavender said, rolling her eyes and shooting Parvati a where has she been? Under a rock? look.

Lavender stood up to retrieve the shoes; Hermione saw she was wearing a new miniskirt constructed of shiny, tight brown leather under a white shirt that was, if possible, event tighter than the skirt. And she was going to wear five-inch stilettos with the outfit. Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away, determined to keep her mouth shut concerning Lavender's increasing promiscuity.

Parvati sashayed out of the restroom, hair freshly brushed and the beads on her Muggle sari jingling. Much as she loved Muggle fashion and enjoyed telling other people exactly what skintight trousers and short-skirted dresses to wear, the Patils' strict Hindi teachings forced Parvati and Padma to limit their out-of-school wardrobes to the colorful silks and trims of Indian fabric. But Parvati obviously didn't mind; in an attempt to ease the twins' frustration, their parents had all of their coordinated trouser-and-tunic sets imported from New Delhi and custom tailored at their expansive home in wizarding London. Today's outfit was a brilliant blue, the color of the Caribbean ocean; it brought out the cobalt highlights in Parvati's black hair.

Feeling extremely insignificant next to her two gorgeous dormmates, Hermione jiggled her feet into the too-small black sandals and ducked into the toilet to see what she'd ended up wearing. Her top had evidently been transfigured out of one of Parvati's outgrown tunics; it was vibrant jungle green, draping almost indecently at the neck and with a host of golden coins looped around the hip-length hem. Definitely one of the prettiest things she'd ever owned, save the Yule Ball dress robes and her favorite, eighteenth-century style nightgown. Her hair was still frizzy, though, which completely took away from the exotic effect of the clothes. Hermione sighed and twisted it back. Couldn't have your cake and eat it too.

Parvati nodded approvingly as Hermione cast a Hefting Hex on her trunk and it floated into the air behind her. "Now we just have the hair charm to take care of," she said happily, and picked up her wand.

"What hair charm?" Hermione asked tiredly. "Really, you've done enough, I don't need straight hair today."

"It's really very simple," Lavender added dismissively. "It's like a super-moisturising deep conditioner for your hair."

Hermione knew all those words separately, but had no idea what they meant when strung together. "What?" she said intelligently.

"Just relax, it only takes a moment," Parvati told her soothingly, removing the elastic securing her hair and pressing her down onto the stool in front of her vanity. "Valetudam nites."

It felt as though someone had poured a vat of cool gelatin on Hermione's head, and it was seeping into her skull and limpening her hair from the follicles out. She watched in the mirror, fascinated, as each springy, curling hair began to straighten at the roots.

Magic never ceased to amaze her.

"You look nice, Hermione," Harry said graciously as they stepped from the Great Hall out into the stormy-gray afternoon, where the wind was blowing spring-green leaves out of the Forbidden Forest and into the churning lake.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione said, noticing that Ginny looked a bit put-out at this. "Ginny, I like your skirt."

The youngest Weasley smiled, delighted, and looked down at her long, flowy patchwork skirt. It looked homesewn in a strangely stylish way. "Thanks, Hermione, I made it myself."

Hermione was impressed. "Really?"

"Took her all summer," Ron added from behind them, where he was struggling with his trunk because of his lack of talent at Hefting Hexes.

"Come on, Ron," Harry said exasperatedly. Hermione took matters into her own hands. "Tollo."

The tarnished trunk flew into the air, zipping happily up to float beside Ginny and leaving Ron several meters behind.

"It did not take me all summer," Ginny said stubbornly. "It took me all summer to conjure this year's wardrobe, not just one skirt." Her look was the same Where has he been? Under a rock? look that Lavender had given Hermione that morning.

"Let's just get this one," Hermione suggested, stopping at the first they came to, at the front of the long line of hansom cabs twisting around a circular drive that seemed to appear only when carriages departed from the grounds. Using her wand, she Levitated each of the four trunks onto the platform at the cab's roof, where they shook and rattled before vanishing into the luggage space.

When she climbed inside and shut the windowed door, Ron grinned and immediately cracked open the cap of one of the icy Butterbeers sitting on the cab's sideboard.

"Fully equipped, I see," Harry said happily, following Ron's example.

"I'll take one of those, if you don't mind, Harry," Ginny said from across the carriage.

Hermione declined and instead turned to the window, watching the rest of her class walk by to their coaches. Padma, Parvati and Lavender walked past, the Gryffindors laughing gaily with their boyfriends Terry and Anthony. Padma looked content, even without a significant other. Hermione smiled.

Next came Hannah Abbott, her on-and-off boyfriend Ernie, and Justin Finch-Fletchley; Hannah was yelling at Ernie, presumably concerning the black Indeliblink coating the tips of both her braided brown-blond pigtails. Susan Bones and her best friend, Michaela Walker, listed behind their housemates, discussing something that looked to be of great import. As they passed, Hermione caught snippets of conversation:

"But I thought Professor Lupin was gay?"

"I know, I thought so too! But Delilah Turnpicket told me she saw him with Professor McGonagall..."

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away when she saw who followed the Hufflepuffs: Draco Malfoy, with the whole troupe of Slytherin fifth- and fourth-years behind him. Pansy Parkinson, her golden curls perfectly fixed to frame her dark-green eyes and bisque-coloured cheekbones, walked beside him, arm looped in his and low-cut robes of dark magenta taffeta swishing as she moved. The ever-present Crabbe and Goyle, hands clasped behind their backs like Secret Service agents, were a little behind them, and the rest of their year- Millicent Bulstrode, the opposite of resplendent in baggy, sacklike brown robes, golden-red-haired Desdemona Moon in classically Slytherin, formfitting black, pretty brunette Ciara Avery, swathed in full-skirted off-white with green trim, and the dashingly handsome Blaise Zabini, foppish black hair and robes setting off his golden skin- were chatting quietly in pairs. Blaise looked as though he was trying to resist the urge to throw Desdemona against the nearest carriage and rip her tight black robes open.

Hermione sighed. She couldn't deny that, save Crabbe, Goyle and Millicent, they were extremely good-looking. All those centuries of inbreeding, while they had certainly lessened certain Slytherins' brainpower, seemed to have kept the devastating beauty of pureblood society all-in-the-family, as it were. And she was amused to note that not one of them was wearing Muggle clothing. Typical.

She also wondered how they were all going to fit in the same carriage. Especially with Millicent.

Ron was finishing his third bottle of butterbeer, Hermione was looking over Harry's shoulder as he sketched Quidditch lineups in a parchment book, and Ginny was re-braiding her hair when the unmistakably soft, slightly hoarse voice of Professor Dumbledore began speaking from somewhere in their midst.

"Students," he began, and Hermione could almost hear him smiling- "the carriages will be departing momentarily. I suggest you check now that you have brought everything- is everyone sure? All right, then. Professor McGonagall, Professor Titleby and I are traveling in coach number sixteen; should you require any assistance, send red sparks out of your cab's window and one of us will attend to you immediately. We expect to arrive at our destination in no more than three hours. Any questions may be directed to me now; in just a few minutes, your mystical voyage shall begin!"

" 'Mystical voyage,' my arse," Ron scoffed, setting his bottle down with a heavy thump.

"Ron, you're getting tipsy," Ginny warned casually without looking at him.

Ron's ears flushed pink. "Am not!"

Ginny rolled her eyes and didn't answer.

Suddenly, the carriage shook, and Hermione felt the strange sense of weightlessness always experienced during levitation. Glancing out the window made her sit back in amazement: five-meter-long wings, covered in actual grey feathers and moving so fluidly they looked alive, had sprouted from the sides of the cab. They were flying.

Predictably, Ron sputtered, "Wicked!"

"Three hours," Hermione murmured as they began to move down the path. "I'm glad I brought along some reading."

"Like what?" Ginny said brightly. "Anything interesting?"

Hermione shot her a glare. "Actually, it's a guidebook to the inn," she informed her cabmates. "I've already started it, it's quite interesting- apparently, we are the first Hogwarts class to have this assignment, so all the mansion's mysteries are waiting for us to decipher."

"What d'you mean, mysteries?" Harry asked.

Hermione gave a little gasp. "What do I mean, mysteries?" she repeated. "Were any of you listening to Professor Titleby when she discussed this with us for the past month?"

There was a pause. "No," Ron said around a Chocolate Frog.

"You'll just have to read the guidebook," Hermione told them haughtily, opening it and settling back into her seat. "I'm not going to do all your work for you. Especially not the easy bits."

"Lot of help you are," Ginny commented, grinning.

Hermione smiled modestly. "I try."